"The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed. To
your homes, O people."

For a while the multitude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken. Then
a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a roar.

"The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have
bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill them!"

Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and thousands
of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs sat. The walls
and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards, they surged against
them like water against a rock; but climb they could not. Those in front
began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some fell and were trodden
underfoot, others clambered upon their bodies, in turn to fall and be
trodden underfoot.

"Our death is upon us!" cried one of the Nazarenes.

"Nay, life remains to us," answered Nehushta. "Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road," and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began to
drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one man
only, the apostate jailer Rufus.

"Stand back!" he cried, lifting his spear.

Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell
upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The
knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming for
help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was stamped out