_Salome._ I may not ask the cause of your grief; for my own soul
replies it is the common grief,--our nation's bondage.

_Martha._ Yes, we are slaves; that only thought haunts me; the chosen
people of Jehovah in subjection to the idolatrous Roman.

_Salome._ Where now is the might of David? where the glory of Solomon?
Surely Miriam's song may be turned upon ourselves; for the enemy "hath
triumphed gloriously," and we are laid in the dust.

_Mary._ Let us not, however, despond too much. Jehovah will not always
chide. The Roman sway shall have an end.

_Martha._ I know that Messiah cometh, and he will restore all things;
but when?

_Salome._ Yes, _when_? Long have we waited, and bitter has been our
bondage; and even our own Herod has been more cruel than our foes.

_Mary._ Nevertheless, let us hope. In the fulness of time the promised
one will come. (_Miriam and Leah approach._) But, see! two more
friends join us.

_Martha._ Rather say, two more slaves.

_Salome._ Yes; two more to weep with us.

_Miriam._ Not so, not so, unless we weep for joy. The cloud that has
so long hung over us in blackness is beginning to break. We have