"Death! simply death!" she answered.

"Death," said her persecutor, "is not so simple and opportune a thing as you imagine.

You are strong and warm with life.

Sensitive and irritable as your spirit is, these many months of trouble, this latter thraldom in which I hold you, have scarcely made your cheek paler than I saw it in your girlhood.
Miriam,--for I forbear to speak another name, at which these leaves would shiver above our heads,--Miriam, you cannot die!" "Might not a dagger find my heart ?" said she, for the first time meeting his eyes.

"Would not poison make an end of me?
Will not the Tiber drown me ?" "It might," he answered; "for I allow that you are mortal.