There went
mobs of laborers and farmers, tradesmen, servants and small merchants,
but the Jewish friends of Rome that had once made part of the Passover
pilgrimage a royal progress were nowhere to be seen. Under the vast,
vivid blue of the mountain skies they moved, indifferent to the
splendid benevolence of the untroubled day. The pure wind swept in
from the radiance in the east, flinging out multi-colored garments and
scarves, rushing with its bracing chill without obstruction through
even the compactest mass of wayfarers. The cedars on the hills about
the little town whistled continuously and at times some extremely
narrow defile with an uninterrupted draft would take voice and cry
humanly. But there was no responsive exhilaration to the vigor of
morning on a mountain-top. The great ever-growing migration was dark,
dangerous and moody.
Somewhere beyond the highest of the blue hills to the east, the white
walls of the city of David were receiving all this. Somewhere to the
west the four brassy legions of Titus were marching down upon all
this. About the Maccabee were assembling all the circumstances that
govern a tremendous struggle. Eagerness, earnestness, all the strength
and resolution of his strong and resolute nature surged into his soul.
It was his hour. It should find him prepared.
He turned out of the gate and crowding along by the stone wall to pass
in the opposite direction from the flood of pilgrims pouring through
Emmaus, he searched for the synagogue of the little town.
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