"There is," the villager responded calmly.
"Where?"
The citizen motioned toward a low-roofed rambling structure of stone
picked up on the native hills.
"Ask there," he said and passing out of his door went his way.
Julian touched his horse and rode through the worn passage and into
the court of the decrepit khan of Emmaus. The Maccabee followed.
The Syrian host who was both waiter and hostler met Julian entering
first.
"Quick!" Julian said, leaning from his horse. "Is there a young man
here with gray temples? A pagan?"
The Syrian, attracted by the anxiety in the demand, followed a train
of surmise before his answer.
"No pagans, here. Naught but Jews," he observed finally.
"Or a young woman of wealth? Quick!"
"No wealth at all; but plenty of women. The Passover pilgrims."
Julian heaved a sigh of relief and dismounted. The Maccabee rode into
the court of the khan at that instant.
The khan-keeper took their horses and a little later the two men were
led into the single cobwebby chamber, low-ceiled, gloomy, cold and
cheerless as a cave. There they were given food and afterward a corner
of the hall where a straw pallet had been laid and a stone trough
filled with water for a bath. After refreshing himself the Maccabee
lay down and slept with supreme indifference to the rancor of the man
who had attempted to kill him.
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