A smile played round the soldier’s mouth. “Nay, for my mother, who was of the Land of Israel, taught its tongue to my master, whom she nursed. Say on and he will understand. Long hath Isaac’s people served the House of Naaman.”
“Isaac?” The question—or exclamation—was like the swift thrust of a sword dividing friend from friend. The speaker drew back with hostility in eye and voice. “Thou art Isaac?”
The soldier wonderingly assented.
“Then thou art he who hath brought us hither. Five years and more,” sternly, “hast the captivity of a maid been on thy conscience, if thou hast a conscience; a maid whom thy soldiers stole from Hannathon in the Land of Israel.”
Surprise, resentment, and then infinite sadness overspread Isaac’s countenance. “Nay,” he said gently, “not five, but twenty-five, fifty, an hundred, hath been the years of my remorse.”
The travelers exchanged glances.
“Then do we not need to be told how it hath fared with the maiden,” said the spokesman, and turned his back upon the soldier, addressing Naaman in the tongue of Israel.
“Thy servants be Eli and Nathan, from the city of Hannathon in the Land of Israel, and we have come to redeem out of thy hand this captive maid, Miriam by name.”
Naaman frowned, and he spoke slowly. “Thy words do I comprehend but not thy meaning. ‘Redeem,’ thou sayest.”
Out of his bosom Eli drew a piece of sheepskin, which he carefully unwrapped, displaying two huge bracelets and a ring.