Salathiel looked earnestly out and said, in a low voice, but with much feeling, “Do the Romans come to insult us even when we bury our dead? We are a conquered people, but we are not slaves.”
“Hush!” said Miriam, “hush, my brother! let us not at this moment forget the teaching of the Master.”
Salathiel leaned forward and kissed the brow of Miriam.
“I thank you, I thank you, Miriam, for the monition, and I bless you for the term, brother; henceforth, my sister, know me for such. But let me go forth to learn what hath turned our people from their sepulchral rites.”
Salathiel went forth, and Miriam, kneeling, buried her face in the lap of her aunt, and poured out her soul in prayer—deep, anguished, heart-engendered, heart-and-heaven-moving prayer.
It was some time before the low voice of Miriam ceased. But her feelings had been overwrought, and at length she lay silent yet suffering, with her head still on Deborah’s knees.
The quiet of the street and even of the chamber was at length disturbed by the confused footfall of a multitude who seemed to press onward with few words, and those uttered in a subdued tone. The multitude at length paused in front of the dwelling of Miriam, and the opening of the front door intimated that the procession of the people had some connection with the inmates of the house.
The door of Miriam’s chamber at length opened, and Salathiel stood before the two women pale and agitated.
“My sister, praise the Lord! A miracle has been wrought.”
The agitated maiden shrunk into the arms of her aunt as she gazed toward Salathiel.