The City of Delight

A single citizen appeared at the doorway of the most habitable house

and looked absently over the heads of the new-comers. As they

approached, the villager did not observe them. Instead, he looked at

the near horizon lifted on the shoulder of the hills and meditated on

the signs of the weather. It was Emmaus' habit to find strangers at

its door.

Julian, with natural desire to be first on this perilous ground and

away from the side of the man who had defeated him and laughed at him,

rode up to the door. The villager, seeing the traveler stop, gazed at

him.

Julian had about him an air of blood and breeding first to be remarked

even before his features. The grace of his bearing and the excellence

of his bodily condition were highly aristocratic. His height was good,

his figure modestly athletic as an observance of fine form rather than

a preparation for the arena. He was simply dressed in a light blue

woolen tunic. A handkerchief was bound about his head. His forehead

was very white and half hidden by loose, curling black locks that

escaped with boyish negligence from his head-dress. His eyes were

black, his cheeks tanned but colorless, his mouth mirthful and red but

hard in its outlines. Clean-shaven, lithe, supple, he did not appear

to be more than twenty-two. But there was an even-tempered cynicism

and sophistication in the half-droop of his level lids, indifference,

hauteur and self-reliance in the uplift of his chin. His soul was

therefore older, more seasoned and set than the frame that housed it.

Now there was considerable agitation in his manner, enough to make him

sharp in his speech to the villager.

"Is there a khan in Emmaus?" he demanded.

"There is," the villager responded calmly.

"Where?"

The citizen motioned toward a low-roofed rambling structure of stone

picked up on the native hills.

"Ask there," he said and passing out of his door went his way.

Julian touched his horse and rode through the worn passage and into

the court of the decrepit khan of Emmaus. The Maccabee followed.

The Syrian host who was both waiter and hostler met Julian entering

first.

"Quick!" Julian said, leaning from his horse. "Is there a young man

here with gray temples? A pagan?"

The Syrian, attracted by the anxiety in the demand, followed a train

of surmise before his answer.

"No pagans, here. Naught but Jews," he observed finally.

"Or a young woman of wealth? Quick!"

"No wealth at all; but plenty of women. The Passover pilgrims."

Julian heaved a sigh of relief and dismounted. The Maccabee rode into

the court of the khan at that instant.

The khan-keeper took their horses and a little later the two men were

led into the single cobwebby chamber, low-ceiled, gloomy, cold and

cheerless as a cave. There they were given food and afterward a corner

of the hall where a straw pallet had been laid and a stone trough

filled with water for a bath. After refreshing himself the Maccabee

lay down and slept with supreme indifference to the rancor of the man

who had attempted to kill him.