"Love me and let us die!" Without in the entrance of the crypt some great-lunged fanatic was calling the multitude to harken to the prophetess.
The Maccabee's lips were against her cheek as he continued to speak.
"It is the end! There is no help for us.

Love me, and let me be happy an hour before we perish! The Nazarene is right! The city is cursed! God's wrath is upon us.

The hour is still ours.

Love me and let us die!" Without the great voice, like an unwearying bell, was calling: "A sign! A sign! Behold the Deliverer! Come all ye who would share his triumph and hear! Hear! Come ye and be fed, ye hungry; be drunken, ye thirsty; love and be loved, ye forlorn!" Laodice stiffened in the Maccabee's clasp.
"Dost thou hear ?" she whispered.

"It may be true!" He shook his head that he had bowed upon her shoulder.
"Let us go," she urged.