They had permitted no rest to the
defenders on the wall; they had spread ruin by fire and carnage, by
arrow and sling for days. Sorties against them had resulted in the
death of their assailants, only. Jewish engines accomplished nothing
against them. The three, alone, were taking Jerusalem.
Philadelphus looked at their tall shapes, black against the remote
illumination of the Roman camp, and inwardly hoped that they would
hold off complete destruction of the city, until he had found the
desirable woman.
No one noticed him; men passed him like shadows with their eyes ever
on the ground; no one spoke; nothing disturbed the deadly quiet of the
falling city.
But the next minute, Philadelphus, who walked alertly, saw people step
out into gutters or press against walls, as if to allow some one to
pass. Awakening interest ran abroad over the street ahead of him. A
lane between the wandering multitude opened almost by magic. Through
it, walking swiftly, his head up, his mystic eyes ignited, came
Seraiah, soldier of Jehovah. There was no sound of his footfall. His
garments flashed in the light of the beacons, but there was not even a
whisper of their motion. But he had changed. There was fierce,
superhuman intent in the despatch of his gait and in the uplift of his
superb head. After him, as he passed, ran whispers. Each one stopped
and looked.
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