This fortress occupied the summit of a lofty rock, separated from the mount on which the temple stood by a deep ravine, crossed by a line of arches. As the temple--in itself a stronghold--dominated and looked down upon the city, so did Antonia dominate and look down upon the temple. Far above the golden roof of the sanctuary towered its haughty battlements, adorned with the standard bearing the significant letters, S.P.Q.R. Upon that proud banner, the visible symbol of Roman dominion, no Jew ever looked save with a wrathful curse. Leaving his men in their quarters, Rufus, losing no time, set off, accompanied by Crispus, for the palace of Agrippa, bent on delivering to that monarch the letter of Florus. It was still early morning, and the streets, thronged by pilgrims, new-arriving, presented an animated and busy aspect, which would disappear later, when the heat of noontide would usher in the quietude of the siesta. Suddenly, high above the sounds produced by the restless throng, there rose a voice, and one so weird that Crispus had never before heard the like. At its hollow tone, voices, sounds, footsteps, ceased. A hush as of death fell over all. Along the middle of the street, and moving at a pace that never changed from its slow and measured uniformity, came a wild-eyed, melancholy figure, clad in a single robe of camel’s hair, and tied at the waist with a leathern girdle. His arms were raised to heaven; he glanced neither to right nor left; his face was like a mask of stone, set in one unchanging expression of woe. No man stopped him; no man questioned him; all knew the uselessness of it. He was a familiar figure to the people, but familiarity had never lessened one thrill of the awe felt by them whenever he appeared. “A voice from the East, a voice from the West, a voice from the fours winds, a voice against Jerusalem and the holy house, a voice against the bridegrooms and the brides, and a voice against this whole people. Woe, woe to Jerusalem!” The people stood, as they always stood when he passed by, immovable, silent, wondering. Did they behold a madman, or one in whom was the spirit of the ancient prophets? “Who is yon fellow?” asked Crispus, watching the figure as it receded in the distance. “Jesus, the son of Hanan. ’Tis four years since he began to appear at the yearly feasts, traversing the streets and uttering the woe that we have just heard. Brought before the tribunal of the procurator Albinus, and questioned, he would answer only, ‘Woe, woe to Jerusalem!’ Though scourged till his bones were laid bare, he maintained during it all a dry eye and a stony countenance, uttering the while his weird plaint. He seems to be, not a man, but a voice.”