“Beyond Jordan to the city of Pella among the mountains. My daughter, are you not going with us, seeing that upon this city, that hath shed the blood of the saints, there is coming utter destruction?--yea, ‘_Tribulation such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time; no, nor ever shall be._’” There was in the bishop’s words that which set Vashti’s heart thrilling with a nameless fear. She yearned to accompany the little band to Pella, but durst not run contrary to the will of her mother, who, she well knew, would never be persuaded to quit the city. And there was little Arad. And the good but heathen Crispus, for whose conversion she daily prayed, occupied also a place in her heart. No! she could not bear to part from these, and so she resisted the persuasive words of her new-found friends. “Why will you make me weep?” said she. “If it be the will of the Lord can He not protect me here equally as well as at Pella?” “Daughter, thou hast well said,” returned Simeon. “Is it not written: ‘Who ever perished, being innocent? or when were the righteous cut off?’ We leave thee in His hands. Be sure that we shall not fail to pray for thee daily.” “Your blessing, father,” said Vashti as she knelt upon the pavement. “You have it, my daughter,” replied the good bishop, laying his hands upon her head. The little band now turned sorrowfully away, casting many a lingering look behind. Vashti, gazing from the pillared arcade, watched them as they quitted the Shushan or Beautiful Gate, and made their way down the hillside to the brook Cedron. Crossing the dark stream by a bridge they ascended the leafy slope of Olivet; arrived upon its summit they paused to take one long, last look at the city, and then, disappearing one by one over the brow of the mount, they became lost to view. With a sense of desolation at her heart, such as she had never before known, Vashti went home again to find Crispus awake and chafing because the Jews had not yet returned in headlong flight. But the Jews did not return that day; no, nor yet the next! A whole week passed, a week filled with strange rumors of Roman defeat and Jewish success. On the eighth day the Jewish multitude reappeared, chanting songs of victory. Their entry into the city took the shape of a triumphal procession, made resplendent with chariots and horses, with arms and standards, all captured from the enemy! When Simon, the hero of the fight, appeared riding in an ivory car, whose front and sides were decorated with the gory heads of slain Romans, the delighted citizens greeted him with the waving of palm-branches, as though he were the very Messiah. Young maidens flung flowers before his chariot, and men cast down purple mantles. “Hosanna to the son of Giora!” “Hail to the Scourge of the Romans!” It was a great day for the Zealot chief, too great in the eyes of the jealous Eleazar, who was beginning to fear that Simon had ambitions inconsistent with his own supremacy.