“Behold thy mother!”—Jesus to John.
Two travelers journeyed slowly along Mount Olivet, pausing anon to observe the flower-dells between them and Mount Zion, or to contemplate the wilder prospects where the wilderness of Judea edged close up to the hills they traversed. As the travelers passed, the natives looked after them with curiosity; for the garments of the former, though dust-covered, were those of personages above the ranks of the common people; also of a fashion that betokened them strangers in that vicinity.
One of these men was a youth, stalwart and comely; the other was gray-haired and bent as if by the weight of years, though a closer view suggested premature blasting, rather than senile decline.
“Winfred, before entering Bethany, we’ll to the ‘Hill of Solomon,’ the site of Chemosh, the black image of the Roman Saturn.”
Thereupon the twain turned away from the village and soon came upon a company of revelers, each wearing a crown of autumn fruits, and all gathered about a platform crowded with hilarious dancers.
“Saturnalia!” exclaimed the elder.
“The worship of Saturn ceased ages ago, did it not?”
“Of the image, yes; but the folly, little changed, continues.”