Dead and dying they lay, stretched athwart the steps. “Those who were just going to die looked upon those that were gone to their rest before them with dry eyes and open mouths.”[29] Suddenly a sound became audible; distant at first, it grew painfully loud, and at last, with a rattle and a clang, a dozen armed Zealots, belonging to John’s party, came marching into the square, their well-preserved physique affording a striking contrast to the ghastly group on the synagogue steps. Famine had not yet laid its finger upon _them_. Seemingly in the best of spirits they talked and laughed in rude fashion, indifferent to the suffering that met them at every point. As a matter of fact, they had come out purposely to add to the city’s sufferings. Four of their number carried a small battering-ram, intended to force open the doors of such obstinate citizens as were bent on keeping their own provisions. Vashti noticed that these Zealots were taking the way that led past the synagogue. Not wishing to attract their attention, she crept to the side of the building, and hid herself behind a buttress, contriving the while, however, to keep watch upon the approaching group. As they drew nearer she saw to her surprise that the more youthful of them were _dressed as women_ in all the bravery of finely dyed garments and golden anklets that tinkled as they walked; their long, flowing hair was decked with the _suffa_, a gauzy network, that, attached to the headdress, hung down over the shoulders as far as the waist; red coloring glowed on their cheeks, while their eyes, to make them appear larger and more lustrous, were painted round with _kohl_, and their eyebrows arched and darkened with the same preparation. Their appearance thrilled Vashti with a mysterious and nameless horror; she wondered what this feminine garb should mean, not knowing in her innocence that the temple had become, under John of Giscala, the seat of infamies that caused the seer of Patmos to brand the once holy city with a fearful name. The Zealots in passing glanced at the silent throng, whose dying anguish provoked only their savage mirth. “More victims for the dead-cart,” laughed one. “Aha!” he continued, stopping in his walk, and pointing to a ghastly stiffened figure lying supine upon the stairs, “whom have we here? Asenath the harlot, as I live. One can scarce recognize in her the one-time favorite of old Ananias. How she stares! Is she living or dead?” “Dead!” replied another Zealot. “I’ll wager ten shekels she’s living,” cried he who had spoken first. “And I’ll wager the same that she’s dead,” answered the second. “Good! you hear,” said the first, addressing the rest as desiring them to be witnesses of the wager. The Zealots had a way of their own--and for sport often practiced it--of ascertaining whether a body were dead.