It came like the gradual velocity of a burning star across
the sky. From the ranks nearest the exit from the burrow the murmur
issued, growing into intelligible sound, mounting to the wildness of
hysteria and prevailing wholly over the Gibborim in the space between
heart-beats. Everywhere they cast down their spears and their weapons,
everywhere they gazed at him with brilliant threatening eyes and cried
in loud voices so that the things each mad mind put into expression
were lost in a great unintelligible raving.
Laodice, the Christian and that white-haired trembler in his refuge,
saw the Maccabee raise himself to his full height and lifting his
sword confront in one grand effort at command a mob of six hundred
madmen!
Perhaps that manifestation of iron courage and strength, which the
crazy lot somehow realized, saved him from death. Instead of falling
upon him they turned away from the scene of the last vain effort for
their own salvation and rushed, trampling one another, into the mad
city of Jerusalem.
From without, the hoarse uproar of their desertion was heard to merge
with the great tumult over the Holy City. Tense silence fell in the
crypt.
The light of the torch wavered up and down the tall figure of the
Maccabee as he stood transfixed in the attitude of command that had
achieved nothing. It seemed the final inclination beyond the
perpendicular that precedes the fall.
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