“We must clip the wings of this eagle ere he fly too high,” he muttered darkly. As for Crispus, the procession seemed to him like some hideous dream. Could it be that a fine Roman army, commanded by his own father, had suffered defeat at the hands of an undisciplined horde of Oriental barbarians? It was even so; Vashti that evening told him the whole story as she had gathered it from others. Simon’s followers, keeping to the heights that overhung the Pass of Beth-horon, had followed the Romans day by day, attacking them in front, flank and rear, but never venturing an open engagement. The Roman legionaries, demoralized by the retreat, seemed to lack even the spirit to defend themselves. At last, when more than five thousand of his men had fallen in this guerilla warfare, Cestius, to avoid further disaster, was compelled to resort to a stratagem of despair. Having with studied pomp and display formed and fortified a camp, he stole off quietly in the dead of night, leaving the tents standing and the watch-fires burning, so as to deceive the enemy for a time. The trick answered; and Cestius, gaining a few hours’ start, succeeded by forced marches in bringing his panic-stricken troops to Antipatris, behind whose ramparts he was secure from attack. As for the camp with its standards, furniture, and military stores, this was, of course, seized and plundered by the delighted Jews. Not since the day when the German barbarians, under Arminius, had cut to pieces the legions of Varus in the depths of the Teutoburg forest, had a disaster so great befallen the Roman arms. Had this defeat happened under any other commander, the shame of it would have touched to the quick the patriotic pride of Crispus, but that this defeat should have been brought about by the bad generalship of his own father----! Filial affection seemed for the moment to die within Crispus. “Doth my father still live?” he muttered moodily. “Had he no sword to fall upon? He hath made the name of Cestius synonymous with coward.” That day, the first time for several weeks, Crispus was able to rise from his bed and assume his Roman garb. And now came the momentous question as to how he should get safely out of Jerusalem, a question that was settled in a very remarkable manner. Miriam’s house, like all the larger houses in Jerusalem, was built around a square court paved with tiles, and adorned in the middle with a fountain. One afternoon, Vashti was sitting alone in this court, and thinking, as she was always thinking, of Crispus, when a heavy footstep caused her to look up. The thing that she had been fearing during many weeks had come to pass at last. There, a few paces distant, stood Simon of Gerasa! Only by a great effort was she able to keep herself from fainting at sight of the dark and terrible Zealot. “Interpret me this riddle,” said he. “Into the house was seen to go that which never came forth again.”