A single citizen appeared at the doorway of the most habitable house
and looked absently over the heads of the new-comers. As they
approached, the villager did not observe them. Instead, he looked at
the near horizon lifted on the shoulder of the hills and meditated on
the signs of the weather. It was Emmaus' habit to find strangers at
its door.
Julian, with natural desire to be first on this perilous ground and
away from the side of the man who had defeated him and laughed at him,
rode up to the door. The villager, seeing the traveler stop, gazed at
him.
Julian had about him an air of blood and breeding first to be remarked
even before his features. The grace of his bearing and the excellence
of his bodily condition were highly aristocratic. His height was good,
his figure modestly athletic as an observance of fine form rather than
a preparation for the arena. He was simply dressed in a light blue
woolen tunic. A handkerchief was bound about his head. His forehead
was very white and half hidden by loose, curling black locks that
escaped with boyish negligence from his head-dress. His eyes were
black, his cheeks tanned but colorless, his mouth mirthful and red but
hard in its outlines. Clean-shaven, lithe, supple, he did not appear
to be more than twenty-two. But there was an even-tempered cynicism
and sophistication in the half-droop of his level lids, indifference,
hauteur and self-reliance in the uplift of his chin. His soul was
therefore older, more seasoned and set than the frame that housed it.
Now there was considerable agitation in his manner, enough to make him
sharp in his speech to the villager.
"Is there a khan in Emmaus?" he demanded.
"There is," the villager responded calmly.
"Where?"
The citizen motioned toward a low-roofed rambling structure of stone
picked up on the native hills.
"Ask there," he said and passing out of his door went his way.
Julian touched his horse and rode through the worn passage and into
the court of the decrepit khan of Emmaus. The Maccabee followed.
The Syrian host who was both waiter and hostler met Julian entering
first.
"Quick!" Julian said, leaning from his horse. "Is there a young man
here with gray temples? A pagan?"
The Syrian, attracted by the anxiety in the demand, followed a train
of surmise before his answer.
"No pagans, here. Naught but Jews," he observed finally.
"Or a young woman of wealth? Quick!"
"No wealth at all; but plenty of women. The Passover pilgrims."
Julian heaved a sigh of relief and dismounted. The Maccabee rode into
the court of the khan at that instant.
The khan-keeper took their horses and a little later the two men were
led into the single cobwebby chamber, low-ceiled, gloomy, cold and
cheerless as a cave. There they were given food and afterward a corner
of the hall where a straw pallet had been laid and a stone trough
filled with water for a bath. After refreshing himself the Maccabee
lay down and slept with supreme indifference to the rancor of the man
who had attempted to kill him.