"Hail, victor!" he whispered, looking into the dead face. "Blessed be
they who conquer death."
CHAPTER 25
The day was near its end. Soldiers of the cohort, bearers of the dead,
harpers and singers filed through the gate of Herod's palace. Hard by,
in Temple Street, were many people. An old man stood among them, his
white beard falling low upon a purple robe, his face turned to the sky.
He sang as if unconscious of all around him. Often he raised his hand,
which trembled like a leaf in the wind. Horses, maidens, and men
halted to hear the words:
"Now is the day foretold of them who dwell in
the dust of the vineyard.
Bow and be silent, ye children of God and ye of
far countries.
Consider how many lie low in the old, immemorial vineyard.
Deep--fathom deep--is the dust of the dead
'neath the feet of the living.
"Gone are they and the work of their hands--all
save their hope and desire have perished.
Only the flowers of the heart have endured--
only they in the waste of the ages,
Ay--they have grown, but the hewn rock has
crumbled away and the temples have fallen.
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