“But in heaven, where, oh, where shalt thou be, Miriam?”
“Reuben, dear Reuben?”
“Nay, my beloved, let me show my affection for you and my sense of duty to God at this last moment. I know, my Miriam, that by the customs of our people you should have been the wife of Salathiel, and I feel that next to me, (I do your love no injustice, my betrothed,) next to me, Salathiel has your affection. Hear me out. When I am gone, it must be your duty. Oh, then, let it be your pleasure to receive him. Who better than he can be your protector? He is your nearest kinsman, and the laws and customs of our people are in his favor—promise me.”
“Reuben, shall I call in your mother?”
Reuben turned his eyes again toward the west, and the sun was sinking with all his evening glory into the great sea. A gentle breeze swept into the window, and blew the hair of the kneeling maid upon the pale face of her lover.
“Turn my face, Miriam, to the east, let me pray thitherward. Let me hold you thus, ‘though the sorrows of death compass me about—’”
When the widowed mother entered the room the dead form of her son was resting in the arms of the unconscious Miriam.
Stricken with grief, and with a sense of her utter loneliness, the widow lifted up her voice and wept.
Miriam was conveyed away—to be purified from the legal uncleanness that results from contact with the dead.