Then her eyes, becoming clearer as her recollection returned, wandered
away toward the walls of her shelter. They had been hewn by hands.
There was an opening in one side, leading into another and a darker
crypt. Was not this a tomb? She was in the Tomb of the Discontented
Soul! Terrified, she struggled to gain her feet and fly, but the awful
memory of the plague without returned to her overwhelmingly. Gentle
hands restrained her, and the same voice that had sought to soothe her
before, continued its soft comforting now.
"Thou art safe and sheltered," she heard. "No evil shall befall thee."
Was this the spirit of the tomb? If so, it was most lovely and kindly.
But a solemn voice issued out of the dark cell beyond. This was the
spirit, of a surety. She cowered against her fair-haired protector and
shuddered. But the maiden answered the voice in a strange tongue.
Masanath would have known it to be Hebrew, had she been composed. But
now it was mystic, cabalistic.
Presently the maiden addressed her.
"Deborah asks after thee, Lady. How shall I tell her thou findest
thyself?"
"Oh, I can not tell," Masanath answered. "What has happened? Is it
true or did I go mad?"
The Israelite smoothed her hair.
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