Rich, bold, strong, beautiful, Jerusalem was at
that hour, as viewed from the hill to the north, the perfection of
beauty and the joy of the whole earth.
For a moment ambition struggled nobly in the breast of the man that
overlooked it. Except for the obstacles he had placed in his own way
by his misdeeds, Julian of Ephesus at that moment might have become
great. But he had struck down his kinsman on the way, and such deeds
were remembered even in war-ridden Judea; he had come to Jerusalem
wearing his kinsman's name that he might despoil that kinsman's bride
of her dowry; a hundred other crimes of his commission stood in the
way to peace and success.
But about him the Passover pilgrims, catching their first glimpse of
the Holy City, gave way to the storm of emotion that had gradually
gathered as they drew near to the threatened City of Delight.
It had moved him to look upon this most majestic fortification,
embattled and begirt for resistance against the most majestic nation
in the world. But he who came as a stranger could not feel within him
the tenderness of old love, the sanctity of old tradition, and the
desperation of kin in his blood as he gazed upon Jerusalem. Yonder was
a roof-garden; to him, no more than that. But the inspired Jews beside
him knew that in that place the sun of noon had shone upon Bathsheba,
the beautiful; and in that neighboring high place the heart of the
Singing King had melted; to the north was a stretch of monotonous
ground overgrown with a new suburb; but that was the camp of
Sennacherib, the Assyrian whom the Angel of the Lord smote and his
army of one hundred and four score and five thousand, before the
morning.
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