But the struggle was not to be deferred the morning.
Night had just spread her veil of darkness over earth, and Simon, prudently reserving his strength for the expected fatigues of the coming day, had wrapped himself in his mantle, and stretched himself on the ground to snatch some hours of repose, when he was roused by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, Simon saw, by the red light of a torch, which the armour-bearer of Judas was holding aloft, that Maccabeus was before him.
"Awake, arise, my brother; this is no time for sleep," said the leader. Simon was on his feet in a moment, an attentive listener, as Maccabeus continued: "A scout has just brought in tidings from the Syrian camp that Nicanor has detached five thousand of his foot-soldiers and a thousand chosen horsemen, under the command of Giorgias, to attack us this night, and take us by surprise."
"They will find us prepared," said Simon, as he girded on his sword.
"Nay; they will find their prey flown," replied Maccabeus, his features relaxing into a stern smile; "we will fall on the Syrian camp in their absence, teach the enemy his own lesson, and transfer the surprise to our foes."
"Well thought of!" exclaimed Simon; "darkness also will serve to hide the weakness of our force."
"Our brethren are now marshalling our warriors," said Judas; "all, under God, depends upon silence, promptitude, decision. We fight for our lives and our laws."
The leader turned to depart, but as he did so accidentally dropped something on the ground. He stooped to raise and twist it rapidly round his left arm, under the sleeve. The incident was so very trifling that it scarcely drew the notice of Simon, though the thought did flit across his mind that it was strange that his brother, on the eve of battle, could pause to pick up anything so utterly valueless as a slight skein of unbleached flax. It was valueless indeed, save from the associations which, in the mind of him who wore it, were entwined with every thread. That flax had been once used to tie together some flowers long since dead; the flowers had been dropped into a grave of martyrs; the light skein had fallen on the upturned sod unnoticed save by the eyes of one. Perhaps it was from remembrance of the dead, or perhaps it was because hopes regarding the living (hopes brighter and sweeter than the flowers had been) seemed now bound up in that flaxen strand, that Maccabeus fastened that skein round his arm as a precious thing, when he would not have stooped to pick up a chaplet of pearls.
By the exertions of the five Asmonean brethren, the little Hebrew army was rapidly put under arms, and prepared for the night attack. The whole force was united as one forlorn hope. As moves the dark cloud in the sky, so darkly and silently moved on the band of heroes, and, like that cloud, they bore the thunderbolt with them.
Most of the Syrians on that eventful night were sunk in sleep, but not all; in their camp some kept up their revels till late. All the luxuries which fancy could devise or wealth could purchase were gathered together at Emmaus to hide the grim front of war, so that the camp by daylight presented the motley appearance of a bazaar with the gay magnificence of a court. There sherbet sparkled in vases of silver, and the red wine was poured into golden cups, chased and embossed, in tents stretched out with silken cords. Garments bright with all the varied tints of the rainbow, rich productions of Oriental looms, robes from Tyre, shawls from Cashmere, blended with instruments of warfare, swords, spears, and bucklers, the battle-axe and the helmet. The sentry, pacing his rounds, paused to listen to wild bursts of merriment, the loud oath and light song from some gay pavilion, where young Syrian nobles were exchanging jests, and indulging in deep carousals. Yonder, in the glaring torch-light, sat a group of officers, engaged in some game of chance, and their stakes were the captives whom they were to drag at their chariot-wheels on the morrow. Each throw of the dice decided the fate of a Hebrew; at least, so deemed the merry gamesters.
But the destined slaves were coming to the market sooner than their expectant masters dreamed or desired, and the price for each Hebrew would be exacted, not in gold, but in blood. Suddenly the gamesters at their play, the revellers at the board, the slumberers on their couches, were startled by the blare of trumpets and a ringing war-cry, "The sword of the Lord and Maccabeus!" The full goblet was dashed from the lip, the dice from the hand; there were wild shouts and cries, and rushing to and fro, soldiers snatching up weapons, merchants flying hither and thither for safety, stumbling over tent-ropes in the darkness. There were confused noises of terror, trampling of feet, snorting of horses, calls to arms, clashing of weapons, with all the horrors of sudden panic spreading like an epidemic through the mighty host of Syria. The few remained to oppose the unseen assailants, the many took to flight; the ground was soon strewn with treasure, dropped by terrified fugitives, and weapons thrown down by warriors who had not the courage to use them. Tents were speedily blazing, and horses, terrified by the sudden glare and maddened by the scorching heat, prancing, plunging, rushing wildly through the camp, added to the fearful confusion. Maccabeus, with the sword of Apollonius in his hand, pressed on to victory over heaps of prostrate foes. Terror was sent as a herald before him, and success followed wherever he tro............