I was startled one night by a strange uproar in the street. I was so watchful, so quick of hearing, that I detected it a great way off. It gradually came nearer and nearer. It was a riot or street-fight or battle creeping in the direction of my prison. There were at last plainly heard shouts, groans, curses, the hurrying of feet, the clash of arms, and all the exciting accompaniments of a bloody contest between two enraged factions. From the triumphant cries and the great flare of torches which came in at my window, I perceived that one party had driven the other before it, and now occupied the ground in front of the building in which I was imprisoned. I put the table against the wall and the stool on the table. Mounting thus to one of the windows, I could see partially what was going on in the street. What a crowd of ruffians of all nations and colors, fantastically dressed and variously armed! While I was gazing on this hideous rabble, a man of huge proportions rode up on a horse finely caparisoned, which had evidently been the late property of some dashing Roman officer. This man had a horribly bruised and swollen face, and an immense, dingy, yellow beard. I recognized Barabbas the robber. “Break open the doors and release the prisoners!” he cried in a terrible voice. Beams used like battering-rams were soon brought to bear upon the iron-barred and bolted doors, until the whole building resounded with the tremendous strokes. How my heart leaped at the thought of a speedy deliverance! I determined in the confusion to elude both parties and escape to Bethany. At this moment a great outcry arose: “The Romans! The Romans!” and the swift clatter of horses’ feet and the renewal of all the sounds of a fierce fight, assured me that the rioters had been attacked by a squadron of Roman cavalry. Suddenly I heard a loud, clear, sweet voice shouting with wild enthusiasm: “Death to the Romans!” “Freedom to Judea!” I recognized the familiar tones before I discovered the tall figure of the Son of the Desert. He was bare-headed, and his fine bronzed face, his scimitar and his crimson scarf gleamed in the torchlight as he rushed bravely forward. Anthony, my old servant, was at his side, watching his movements with admiration and echoing his words. The Son of the Desert was bringing up a large party of stalwart fellows, armed with pikes and scimitars, to meet the advancing column of horse. I called to him loudly, waving my arms eagerly between the bars. At that moment a strong pressure backward from the front, held the party stationary for a second. My old friend looked up at my window surprised, and smiled his recognition. He kissed his hand to me and pointed to the ring on his finger which Martha had given him. Anthony also recognized me, and saluted me with frantic gestures and every demonstration of childish joy. The party suddenly surged forward, and the Son of the Desert raised his battle-cry: “Death to the Romans!” “Freedom to Judea!”