with a gentle firmness grasped the
unresisting sceptre of his great ancestor.

And, as he seized it, the whole scene vanished from his sight!

Hours or years might have passed away, so far as the sufferer was
concerned, when Alroy again returned to self-consciousness. His eyes
slowly opened, he cast around a vacant stare, he was lying in the cavern
of Genthesma. The moon had set, but the morn had not broken. A single
star glittered over the brow of the black mountains. He faintly moved
his limbs; he would have raised his hand to his bewildered brain, but
found that it grasped a sceptre. The memory of the past returned to him.
He tried to rise, and found that he was reposing in the arms of a human
being. He turned his head; he met the anxious gaze of Jabaster!

CHAPTER VII.

_Conquest of the Seljuks_

YOUR face is troubled, uncle.' 'So is my mind.' 'All may go well.'
'Miriam, we have seen the best. Prepare yourself for sorrow, gentle
girl. I care not for myself, for I am old, and age makes heroes of us
all. I have endured, and can endure more. As we approach our limit, it
would appear that our minds grow callous. I have seen my wealth, raised
with the labours of a thoughtful life, vanish in a morn: my people, a
fragile remnant, nevertheless a people, dispersed, or what is worse. I
have wept for them, although no tear of selfish grief has tinged this
withered cheek. And, were I but alone, ay! there's the pang. The solace
of my days is now my sorrow.'

'Weep not for me, dear uncle. Rather let us pray that our God will not
forsake us.'

'We know not when we are well. Our hours stole tranquilly along, and
then we murmured. Prospering, we murmured, and now we are rightly
stricken. The legend of the past is Israel's bane. The past is a dream;
and, in the waking present, we should discard the enervating shadow. Why
should we be free? We murmured against captivity. This _is_ captivity:
this damp, dim cell, where we are brought to die.

'O! youth, rash youth, thy being is destruction. But yesterday a child,
it seems but yesterday I nursed him in these arms, a thoughtless child,
and now our house has fallen by his deeds. I will not think of it;
'twill make me mad.'

'Uncle, dearest uncle, we have lived together, and we will die together,
and both in love; but, I pray you, speak no harsh word of David.'

'Shall I praise him?'

'Say nothing. What he has done, if done in grief, has been done all in
honour. Wo