The Travelers

The Maccabee rode on, unconscious of Julian's critical gaze. The smile
on his lips flickered now brightly, now very faint. The incident in
the hills had not made him entirely happy, but it had awakened in him
something which was latent in him, something which he had never felt
before, but which held a sweet familiarity that the blood of his
fathers in him had recognized.

Julian was intensely disgusted and disappointed. But there was still a
sensation of shock on his shoulder where the Maccabee's iron hand had
rested and his famous caution stood him in stead at this moment when a
quarrel with such intense and executive earnestness in his companion's
manner might prove disastrous. If quarrel they must before they
reached Emmaus, now but a few leagues east of them, he must insure
himself against defeat much less likely to be suffered from a man
reluctant to quarrel. He had been hunting for a pretext ever since
they had left Cæsarea, but this one, suddenly opened to him, startled
him. He admitted now that it would not be wise to force a fight.
Whatever must be done should be done with least danger to himself. It
were better, he believed, to allay suspicion.

He spoke.

"How far is it to Jerusalem?"

"About eighty furlongs."

"Then if we continue, we shall approach the gates after nightfall."

"We shall not continue," Philadelphus remarked. "We shall halt at
Emmaus."

"Do you think it would be better for us to camp here in the hills
rather than to stop without the walls of Jerusalem between the city
forces and the winter garrison of Titus and await the opening of the
Gates?" Julian asked after thought.