In this little synagogue in a poor town there were no privacies; communicants had to depend on the courtesy of their fellows for uninterrupted devotion. The wanderer had not forgotten this. So he effaced himself in the darkness and awaited his own turn. He hardly knew why he had come. For what should he ask--forgiveness or for the hope of the King who was to come? What should he do--make atonement or promises; give an offering or ask encouragement? He did not doubt for an instant that he had done wisely in seeking the synagogue, but what had he for it, or what had it for him? Meanwhile the voice of the priest, disembodied in the gloom, had put off its ritualistic tone and was delivering a charge: "Since you are in haste to reach Jerusalem, you may depart, so that you will give me your word that you will in all faith abide upon the road seven days; and that at the end of the separation you will present yourselves for examination and cleansing at Jerusalem, and that you will in nowise transgress the law of separation on the journey hence." The Maccabee heard the woman give her word. After a little further communication, he heard them move toward the entrance. The white light from the day without revealed to him in a few steps, a veiled woman, a deformed old man and a young rabbi. He did not need to take the evidence of her dress or of her companion to recognize under this veil the girl whom he had won from Julian of Ephesus, in the hills, that very morning. As if in response to his inner hope that she would see him, she raised her eyes at the moment she passed, and started quickly. Even under the shelter of her veil he saw her flush. The next instant she was out of the synagogue and gone. The Maccabee hesitated restlessly, forgot his mission to the synagogue and then, with no definite purpose, followed. At the edge of town, where the huddle of huts left off and the gravel and rock and cedar began, he saw the priest dismiss the pair with his blessing and turn back. Undecided, restless and regretful, the Maccabee lingered, looking after her as she went into the hills, unattended, except for an anomalous old man. The sun of noon shone on her silver dress that the dust of the wayside had not tarnished. He was gloomy and wistful without understanding his discomfort, and afraid for the beautiful unknown going out for seven days into the unfriendly wilderness. There was the click of a horse's hoof beside him. He glanced up with a nervous start to see Julian of Ephesus, scowling, at hand. "It is time," he said, "for us to be off." The Maccabee instantly determined that Julian of Ephesus should not come up with this defenseless girl again. "I am not ready," he returned promptly. "It was three days, this morning, that you have lost. To-morrow it will be four." "And Sabbath, it will be seven. A long time, a long time!"