Like a flock of frightened lambs, the disciples stood huddled together, not interfering, yet disturbing everybody, even themselves.

Only a few of them resolved to walk and act separately.
Jostled from all sides, Peter drew out the sword from its sheath with difficulty, as though he had lost all his strength, and faintly lowered it upon the head of one of the priests--without causing him any harm.
Jesus, observing this, ordered him to throw away the useless weapon, and it fell under foot with a dull thud, and so evidently had it lost its sharpness and destructive power that it did not occur to any one to pick it up.

So it rolled about under foot, until several days afterwards it was found on the same spot by some children at play, who made a toy of it.
The soldiers kept dispersing the disciples, but they gathered together again and stupidly got under the soldiers' feet, and this went on so long that at last a contemptuous rage mastered the soldiery.

One of them with frowning brow went up to the shouting John; another rudely pushed from his shoulder the hand of Thomas, who was arguing with him about something or other, and shook a big fist right in front of his straightforward, transparent eyes.

John fled, and Thomas and James fled, and all the disciples, as many as were present, forsook Jesus and fled.
Losing their cloaks, knocking themselves against the trees, tripping up against stones and falling, they fled to the hills terror-driven, while in the stillness of the moonlight night the ground rumbled loudly beneath the tramp of many feet.