“Yourself,” replied Vashti. “Will _you_ not plead for me, you whose grandsire Simeon held the infant Jesus in his arms, calling him ‘The glory of the people of Israel’?--you, whose sire Gamaliel, speaking of the apostles of Christ, said, ‘Refrain from these men, and let them alone’?” Simeon’s face darkened, and he turned away. Every word spoken by Vashti did but increase the wrath of her judges, who wanted, not argument, but submission and recantation. No more questions were asked. The council, drawing together, conferred in whispers around the chairs of Agrippa and Berenice. Having agreed in their verdict, the judges returned to their seats--all save one, a noble and gentle-looking elder, who said with a ring of indignation in his voice: “I protest!” But his protest availed nothing. Unable to save Vashti or to bear the sight of her punishment, he walked from the synagogue amid the somewhat angry murmurs of the assembly. “Who is he?” asked Crispus. “Johanan ben Zacchai, wisest and best of the rabbis. Though he himself is an orthodox Pharisee, his father Zacchai, or--to Grecize the name--Zacchæus, a wealthy publican of Jericho, is said to have been a secret Christian. Hence his sympathy for poor Vashti. Are you going to intervene on her behalf?” “Anon. Let us first see what her punishment is to be.” Simeon now rose to pronounce judgment. “Vashti, daughter of Hyrcanus, your punishment is a twofold one; you will receive forty lashes save one, and you will be shorn of your tresses.” The vindictive character of the sentence set Crispus’ blood on fire. “To be shorn of her tresses?” he murmured. “Such a suggestion as that could proceed only from a woman’s mind. Princess Berenice, your hand is in this.” Vashti, on hearing her doom, swayed, and would have fallen to the ground but for the officers who supported her on each side. She had expected some such penalty as the payment of a fine, or excommunication from the synagogue. But the loss of her hair--the glory of a woman! And _scourging_! The mere physical pain of this last was as nothing in her eyes compared with the horror of being stripped to the waist in the sight of all the congregation. A mist swam before her eyes; her face, pale before, now became deathly white; she tried to speak, but her tongue failed her. Looking for all the world like one insane, she turned her swimming gaze upon the assembly, but saw no pity in their set faces. What punishment could be too severe for a Nazarene? Nay, verily, let her be thankful that her doom was not stoning, as it assuredly would have been but for the humiliating fact that the death penalty required the sanction of the hateful governor, Florus. And now appeared the executioner carrying the dreadful whip, a wooden shaft with three long ox-hide thongs, thirteen strokes from which made the conventional thirty-nine stripes. The Law allowed forty, but the Jews, affecting to be merciful, diminished that number by one.