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ness.

I

NIGHT still broods in the halls of the temple. The priests who are keeping watch peer through the darkSome of them are crouching, others lying. They can see one another only in dim outlines, can just discern the shadowy movements of one another's arms as they draw their mantles more closely round them; they can recognize one another only by the murmur of voices. Through the arcades of the upper terrace, the wind from the sea blows keen, for the end of March is near, and the waters are vexed by the equinoctial gales. At the foot of the Holy of Holies the great stone city lies slumbering. All are asleep: Jews and Gentiles; sages, beggars, and rich men; priests and people; pride and wisdom. There is much hatred betwixt house and house; but in the houses, love. Little joy but much hope for it is a conquered city, and the conquered despise their conquerors. Power lies asleep in Jerusalem; the cold steel weapons do not stir, nor do harsh commands break the silence of the night. Peace seems to breathe down from the firmament, now that for a generation and more there has been no clash of arms in the Jewish capital. Nevertheless, hatred of the conquerors smoulders in the heart of the people. Even while the conquered are sleeping and while hate is in abeyance in their relaxed limbs, still through the dreams of men and women alike looms faith in the one God. "He will return as King of the Jews and Lord of the world!"

Now comes a sound of heavy footsteps, the measured tread of armed men. Light flits through the arches of the hall, vanishes for a moment, and then returns in force. Those who are lying on the ground leap to their feet. It is the captain of the temple who has come with his men. Thrice every night this guard makes the round. The pretext is that the Romans are watching over the safety of the holy hill, but in truth they have an eye to their own safety as well. In the flicker of the torches the two parties glare at one another while their traditional enmity gleams in their eyes. No one speaks. Enough that they see one another, while orders are fulfilled.

What do the priests see in the torchlight? They see men who are sturdy rather than tall; men whose harness in this illumination has a golden-red sheen; men whose arms and legs are bare, while their bodies are clad in scale-armour. Some of them carry spears; others, swords. The faces beneath the hemispherical helmets are beardless, brown, and wiry; faces showing hardness and reserve; the face of young men who think little, but can make long marches. Men who laugh readily, eat heartily, and are prone to be rough-and-ready wooers. The captain, whose armour is half hidden by a cloak, has gentler lineaments, and seems lost in thought. In truth, it is his way to hide the scorn with which the sight of these priests inspires him. For his part, as he contemplates the Israelites, he sees bent figures, some long and lean, some short and stout, all wearing gabardines which fall from their shoulders to their sandals; men with yellow faces, black hair and black beards. Men who are wearied with watching, and who fear their Roman conquerors. Yet from their dark eyes flash fanaticism, hope, and pride.

Thus do the two worlds face one another, men of faith and men of war, conquered and conquerors. Thus do the Jews and the Romans face one another this night in Jerusalem.

Three hours later the sun has risen behind the bare hills eastward of Jordan, revealing the familiar scene to the priests and the soldiers who comprise this twofold temple guard. Rocky hills, grey and yellow, cold and repellent, waterless and well-nigh treeless, surround the great white town wherein rocks and walls seem one. The place was a natural fortress, and all that human hands need do was to crown the rocky rampart with walls, combining the whole with simple art, until the city was fitted into its place among the five hills.

Where they are standing, upon the flattened summit which Solomon long since had levelled for the first temple, the second temple, begun after the return from Babylon, now rises. Looking southwestward, their eyes rest on another hill, on which clear-cut shadows are cast by the rising sun. To this a bridge leads. Taller and finer than the temple hill is the Mount of Zion, where in the days beyond recall (days for whose return devout Jews hope unceasingly) King David had built his stronghold. On Zion are the homes of the well-to-do. Northward, facing this eminence, is the detested acropolis of the Romans, Antonia by name, on the hilltop which the Maccabees had fortified two hundred years earlier, when Israel rose against the heathen. Behind, on the marshy ground to the north of the town, dwell the poorer folk. Thus he who holds the fortress commands the temple and the gates, controls the metropolis of this turbulent nation, sits astride the southern end of the narrow land-which, it seems, might be crossed in a few strides from the desert to the Mediterranean shore.

II

BELOW, in the crowded dwellings, the people are now awake. There is stir and bustle and colour in the narrow streets. The cries of the street sellers are echoing from the stone walls. Many thousand strangers throng the town. Three days from now comes the Feast of Passover; the inns and their stables are filled with men and camels. Workers and traders, shoemakers and tailors, barbers and scribes, venders of vegetables and dried figs, are plying for custom. Asses, heavily laden, are driven from street to street, carrying merchandise to prospective buyers.

The general movement is toward the temple hill, although there is nothing more afoot there than on any other day. Built in a square, five hundred ells each side, its walls are surmounted by three great terraces. Towards these the crowd is moving, to gain the huge lower arcades, where no business is done, but where we meet every one.

This is the outer court, the court of the heathen, placarded with inscriptions in Greek and Latin warning unbelievers against access to the second terrace. Nineteen steps separate the faithful from the unfaithful, and every Gentile knows that to mount the steps is for him a crime punishable with death.

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