thunder, Rebekah burst out with: "Speak, I command ye. Have ye then not sent a messenger to Bethany?"
"Lazarus is dead," said one.
"He died ere dawn," the other added.
"Oh, oh!" 'T was a groan and shriek and bitter, bitter cry that rent her very heart; and the proud Rebekah buried her face in the pillow and moaned and sobbed continuously, "Lazarus, Lazarus!"
So this was the end; the end of her fond delusion that, while Lazarus lived, by the power of her strong will he might still be hers. The end of life, the end of vengeance. All her plotting and scheming had come to naught. Death had baffled her. Lazarus had escaped her. Oh, 't was the Nazarene who had wrenched him from her by some trickery.
"For hatred of my father hath He done this thing," she cried. "But, perchance he is not dead, and they have stolen him away, that they might seem to bring him back to life. He is not dead, he is not dead," she moaned in frenzied accents.
"Yea, the messenger did see him on his couch, and many stood around and wept," said one; "but thou shouldst not mourn, for this man loved thee not; he was altogether gone mad after this Nazarene."
"He loved me not, but I loved him," replied Rebekah; "and now I need do naught but die, for wherefore shall I live."
There are other rulers, fairer still," the maidens answered her, "and wealthier, and who do love thee."
"I tell thee I cannot live if Lazarus be dead," she cried, and beat her silken cushions in her despair.
