“And I!”--“And I!” exclaimed several other members, rising and descending from the tribunal. Florus sat, full of impotent rage, on perceiving that the statements of Simon and Tertullus were believed in, not only by the common people, but also by the majority of the council. “The trial is adjourned,” he cried. “Let the prisoner be carried back to his dungeon.” The command came too late. Simon had perceived among the Jewish portion of the spectators certain disguised Zealots, who, both by eye and by gesture, were secretly inviting him to make a dash for liberty. Acting on the hint, he suddenly wrenched himself free from his guards, darted to the edge of the tribunal, and, taking a flying leap over the line of soldiers that guarded its front, he alighted among his friends, who, struggling desperately, began to push him towards the open doors of the basilica. The soldiers, attempting to follow, were at once opposed, not only by the whole Jewish body, but also by the Græco-Syrians, who in this matter were actuated not out of any love for Simon, but from a desire to thwart and disappoint Florus, whose rule was hateful to them. The court of justice became immediately transformed into a wild tumultuous pandemonium. “Down with the wicked Florus!” “Death to old Ananias!” Stones and other missiles, discharged by men of both factions, now came whirling into the tribunal. Ananias, gathering his robe about him, fled to a place of safety. Florus, as he was lifting his hand in the futile attempt to quell the tumult, received a sharp-edged flint upon his temples. Down his quickly-paling face flowed a stream of blood, a sight welcomed by both factions with a huge roar of delight. “Guards, hither to me!” cried the alarmed procurator. Four stout soldiers sprang forward and screened him with their bucklers, that rattled again and again to the pelting shower of stones as the procurator, following the example of Ananias, fled amid hootings, cursings, and derisive laughter. At the command of Rufus the soldiers, by threatening the people with leveled spears, soon cleared the courthouse. They failed, however, to recover Simon, who, dragged off by his friends, contrived to make good his escape. “He’ll harass us again,” grumbled Rufus, a prophecy destined to meet with ample verification. CHAPTER VI “DELENDA EST HIEROSOLYMA!” “Then you will not marry me, princess?” Such were the words addressed by Florus to Berenice, as he walked beside her in the sunlit gardens of the Prætorium. The ugly gash he had received that morning from the well-aimed missile had not enhanced his personal beauty. Berenice, as she watched him from beneath the fringe of her dark, silky eyelashes, shivered, and thought how like a satyr he looked! She mentally contrasted the bloated coarseness of his visage with Crispus’ clear bronzed healthful complexion.