Don't argue, poor Philammon; Alexander's church is on fire!-forward! And so they hurried on, a confused mass of monks and populace, with their hapless prisoners in the centre, who, hauled, cuffed, questioned, and cursed by twenty self-elected inquisitors at once, thought fit, either from Jewish obstinacy or sheer bewilderment, to give no account whatsoever of themselves.
As they turned the corner of a street, the folding-doors of a large gateway rolled open; a long line of glittering figures poured across the road, dropped their spear-butts on the pavement with a single rattle, and remained motionless.

The front rank of the mob recoiled; and an awe-struck whisper ran through them....

'The Stationaries!' 'Who are they ?' asked Philammon in a whisper.
'The soldiers--the Roman soldiers,' answered a whisperer to him.
Philammon, who was among the leaders, had recoiled too--he hardly knew why--at that stern apparition.

His next instinct was to press forward as close as he dared....

And these were Roman soldiers!--the conquerors of the world!--the men whose name had thrilled him from his childhood with vague awe and admiration, dimly heard of up there in the lonely Laura....