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. He went down the uneven slope of Zion as some great shade
borne on a swift air.
Two or three bold ones began to move after him. Others followed. The
little nucleus grew. Philadelphus was caught in it. Numbers were added
as courage grew with numbers. From intersecting streets people came.
Some, although oppressed by the silence, asked what it was and were
silenced quickly. Others began to mutter unintelligible predictions,
and their neighbors shook their heads without understanding that which
was said.
The news of Seraiah's mysterious progress communicated itself to rank
and rank and spread abroad. Faces appeared against a background of
lights at barred windows, along the balustrades of house-tops, from
areas and ruins. Philadelphus, fascinated and astonished at this
curious demonstration, was contented to pass with it. Silence, except
for the rustling of garments and the multitudinous footfall, fell
about the vicinity.
Ahead of them, Seraiah moved. His steps, finely balanced, passed over
obstructions where most of his followers stumbled, and when he turned
across Akra and faced the Old Wall, the excitement became painful.
His pace was flying; many of his followers were running. It seemed
that he was going against the Wall. Dozens anticipated that course and
skirting through short ways clambered up on the fortifications and
clung there though menaced by the sentries until Seraiah appeared.
At a narrow point in the street that ended against the wall, Seraiah
met that Jew who had become a maniac on the day Jerusalem attacked
Titus. Without warning the maniac leaped up into an intensely rigid
posture; his legs spread, his lean arms upstretched at painful
tension, his mouth wide, his eyes dilated immensely in their hollow
depths.
Seraiah passed him as if no man stood in his way. Instantly the maniac
wheeled, as a huge spread-eagle wind-vane on its staff, and stood at
gaze, the broad uninterrupted light of the beacon shining down on him
and the mysterious man. The street ended short of the wall. About the
base of the fortification was an open space, in which was planted a
scaling-ladder. Seraiah climbed this, an infinitesimal detail on the
great blank of blackened stone.