and muffled as she asked why he
had lingered so long and what he intended to confide to her.

While cowering under the sycamore, she had not only struggled and prayed
for composure, but also gazed into her own soul. She loved Hosea, but she
suspected that he came with proposals similar to those of Uri, and the
wrathful words of hoary Nun rang in her ears more loudly than ever. The
fear that the man she loved was walking in mistaken paths, and the
startling act of Hur had made the towering waves of her passion subside
and her mind, now capable of calmer reflection, desired first of all to
know what had so long detained him whom she had summoned in the name of
her God, and why he came alone, without Ephraim.

The clear sky was full of stars, and these heavenly bodies, which seem to
have been appointed to look down upon the bliss of united human lovers,
now witnessed the anxious questions of a tortured girl and the impatient
answers of a fiery, bitterly disappointed man.

He began with the assurance of his love and that he had come to make her
his wife; but, though she permitted him to hold her hand in his clasp,
she entreated him to cease pleading his suit and first tell her what she
desired to know.

On his way he had received various reports concerning Ephraim through a
brother-in-arms from Tanis, so he could tell her that the lad had been
disobedient and, probably from foolish curiosity, had gone, ill and
wounded, to the city, where he had found shelter and care in the house of
a friend. But this troubled Miriam, who seemed to regard it as a reproach
to know that the orphaned, inexperienced lad, who had grown up under her
own eyes and whom she herself had sent forth among strangers, was beneath
an Egyptian roof.

But Hosea declared that he would undertake the task of bringing him back
to his people and as, nevertheless she continued to show her anxiety,
asked whether he had forfeited her confidence and love. Instead of giving
him a consoling answer, she began to put more questions, desiring to know
what had delayed his coming, and so, with a sorely troubled and wounded
heart, he was forced to make his report and, in truth, begin at the end
of his story.

While she listened, leaning against the trunk of the sycamore, he paced
to and fro, urged by longing and impatience, sometimes pausing directly
in front of her. Naught in this hour seemed to him worthy of being
clothed in words, save the hope and passion which f