Now the lad had heard of the custom, borrowed from a habit of the first C?sar, by which chief commanders, to indicate their rank, appeared in public with only a laurel vine upon their heads.
By that sign he knew this officer—Valerius gratus, the new procurator of Judea!
To say truth now, the Roman under the unprovoked storm had the young Jew’s sympathy; so that when he reached the corner of the house, the latter leaned yet farther over the parapet to see him go by, and in the act rested a hand upon a tile which had been a long time cracked and allowed to go unnoticed.
The pressure was strong enough to displace the outer piece, which started to fall.
A thrill of horror shot through the youth.
He reached out to catch the missile.
In appearance the motion was exactly that of one pitching something from him.
The effort failed— nay, it served to push the descending fragment farther out over the wall.
He shouted with all his might.
The soldiers of the guard looked up; so did the great man, and that moment the missile struck him, and he fell from his seat as dead.
The cohort halted; the guards leaped from their horses, and hastened to cover the chief with their shields.
On the other hand, the people who witnessed the affair, never doubting that the blow had been purposely dealt, cheered the lad as he yet stooped in full view over the parapet, transfixed by what he beheld, and by anticipation of the consequences flashed all too plainly upon him.
A mischievous spirit flew with incredible speed from roof to roof along the line of march, seizing the people, and urging them all alike.
They laid hands upon the parapets and tore up the tiling and the sunburnt mud of which the house-tops were for the most part made, and with blind fury began to fling them upon the legionaries halted below.
A battle then ensued.
Discipline, of course, prevailed.
The struggle, the slaughter, the skill of one side, the desperation of the other, are alike unnecessary to our story.
Let us look rather to the wretched author of it all.
He arose from the parapet, his face very pale.
“O Tirzah, Tirzah!
What will become of us?”
She had not seen the occurrence below, but was listening to the shouting and watching the mad activity of the people in view on the houses.
Something terrible was going on, she knew; but what it was, or the cause, or that she or any of those dear to her were in danger, she did not know.
“What has happened?
What does it all mean?” she asked, in sudden alarm.
“I have killed the Roman governor.
The tile fell upon him.”
An unseen hand appeared to sprinkle her face with the dust of ashes— it grew white so instantly.
She put her arm around him, and looked wistfully, but without a word, into his eyes.
His fears had passed to her, and the sight of them gave him strength.
“I did not do it purposely, Tirzah— it was an accident,” he said, more calmly.
“What will they do?” she asked.
He looked off over the tumult momentarily deepening in the street and on the roofs, and thought of the sullen countenance of Gratus.
If he were not dead, where would his vengeance stop?
And if he were dead, to what height of fury would not the violence of the people lash the legionaries?
To evade an answer, he peered over the parapet again, just as the guard were assisting the Roman to remount his horse.
“He lives, he lives, Tirzah!
Blessed be the Lord God of our fathers!”
With that outcry, and a brightened countenance, he drew back and replied to her question.
“Be not afraid, Tirzah.
I will explain how it happened, and they will remember our father and his services, and not hurt us.”
He was leading her to the summer-house, when the roof jarred under their feet, and a crash of strong timbers being burst away, followed by a cry of surprise and agony, arose apparently from the court-yard below.
He stopped and listened.
The cry was repeated; then came a rush of many feet, and voices lifted in rage blent with voices in prayer; and then the screams of women in mortal terror.
The soldiers had beaten in the north gate, and were in possession of the house.
The terrible sense of being hunted smote him.
His first impulse was to fly; but where?
Nothing but wings would serve him.
Tirzah, her eyes wild with fear, caught his arm.
“O Judah, what does it mean?”