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would be very hungry."
    His appetite left him. "You must eat with me," he insisted, pushing the bowl toward his sister.
    With a frightened look toward the grandmother, the girl broke off a crust of bread and dipped it into the bowl. He saw the blue veins through the delicate flesh of her hand; the wrist was fragile as a bird's claw.
    Where did they get their food, anyway? He tried to think how to ask. "It is good bread," he said. "Do you grow the grain?"
    "It is pauper's share," his grandmother answered shortly.
    He wished he had not asked. He hated the picture of his grandmother following after the reapers in the field, scrabbling for the sheaves they dropped, which had by law to be left for paupers to gather.
    After the meal was cleared away they sat in silence. His grandmother did not ask any questions. Did she really care that he had come? She seemed too weary to care about anything; her chin had settled into the folds of her mantle and she drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. He supposed she must still work in the fields of ketzah, the plant from which the village took its name. Stooping over all day, she sowed and weeded, and when the blue flowers had dropped, she beat off the seed covering with a staff and gathered the tiny seeds, so hot to the tongue, which were marketed as a seasoning for food.
    He looked about him. The clay platform which had once divided the room into two levels had crumbled so that it was no more than a shelf, scarcely wide enough for sleeping. A hollow scooped out of the earthen floor held the cold ashes of an old fire. The only furniture was a battered wooden chest and the loom at which Leah had sat.
    As darkness fell there was a soft thudding sound against the door. His grandmother roused herself and let in a small black goat. The little creature went straight to Leah, who reached out both arms toward it. The goat nuzzled against her, and settled down to sleep with its square chin in the girl's lap. She sat fondling it, twining the black hairs of its beard around her fingers, talking to it in a soft murmur like the sound of doves on the roof. Daniel watched them, his uneasiness lulled for a moment. She looks like our mother, he thought. Then he caught the words the soft voice was saying.
    "You mustn't be afraid of him. He is our brother Daniel come home. When he milks you, you must be good and stand still. See how big and strong he is. He will take care of us and keep us safe."
    Suddenly he was afraid again. He looked away, trying to shut out the sight of her with her golden hair shining in the lamplight, trying to shut out the sound of that murmuring voice. Everything he cared about and worked for was threatened by that small helpless figure.
    His arms and legs were cramped. The airless little house seemed to hold all the heat of the day. The sputtering oil in the lamp filled the room with a rancid odor. His head was heavy, and he thought with longing of the evening breeze that would be moving among the branches above the cave. With relief he watched his grandmother lift down mats from a niche in the wall.
    "I have made ready your old place on the roof," she said.
    He took the worn roll of matting, bade her goodnight, let himself out the door, and climbed a tottering ladder up the outside wall to the flat rooftop. It was little cooler up here. Heat lay over the town like a smothering blanket. He sat for a time hugging his knees and looking about him.
    Why did I come here? he thought. Already he yearned to be away from this place. Hunger gnawed at him. Up on the mountain the men would be still sitting about the fire, their stomachs satisfied with stolen mutton and grape wine, joking and telling boastful stories. Later they would wrap their cloaks about them and sleep with their lungs full of clean mountain air, and the stars would come down, brilliant, close enough to touch. He wondered if Joktan had made sure that Samson had enough to eat. He wondered how long the man had waited at the top of