The cedars on the hills about the little town whistled continuously and at times some extremely narrow defile with an uninterrupted draft would take voice and cry humanly.

But there was no responsive exhilaration to the vigor of morning on a mountain-top.

The great ever-growing migration was dark, dangerous and moody.
Somewhere beyond the highest of the blue hills to the east, the white walls of the city of David were receiving all this.

Somewhere to the west the four brassy legions of Titus were marching down upon all this.

About the Maccabee were assembling all the circumstances that govern a tremendous struggle.