Rufus had scarcely said this when the people rose to their feet, the customary attitude for prayer. The shelîach, or “angel,” who presided over this part of the worship was Simeon, the son of Gamaliel, and he began with an announcement that caused no little surprise among the members of the congregation. There was to be made, beginning with that very day, an addition to the current liturgy of the synagogue, an addition necessitated by the conduct of those impious sectaries, the Nazarenes. “Who are the Nazarenes?” whispered Crispus. “The Christians,” replied Rufus. It was well known--so ran the tenor of Simeon’s remarks--that in spite of their changed faith, these apostates, being in no way recognizable, since they preserved the outward semblance of orthodox Jews, were in the habit of resorting to the synagogues, and of joining in the worship, thus defiling the holy people by their presence. As such mixed worship could not be acceptable to God, the true Jew must take steps to preserve himself from such defilement. Therefore for the future the initiatory prayer would be of a character such as no Nazarene could join in without at the same time abjuring his faith, since it contained curses directed against Jesus, the son of Panther.[8] That prayer he would now proceed to recite, and let each member of the congregation mark well his neighbor, and take due note of him who should refuse to ratify it with the customary “Amen.” “Who is Jesus, the son of Panther?” asked Crispus. “The same as he whom we call Christus. His disciples say that he was born of a pure virgin--a manifest impossibility. The Jews, with more reason, assert that his mother committed adultery with a soldier named Panther.” Now, as Crispus was passing his eyes over the congregation at this juncture, he happened to see what had hitherto escaped his notice. Vashti was standing among the worshipers. She was pale, very pale; the expression of her face, the very attitude of her figure, were suggestive of mental distress. For a moment Crispus was puzzled to account for her agitation; then the truth like a flash of light darted into his mind. Vashti had a secret, and one that could no longer be kept hidden by her unless she chose to play the traitress to her conscience, and that, he felt certain, she would not do. “Cursed be Jesus, the Son of Panther!” A shiver passed over Vashti; she compressed her lips tightly, while from every other Jewish mouth there flew an “Amen!” uttered with a vehemence that spoke of a fierce and vindictive hatred. Ere Simeon could come to his next sentence, a man by the partition--it was Sadas, Berenice’s freedman--who had been intently watching Vashti, suddenly raised his arm to attract attention, and cried in a voice that penetrated to every corner of the congregation: “Holy rabbi, here is one who refuses to say ‘Amen’ to that anathema.”