He made his way into the Old City, now hardly more than a bare ruin since houses and temples had been tumbled into the strait to lengthen the causeway. He had been provided with the pass-word, and with the assistance of the sentries he had little difficulty in finding the tent that he sought. He lifted the flap and entered. Inside he could hear the breathing of sleeping men, dominated by a tremendous snore that sounded as though it must come from the throat of a giant.
"Peace be unto thee!" Joel cried, stumbling over the legs of one of the sleepers.
"Thieves!" cried a stentorian voice, and the snoring suddenly ceased.
"It is I—Joel," the young man hastily announced.
"Joel!" exclaimed the voice of Nathan in the darkness. "How came you here?"
He slipped out of the tent and returned in a moment, blowing upon a brand from a smouldering camp-fire. With this he lighted an oil lamp that swung from the central pole of the tent. Then he threw his arms around the young man and embraced him heartily.
Joel saw Clearchus and the lazy bulk of Chares, who looked at him sleepily with his head propped on his elbow. There was another man in the tent whom he did not know—a man with firm shoulders and a square jaw, who stood glowering at him with a sword in his hand.
"Put it away, Leonidas," Clearchus said, laughing. "This is no Tyrian, but our little jailer in Babylon. How came you here?"
"I came from Tyre," Joel answered.
"From Tyre!" echoed Nathan and Clearchus. "How did you escape?"