“You would destroy our temple? You cannot,” she said, speaking with a vehemence that surprised, and even startled Crispus, “you cannot. It is beyond the power of Cæsar and his legions. Let all the nations of the earth league together for that end, and they would fail. The temple is eternal, and cannot be destroyed, for our prophets have so assured us. The world was made for the sake of the temple,”--she was but repeating the doctrine of the rabbis--“and so long as the world shall stand, so long will the temple stand. When the last day shall come,” she continued, her eyes shining with all the enthusiasm of a devotee, “there will still be seen the smoke of the sacrifice ascending from the altar. It is the place loved of God, the place where He has chosen to put His name forever.” So spoke Berenice, and perhaps never in the history of the world did words meet with a rebuke more startling and more significant. For scarcely had she finished speaking when there rose upon the air a mysterious something that caused her to grasp the arm of Crispus with a convulsive start. From the hidden interior of the Sanctuary there came a sound that bore--to compare it with earthly things--some resemblance to the rising of a wind; faint at first, its volume increased, little by little, till, issuing from the Sanctuary, what seemed to be a rush of air swept through the temple-courts. A wind, and yet no wind! It had no effect upon external objects: not a fold of Crispus’ toga waved; not a hair of the princess was stirred. What was happening was like nothing earthly; the sense of a mysterious and unseen presence struck an awe to the soul of Crispus. If he had never before believed in the supernatural, he believed in it now; if he had never before felt fear, he felt it now. The hand which his first impulse had sent to his sword dropped powerlessly to his side again. What availed the might of a legion, or of ten thousand such, against invisible and spiritual powers? Terror had laid hold of Berenice; half-swooning she sank upon her knees, her hands still clinging to the wrist of Crispus; but for his detaining hold she would have fallen prone upon the pavement. Closing her eyes as if to shut out some awful vision that was about to appear, she faintly gasped with blanched lips: “_The bath col!_” She was not alone in her belief. From different parts of the temple-court persons, hitherto unseen by Crispus--priests, Levites, Nethinim--had suddenly started into view, and were gazing up at the lofty temple, whose long and magnificent façade gleamed like a bank of pearl in the moonlight. And one cry only broke from their lips, to die away in a feeling of mingled awe and terror: “THE BATH COL! THE BATH COL!” Crispus was sufficiently familiar with this phrase to know that it meant the voice of the deity. Did this “sound as of a rushing mighty wind” really emanate from the Hebrew God who was said to ride upon the whirlwind, and to speak in the voice of the thunder?