'Since our calamities,' said Miriam, 'I have never enjoyed such tranquil slumber. My dreams were slight, but soothing. I saw him, but he smiled.

Have I slept long, sweet girls? Ye are very watchful.'

'Dear lady, let me bring thy shawl. The air is fresh----'

'But sweet; I thank thee, no. My brow is not so cool as to need a covering. 'Tis a fair night!'

Miriam gazed upon the wide prospect of the moonlit capital. The elevated position of the citadel afforded an extensive view of the mighty groups of buildings-each in itself a city, broken only by some vast and hooded cupola, the tall, slender, white minarets of the mosques, or the black and spiral form of some lonely cypress--through which the rushing Tigris, flooded with light, sent forth its broad and brilliant torrent.

All was silent; not a single boat floated on the fleet river, not a solitary voice broke the stillness of slumbering millions. She gazed and, as she gazed, she could not refrain from contrasting the present scene, which seemed the sepulchre of all the pa.s.sions of our race, with the unrivalled excitement of that stirring spectacle which Bagdad exhibited on the celebration of the marriage of Alroy. How different then, too, was her position from her present, and how happy! The only sister of a devoted brother, the lord and conqueror of Asia, the bride of his most victorious captain, one worthy of all her virtues, and whose youthful valour had encircled her brow with a diadem. To Miriam, exalted station had brought neither cares nor crimes. It had, as it were, only rendered her charity universal, and her benevolence omnipotent. She could not accuse herself, this blessed woman--she could not accuse herself, even in this searching hour of self-knowledge--she could not accuse herself, with all her meekness, and modesty, and humility, of having for a moment forgotten her dependence on her G.o.d, or her duty to her neighbour.

But when her thoughts recurred to that being from whom they were indeed scarcely ever absent; and when she remembered him, and all his life, and all the thousand incidents of his youth, mysteries to the world, and known only to her, but which were indeed the prescience of his fame, and thought of all his surpa.s.sing qualities and all his sweet affection, his unrivalled glory and his impending fate, the tears, in silent agony, forced their way down her pale and pensive cheek. She bowed her head upon Bathsheba's shoulder, and sweet Beruna pressed her quivering hand.

The moon set, the stars grew white and ghastly, and vanished one by one.

Over the distant plain of the Tigris, the scene of the marriage pomp, the dark purple horizon shivered into a rich streak of white and orange.

The solemn strain of the Muezzin sounded from the minarets. Some one knocked at the door. It was Caleb.

'I am ready,' said Miriam; and for a moment she covered her face with her right hand. 'Think of me, sweet maidens; pray for me!'

Leaning on Caleb, and lighted by a gaoler, bearing torches, Miriam descended the damp and broken stairs that led to the dungeon. She faltered as she arrived at the grate. She stopped, and leant against the cold and gloomy wall. The gaoler and Caleb preceded her. She heard the voice of Alroy. It was firm and sweet. Its accents rea.s.sured her. Caleb came forth with a torch, and held it to her feet; and, as he bent down, he said, 'My lord bade me beg you to be of good heart, for he is.'

The gaoler, having stuck his torch in the niche, withdrew. Miriam desired Caleb to stay without. Then, summoning up all her energies, she entered the dreadful abode. Alroy was standing to receive her. The light fell full upon his countenance. It smiled. Miriam could no longer restrain herself. She ran forward, and pressed him to her heart.

'O, my best, my long beloved,' whispered Alroy; 'such a meeting indeed leads captivity captive!'

But the sister could not speak. She leant her head upon his shoulder, and closed her eyes, that she might not weep.

'Courage, dear heart; courage, courage!' whispered the captive. 'Indeed I am happy!'

'My brother, my brother!'

'Had we met yesterday, you would have found me perhaps a little vexed.

But to-day I am myself again. Since I crossed the Tigris, I know not that I have felt such self-content. I have had sweet dreams, dear Miriam, full of solace. And, more than dreams, the Lord has pardoned me, I truly think.'

'O, my brother! your words are full of comfort; for, indeed, I too have dreamed, and dreamed of consolation. My spirit, since our fall, has never been more tranquil.'

'Indeed I am happy.'

'Say so again, my David; let me hear again these words of solace!'

'Indeed, 'tis very true, my faithful friend. It is not spoken in kind mockery to make you joyous. For know, last eve, whether the Lord repented of his wrath, or whether some dreadful trials, of which I will not speak, and wish not to remember, had made atonement for my manifold sins, but so it was, that, about the time my angel Miriam sent her soothing message, a feeling of repose came over me, such as I long have coveted. Anon, I fell into a slumber, deep and sweet, and, instead of those wild and whirling images that of late have darted from my brain when it should rest, glimpses of empire and conspiracy, s.n.a.t.c.hes of fierce wars and mocking loves, I stood beside our native fountain's brink, and gathered flowers with my earliest friend. As I placed the fragrant captives in your flowing locks, there came Jabaster, that great, injured man, no longer stern and awful, but with benignant looks, and full of love. And he said, "David, the Lord hath marked thy faithfulness, in spite of the darkness of thy dungeon." So he vanished.

He spoke, my sister, of some strange temptations by heavenly aid withstood. No more of that. I awoke. And lo! I heard my name still called. Full of my morning dream, I thought it was you, and I answered, "Dear sister, art thou here?" But no one answered; and then, reflecting, my memory recognised those thrilling tones that summoned Alroy in Jabaster's cave.' 'The Daughter of the Voice?' 'Even that sacred messenger. I am full of faith. The Lord hath pardoned me. Be sure of that.'

'I cannot doubt it, David. You have done great things for Israel; no one in these latter days has risen like you. If you have fallen, you were young, and strangely tempted.'

'Yet Israel, Israel! Did I not feel a worthier leader will yet arise, my heart would crack. I have betrayed my country!'

'Oh no, no, no! You have shown what we can do and shall do. Your memory alone is inspiration. A great career, although baulked of its end, is still a landmark of human energy. Failure, when sublime, is not without its purpose. Great deeds are great legacies, and work with wondrous usury. By what Man has done, we learn what Man can do; and gauge the power and prospects of our race.'

'Alas! there is no one to guard my name. 'Twill be reviled; or worse, 'twill be forgotten.'

'Never! the memory of great actions never dies. The sun of glory, though awhile obscured, will shine at last. And so, sweet brother, perchance some poet, in some distant age, within whose veins our sacred blood may flow, his fancy fired with the national theme, may strike his harp to Alroy's wild career, and consecrate a name too long forgotten?'

'May love make thee a prophetess!' exclaimed Alroy, as he bent down his head and embraced her. 'Do not tarry,' he whispered. ''Tis better that we should part in this firm mood.'

She sprang from him, she clasped her hands. 'We will not part,' she exclaimed, with energy; 'I will die with thee.'

'Blessed girl, be calm! Do not unman me.'

'I am calm. See! I do not weep. Not a tear, not a tear. They are all in my heart.'

'Go, go, my Miriam, angel of light. Tarry no longer; I pray thee go. I would not think of the past. Let all my mind be centred in the present.

Thy presence calls back our bygone days, and softens me too much. My duty to my uncle. Go, dear one, go!'

'And leave thee, leave thee to----Oh! my David, thou hast seen, thou hast heard----Honain?'

'No more; let not that accursed name profane those holy lips. Raise not the demon in me.'

'I am silent. Yet 'tis madness! Oh! my brother, thou hast a fearful trial.'

'The G.o.d of Israel is my refuge. He saved our fathers in the fiery furnace. He will save me.'

'I am full of faith. I pray thee let me stay.'

'I would be silent; I would be alone. I cannot speak, Miriam. I ask one favour, the last and dearest, from her who has never had a thought but for my wishes; blessed being, leave me.'

'I go. O Alroy, farewell! Let me kiss you. Again, once more! Let me kneel and bless you. Brother, beloved brother, great and glorious brother, I am worthy of you: I will not weep. I am prouder in this dread moment of your love than all your foes can be of their hard triumph!'

Beruna and Bathsheba received their mistress when she returned to her chamber. They marked her desolate air. She was silent, pale, and cold.

They bore her to her couch, whereon she sat with a most listless and unmeaning look; her quivering lips parted, her eyes fixed upon the ground in vacant abstraction, and her arms languidly folded before her. Beruna stole behind her, and supported her back with pillows, and Bathsheba, unnoticed, wiped the slight foam from her mouth. Thus Miriam remained for several hours, her faithful maidens in vain watching for any indication of her self-consciousness.

Suddenly a trumpet sounded.

'What is that?' exclaimed Miriam, in a shrill voice, and looking up with a distracted glance.

Neither of them answered, since they were aware that it betokened the going forth of Alroy to his trial.

Miriam remained in the same posture, and with the same expression of wild inquiry. Another trumpet sounded, and after that a shout of the people. Then she raised up her arms to heaven, and bowed her head, and died.

'Has the second trumpet sounded?'

'To be sure: run, run for a good place. Where is Abdallah?'

'Selling sherbet in the square. We shall find him. Has Alroy come forth?'

'Yes! he goes the other way. We shall be too late. Only think of Abdallah selling sherbet!'

'Father, let me go?'

'You will be in the way; you are too young; you will see nothing. Little boys should stay at home.'