The soldiers had beaten in the north gate, and were in possession of the house. The terrible sense of being hunted smote him. His first impulse was to fly; but where? Nothing but wings would serve him. Tirzah, her eyes wild with fear, caught his arm.
"O Judah, what does it mean?"
The servants were being butchered—and his mother! Was not one of the voices he heard hers? With all the will left him, he said, Stay here, and wait for me, Tirzah. I will go down and see what is the matter, and come back to you."
His voice was not steady as he wished. She clung closer to him.
Clearer, shriller, no longer a fancy, his mother's cry arose. He hesitated no longer.
"Come, then, let us go."
The terrace or gallery at the foot of the steps was crowded with soldiers. Other soldiers with drawn swords ran in and out of the chambers. At one place a number of women on their knees clung to each other or prayed for mercy. Apart from them, one with torn garments, and long hair streaming over her face, struggled to tear loose from a man all whose strength was tasked to keep his hold. Her cries were shrillest of all; cutting through the clamor, they had risen distinguishably to the roof. To her Judah sprang his steps were long and swift, almost a winged flight—"Mother, mother!" he shouted. She stretched her hands towards him; but when almost touching them he was seized and forced aside. Then he heard some one say, speaking loudly.
"That is he!"
Judah looked, and saw—Messala.
"What, the assassin—that?" said a tall man, in legionary armor of beautiful finish. "Why, he is but a boy."
"Gods!" replied Messala, not forgetting his drawl. "A new philosophy! What would Seneca say to the proposition that a man must be old before he can hate enough to kill? You have him; and that is his mother; yonder his sister. You have the whole family."
For love of them, Judah forgot his quarrel.
