Читать книгу Stephen: A Soldier of the Cross - Florence Morse Kingsley - Страница 5

CHAPTER VIII.

A BELIEVER IN THE NAZARENE.

"If only I had been there, perchance upon even me might a little of the blessing have fallen. And yet, was it not by the mercy of the all-seeing One that I was chained to the side of him who slew Jesus? We are one flesh, as it is written in the law; if he is accursed, I also am accursed."

"Knowest thou our Lord so little that thou dost believe what thou hast said?" said Stephen, a smile dawning in his dark eyes.

The wife of Caiaphas wiped away one or two slow tears. "How can I know him?" she asked bitterly.

"Once when Jesus was upon earth," said Stephen, looking away towards Calvary, which they could see plainly from their breezy nook on the terrace, "he said this--I did not hear it--but John, whom Jesus called the beloved; one of the disciples, had asked the Master how they should pray, and he told them the very words they might use acceptably; but he also said, If thou hast desires bring them to the Father. He will give to thee even as an earthly father, and much more; if a child should come to his father and ask for bread will that father offer him a stone? or if he crave fish, will he thrust a deadly scorpion into his hand? How much more then will your heavenly Father give his spirit to them that ask him. It was because we asked that it was given. Thou also shalt ask and shalt receive."

"Wilt thou tell me about it?" said Anna, in a low voice, fixing her eyes wistfully upon the speaker.

He was no longer a lad, she could see it; the awful experiences through which his soul had passed had swept him suddenly and forever away from childhood. His child nature had been crucified with those whom he loved, and upon his face there had come a look such as the strong young angels wear who wait in the presence of the Almighty to do his pleasure.

"We were together in the upper room," said Stephen, after a little silence, "the disciples, the mother of Jesus, and all the others. After we had eaten of the bread and drunken of the wine--also he commanded to do in remembrance of his death--we continued in prayer, sometimes spoken, sometimes in silence--for there is no need to speak aloud to reach him who is 'with us alway even unto the end of the world.' He was there, though we could not see him. All of us knew it; and we asked him for the fulfilment of his last promise--the Spirit, that we being weak, might receive power to be his witnesses before men. John the beloved spoke to him, after that there was silence for a brief space, then on a sudden there came a sound, faint at first, but growing louder by degrees till it filled all the place. It was like nothing I have heard upon earth, and yet was it most like the sound of the viewless wind when it rushes through the thick forest. But it was not wind. I knelt at the side of the Lord's mother, my eyes were upon her at the moment, and the light tresses that fell about her forehead did not so much as stir."

"Was that all?" whispered Anna, leaning forward and clasping her hands.

"As I kept my eyes fixed upon Mary," continued Stephen--"for it seemed to me that she was looking at Him--I saw form in the air above her head a tremulous light, it wavered and brightened till it had the look of a cloven tongue of flame. As I feared and trembled greatly at the sight, on a sudden a voice cried out, 'The promise hath been fulfilled unto us!' Then did I see that upon every head hovered the heavenly fire."

"And then?"

"And then," cried the young man, a great joy in the solemn tones of his voice, "all things were made clear to us. We knew what the Lord meant when he said 'Ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost parts of the earth.' We were no longer filled with fear, thinking only how to escape the hands of them that had murdered our Lord--nay, rather, that in the infinite and unsearchable knowledge and wisdom of the Father had lifted him up upon the cross to be a light unto the world. We rushed out into the street, and the Spirit also drew together out of all the city devout men from every nation under heaven. They gathered in a great multitude that they might hear of the Saviour, not of the Jews only, but of the world."

"How, then, could they understand?" asked Anna, her worn face reflecting the glow upon the face of the young man, as the mountain top clad in its pallor of eternal snow reflects the radiance of the dawn.

"What is the weakness of mortal understanding when the eternal God sheds upon it his spirit of might? Did he not make the tongue of the Asiatic as well as the tongue of the Greek; the tongues of the Parthians, Medes, and Elamites also, as well as the tongue of the Hebrews? Are not all languages understood by him? He spake through us, and behold, every man heard the message in his own language. After that did Peter speak unto the people, and he mightily convinced them, so that many cried out, 'What shall we do?' 'Repent and be baptized,' he answered them, 'every one of you, in the name of Jesus, the Christ, for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. For the promise is unto you, and to your children, and to all that are afar off."

"Said he this to the Gentiles?" asked Anna, in amaze.

Stephen looked troubled. "Nay," he said, "I know not if they were Gentiles, they had by inheritance a part in the blessing, even as I had through my mother; but of a surety God created all men. It will be made plain to us," he added, after a pause, a smile of heavenly sweetness touching his lips.

"And who is it that the wife of the High Priest honors thus with her hospitality?" broke in a sneering voice.

Anna started up with a faint cry, her eyes fixed with manifest terror on the gaunt figure that stood before them.

"Ah! thou dost not answer. Didst thou think, then, that I should remain chained to my couch forever? I am minded to see what is passing in my house. It is time."

"Do not stand," gasped Anna. "Thou art not strong. I thought that thou wast asleep."

"Time hasteneth with rapid foot when a lady entertains so comely a young man," said the High Priest with a terrible gentleness. "Once more I ask of thee, who is thy guest?"

Stephen had risen to his feet and was looking with troubled eyes into the face of her whom he had learned to love almost as a mother. He waited for her to speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them. He turned and fixed his eyes upon the man. "I know not who thou art," he said in a clear voice, "nor why thou dost question this beloved lady so harshly, but I can answer for myself. My name is Stephen."

The High Priest took a step forward; he did not speak, but death looked out from his eyes.

"Go! Go!" whispered Anna, turning her white face upon the young man. "Thou dost not understand, but go!--I beseech thee."

"Nay, I will not go till I am assured of thy safety. Who, and what manner of man is this?"

The smouldering fire in the eyes of Caiaphas leapt up into a lurid blaze. "Dost thou, the murderer of my son, defy me in mine own house?" he cried in a choked voice. "Because thou art in mine house, I will not kill thee, but--" and his voice died away into a silence more terrible than speech.

"Go!" repeated Anna imploringly.

But Stephen did not appear to have heard. "What dost thou mean?" he said, his voice full of horror. "Thou hast called me a murderer!"

The High Priest looked at him contemptuously. "Son of a malefactor, dost thou not know that upon thy head rests the blood-guilt of thy father?"

"No!" thundered Stephen, his eyes blazing. "The fire of God could not rest upon a head whereon is also blood-guilt. I am innocent; God hath witnessed it."

"Accursed murderer and blasphemer!" hissed Caiaphas. "Get thee hence, or not even the sacred law of hospitality shall refrain my hand from thy throat." Then he sank trembling onto a bench.

True to her wifely instincts, Anna sprang to help him, but he put her away roughly. "Stand before me, woman," he said, fixing his savage eyes upon her. "Thou shalt answer me somewhat that I shall ask of thee. Now that the murderer of thy son hath rid us of his presence thou canst perhaps attend to what I shall say." Anna stood before him, motionless and rigid, her eyes wide with an unnatural calm fixed upon his face. "Hast thou known who and what this young man is before to-day?"

"Yes."

"Hast thou before received him into my house?"

"Yes."

"Is he a follower of the accursed Nazarene?"

"Yes."

"Art--thou--also one of his believers?"

A change swept over the marble features of the woman, she lifted her face, a mysterious light from above seemed to shine upon it.

"I am," she said simply, but in those two words there sounded a very pean of triumph.

"Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone," said Caiaphas in a low measured voice, "thou art anathema. As I would cut off my right hand should it become polluted beyond cleansing, so also will I sever thee from my life. Get thee hence unto thine own; thou hast no longer part nor lot with me from henceforth and even forever. And so let it be."

The woman looked dumbly into the pitiless face of the man before her; her slight figure swayed a little, then noiselessly as a snow wreath she fell forward and lay prone upon the marble pavement at his feet.

The man stared at the silent figure; he did not touch it. After a time he arose and walked heavily away without once looking behind him.

CHAPTER IX.

IN THE DESERT ENCAMPMENT.

"Thou mayest fetch the lad and the maiden and set them in my presence. I would question them of this thing."

The woman bowed herself humbly before her lord and retired; presently she returned, leading by the hand a slight figure clad in the shapeless blue gown of an Egyptian peasant girl. Behind lagged with unwilling feet a half-grown lad.

Abu Ben Hesed fixed his piercing eyes upon the twain. "Thou mayest go till I shall call thee," he said to the woman. She lingered yet a moment to whisper, "The maid is blind, my lord!"

"Come hither, my son," said Ben Hesed after a short survey of his two guests, "and tell me how it befell that thou wast in the desert alone? Didst thou know," he added somewhat severely, "that thou wast brought to the borders of the encampment only that thou mightest be buried safe from the vultures? Had not one of the women discerned signs of life, when no other eye could see it, thou wouldst even now be sleeping beneath the sand."

The boy shuddered slightly; he opened his lips as though to speak, but the girl broke out impetuously:

"I alone am in fault," she cried. "It was I who would not listen to my brother when he said, 'we shall perish by the way if we go forth into the wilderness.' It is true," she continued, turning to the lad, "folly dwelleth in the heart of a woman. I am minded to let thee beat me. I have deserved it."

Abu Ben Hesed smiled in the midst of his great beard, but the smile looked also out of his eyes, so that the lad was emboldened to speak.

"We fled before the face of an enemy," he said, looking squarely into the bright eyes of the man before him. "He would have made slaves of us in the city; death in the wilderness is better."

"Thou hast spoken a word of wisdom when thou hast so said, my son," cried Ben Hesed, his eyes flashing. "And who is it that would have caged the wild eaglets of the desert?"

"I know not," replied the lad. "I saw not the man, I only heard him speak. We were hidden in the abiding place of the dead; he would have shut us up there to perish, but Sechet smote him in the act and we left him on his face in the sand."

"Thou art Egyptian," said Ben Hesed after a pause. "How comes it that thou canst speak the tongue of the desert?"

"It was my mother's language; my father was a Greek."

"Where then are thy parents?"

"Dead, many years dead," said the boy looking down, and digging his bare toes into the hot sand. A single tear rolled swiftly down his brown cheek.

Ben Hesed saw it, his keen eyes softened. "No longer shalt thou look for a place to bide in safety from thine enemy," he said gently. "Where else should the young eaglets fly but to the nest of their kind? Thou art safe here, my children."

"Thou art good," replied the lad simply; "but--my sister is blind."

"I am not ignorant of that, my son," said Ben Hesed with a stately inclination of his head. "There is no need that she labor with her hands. Plenty dwells within the borders of my land, though it be not the plenty of Egypt; there is no lack of either flesh nor bread, nor yet of the milk of many herds. Thou art strong, son, and thou shalt labor as becomes a man; the maid shall dwell with the women. Go now in peace, and think of thy past distresses no more," and he waved his hand in token of dismissal.

"Come, Anat," said the lad, drawing her gently away. "It is impossible for us to repay thee thy goodness," he added, lingering wistfully. "Yet--"

"There is no need," said Ben Hesed, a slight shade of impatience in his tone. "Go now, my son will tell thee of thy duties."

"Nay, brother, do not hold me, I must tell him," cried Anat. "We cannot remain here."

"How now, damsel, art thou not satisfied with what thou hast received at my hands?" and Ben Hesed drew his bushy brows together with the look before which his wives, his children and his tribe were wont to tremble.

Seth also trembled. "I pray thee, my lord," he said, instinctively bowing himself almost to the ground, "that thou wilt not deal harshly with the maid, my sister. She is blind, and we were seeking a great magician who can heal blindness by a word. Thou knowest that it is an evil thing not to look upon the sun, and upon the stars, and upon the faces of one's kind."

Ben Hesed was silent for a moment. He looked keenly into the lad's flushed face. "It is in Egypt that the magicians dwell," he said at length. "Hast thou not heard how Moses, the mighty man of God, fetched out the Israelites with a strong hand from among the Egyptians; how he worked marvels also and great plagues with the rod of God, and the magicians of Egypt did so with their enchantments, save certain things which they could not do?"

"I know not Moses," said the boy, shaking his head. "Though I have heard many marvels of the great gods of the Greeks and Romans also. Yet is there no magician in Egypt who can cure blindness, for the land is full of it."

"And wherefore didst thou look for this magician in the wilderness?"

"The man said that he dwelt beyond the wilderness and that his name was Jesus," said Anat in her low, sweet voice. "I have not forgotten the name, Jesus. He healed the man, he will also heal me if only I can find him."

Ben Hesed fingered his beard for a time in silence. "What manner of man Was he that told thee of this thing?" he said at length.

"He came out of the desert on a swift dromedary," replied Seth. "He was of great stature and his beard descended upon his breast. I gave him to drink of my goat-skin. He said, moreover, that the magician dwelt at Jerusalem."

"A year ago I went up to the Holy City," said Ben Hesed, "that I might offer sacrifices in the temple. I care not to go again. God is a God of the wilderness; he answers also in the wilderness. Of the rocks of the desert have I builded me an altar, even as did Abraham in the days of old. Jerusalem is desolate and her holy places are waste. Why should I go any more into a temple which is daily defiled by the feet of wicked men?" The voice of the speaker shook with passion as he said the last words. Then his head dropped upon his breast and his lips moved, though no sound came from them. The children waited before him in silence, not daring to move.

After what seemed to her a long time, Anat allowed a long-drawn sigh to escape her, by way of a delicate reminder of their presence. "Thou wast in Jerusalem?" she ventured timidly.

Ben Hesed looked up; something in the flower-like beauty and innocence of the child-face, guarded by its pathetic, unseeing eyes, moved him strangely. The gloom lifted from his brow.

"I was in Jerusalem," he said gravely, "and I saw this man Jesus with mine own eyes."

Anat clasped her hands joyfully. "Ah! then thou canst tell us of him. Dost thou think that he would heal me? I have no money nor treasure to give him, except this," and she laid her fingers on the necklace of coins.

"He would not ask thee for treasure, my child," said Ben Hesed, "for I saw him heal a beggar, who lay upon his bed unable to move, and the man gave him no reward. I came away from Jerusalem in that same hour and saw him no more. I have thought since that sometime I will again seek for him, though I need not to be healed."

"It is a good word that thou hast given to us," said Anat in a tone of joyful conviction; "and now wilt thou further give a handful of parched corn that we may eat by the way. My brother will fill the goat-skin with water, and we will depart."

"Art thou not afraid of the vultures, little one?" asked Ben Hesed with a grave smile. "And how will the flint of the desert bruise those tender feet of thine now that thy beast is dead."

Seth looked depressed. "We cannot go," he said at length, "my goat-skin is not sufficient, and we do not know the way."

"Nay, but we must go!" cried Anat impetuously. "I care not for the vultures, and we have already come a great distance. Did I whine or complain when we thirsted?"

"Thou didst not; but could I bear again to see thee sink to the earth, thy tongue like a parched leaf within thy mouth? And the vultures--thou could'st not see them, but it was horrible--horrible! They stared at us with their red eyes, they waited for us to die. I kept up as long as I was able and drove them away, then did I call aloud upon the god of the land to save us; after that I hid our faces, and waited for Anubis to take us."

"The God of the land heard thee, boy," said Ben Hesed solemnly, "for he is not a god like to the gods of the Egyptians. He saved thee, even as he saved the child Ishmael, whom Abraham cast forth into the desert to die. In the desert also did the child Ishmael remain; and God made out of him a great nation which hath ruled over the wilderness until this day. Ay! and shall rule as long as the desert itself remains, for his word is from everlasting to everlasting. Listen now to what I shall say unto thee: thou shalt go in search of this man Jesus, for I believe that he is able to do this thing whereof thou hast spoken. I will send thee to the borders of Judæa with food and water and beasts of burden also, that ye perish not by the way; after that shall ye with ease find Jerusalem, for the way is not long and the land is fertile. Enter freely into the villages and ask for bread, the inhabitants will not say thee nay. And when the maid shall be healed of her blindness, perchance thou wilt again remember the wilderness; return if thou wilt. To-morrow shalt thou set forth."

"I will return, my lord," said the lad, "and by all the gods of the sacred Nile, I swear unto thee that hereafter I will serve thee as a bondman during the years of my life--if it be thy will; because thou hast saved us from death, and because of all thy goodness unto us."

"Nay, rather, thou shalt be to me in the place of my son Eri, whom God hath taken from me," said Ben Hesed. "Go now in peace, and rest until the morning."

So the two were feasted that night, because that they had found favor in the eyes of Ben Hesed. And afterward they slept soundly in the tent of goat's hair, beneath the striped blanket with which they had hidden themselves from the fierce eyes of vultures. And Seth dreamed that he had grown to be a man, and that he was riding upon a swift horse, the wild desert winds blowing in his face, and he laughed aloud in his dream for joy. But to the blind girl came a gentler vision of one who laid a healing hand upon her sightless eyes, and behold! she saw the face of him that had healed her, but it was not the face of a mortal, for upon it shone a light beyond the light of the sun.

CHAPTER X.

THE WHITE DROMEDARY.

Long before the first streaks of light in the east proclaimed the dawn, Seth was awake. Outside he could hear the grunting of the sleepy camels, as their drivers aroused them to fasten the heavy loads on their patient backs. He raised the flap of the tent and looked out. A keen sparkle of stars overhead and a whiff of cold air greeted him. Yet he knew that it must be near the time to start, and he felt a thrill of boyish excitement at the prospect. Among the dark figures which were moving about near the dying fire he thought he could distinguish that of Ben Hesed himself. Presently he slipped out, leaving Anat peacefully asleep. Shivering a little in the cool breeze, he made his way towards the place where the most active preparations were in full tide of progress.

"Make haste!" he heard in the authoritative tones of Ben Hesed's voice. "Thou shouldst have prepared the water-skins last night. Feasting is good, but fasting is better, since it giveth diligence rather than sloth. I would not that ye press on through the fiercest of the midday heat," he added; "the maid hath imperfectly recovered as yet."

"They will walk with the drivers, my lord?"

"Nay, not so. Thou shalt put the saddle upon Mirah, it will suffice for both."

Marvelling greatly at this mark of favor, the men brought the great white dromedary, the favorite of her master, and threw upon her the broad saddle, gay with scarlet leather and tinkling bells.

Seth stared with amazement and delight at the docile beast that stood with outstretched neck snuffing at the fresh wind.

"What dost thou make of such favor to these beggar brats?" said one of the men in low tones to his companion, as he bent to fasten the saddle girth.

"Nay, I know not; 'tis a marvel," answered the other, looking cautiously about him. "Adah told me last night that he had promised to take the lad after his return in the place of his son Eri."

"Ah, sayest thou so? Let me tell thee then that the lad will not return. Why should such a thing be, when the son of his sister is among his tried followers?"

"What wilt thou do to prevent it, son of my lord's sister," said the other, with a low chuckle--"and a kid slain also, in the very midst of the mourning, that the heathen beggars might be feasted!" he added with malicious enjoyment.

Seth prudently drew back in the darkness quite unnoticed, but not before a fragment of the reply reached him; it was this, and it filled him with vague alarms. "What befell the lad Joseph in the days when he dreamed dreams, may also again happen."

Who was the lad Joseph, he wondered, and what befell him? But he presently forgot this in the bustle and excitement of starting forth upon their journey. Anat had been aroused, and the two, perched securely on the back of the gentle Mirah, were the centre of a group of women, some of whom held up their little ones to see, while others pushed parcels of fruit into the hand of the blind girl, wishing them prosperity in their journeyings.

At length all was ready, the last strap adjusted, the last farewell spoken, and the little cavalcade, consisting of some three or four camels and as many men, moved slowly away, followed by the stately Mirah, the two children, unaccustomed to the peculiar swinging motion of her gait, clinging fast to the saddle and scarcely remembering to look back into the kind faces of their rescuers.

All that day they traveled, stopping only for a brief space at the noontide hour. Seth, remembering the command of Ben Hesed, wondered a little at this, but he said nothing. In the man who seemed to be in command of the expedition, the lad had recognized with a feeling of uneasiness the one who had spoken the mysterious words, "What befell the lad Joseph may also again happen."

"Hast thou ever heard of the lad Joseph?" he said to Anat, when they were once more under way. They had grown somewhat accustomed to the long, swinging strides of the dromedary now, and were consequently more at their ease.

"The lad Joseph?" repeated Anat, in her clear, penetrating voice.

"Hist! do not let them hear thee. Yes, the lad Joseph, something strange befell him; it is a legend perhaps. I heard it spoken of in yonder encampment; thou knowest many such tales, for myself I have no mind to remember them."

"There is the great canal of Joseph in the land of Egypt, as thou knowest," said Anat, after a few moments of thought; "there is a tale concerning him who caused it to be made, I know not how long ago. I have heard it many times from our mother. He was a great prince----"

"Nay, then he was not the one; it is of the lad Joseph, and what befell him, that I wish to know," broke in Seth impatiently.

"If thou wilt hold thy peace, water-carrier," replied Anat with dignity, "I will tell thee the tale as it was told me."

"Thou mayest say on; it will help pass away the time."

"He was a great prince," resumed Anat, still with dignity, "but he was also a lad first. I had the tale from our mother. As I have said, it was told to her when she was a maid and dwelt in the borders of the wilderness; it is a true tale. As a lad this Joseph dwelt in the wilderness, the youngest of twelve brethren, the others were grown men; they hated Joseph and were envious of him because their father, who was very rich, gave him many things which they received not, an embroidered tunic, a chain of silver, and such like. The lad also dreamed dreams----"

"Ah!" exclaimed Seth eagerly, "he dreamed, sayest thou?"

"Of a surety," replied the blind girl; "he dreamed that when he bound his sheaf at harvest time, the sheaves of his father and mother and of his brethren came and bowed themselves before it, and other dreams of the like which signified that he would become a great prince, and that all they of his household should do reverence before him. He should not have told such dreams," she added sagely, "for of course his brothers only hated him the more. One day he was sent into the wilderness to fetch dates and honey to the eleven men, his brothers, who were herding the flocks; they saw him coming, wearing his fine, many-colored tunic, and they made up their minds to put him out of the way."

"What did they do?" said Seth breathlessly.

"I was just coming to that, impatient one. Canst thou not hold thy peace? Thou art as greedy over this tale as a flock of sparrows over a measure of corn that hath been spilled on the ground."

"I will hold my peace, queen of my soul," said Seth meekly; "only, I pray thee, tell me what befell the lad."

Somewhat appeased by his humble demeanor, the imperious little maid proceeded with her story. "First," she continued impressively, "they thought that they would kill him, and take his fine tunic home and tell their father that a beast had slain him, but just as they were turning the matter over in their minds they spied a caravan coming towards them, so they changed their wicked purpose to a wickeder yet, and sold him for a slave. Yes, their own brother for a slave," she repeated, much gratified by the involuntary cry which her listener gave at this. "They took him to Egypt----" she went on.

But Seth did not hear the remainder of the story; he was clenching his brown hands in silent anguish of soul. It was all clear to him now. They were to be sold as slaves after all of their sufferings and dangers; they would never see the Holy City, nor the man Jesus who could heal blindness. He groaned aloud.

Anat, in the full tide of her narrative, mistook this for a note of admiration or wonder. She had just arrived at the point in her story where the unfortunate hero is cast into prison. "What wouldst thou have done then?" she asked abruptly.

"I--I--am sure I cannot tell thee, little one," answered Seth, rousing himself with difficulty.

"Thou wouldst have remained there till the day of thy death, no doubt," with superb scorn, "but not so Joseph; he----"

"I am drowsy, little one; Sechet rages fiercely in the heavens; let us leave the tale till to-morrow," said Seth in a smothered voice.

Anat touched his cheek with a cautious forefinger. "It is true, thy flesh hath over-much heat. See! I have here a pomegranate; thou shalt eat of it and be refreshed."

After this the travelers spoke but little. Tirelessly the white dromedary strode onward under the blinding glare of the sun, her broad feet making no sound on the yielding sand; the landscape quivered in the intense heat, melting into golden, pink and violet fires in the far distances, while near at hand the scarlet blooms of the cactus glowed like live coals. Once they came upon a flock of vultures gorging themselves upon the carcass of a camel; they rose with hoarse croakings and withdrew themselves to a little distance, till the living should pass by. "As yet, we have no concern with thee," they seemed to say to the white dromedary, "but so shall it be with thee also, for man is ungrateful." Then they again descended, a dismal crew, upon the stranded wreck of the desert ship. And the stately Mirah strode onward tirelessly.

That night they pitched a tent and built a fire of the dried shrubs. The man Pagiel spoke roughly to the children; he bade the lad gather the fuel; as for the maid, he pushed her aside with his foot, as though she were a dog. Seth's eyes burned when he saw the thing, but he said nothing; he thought instead. The white dromedary crouched upon the sand, chewing her cud, her large eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the distance. The boy approached her cautiously and caressed her snowy neck; the beast permitted it with a low sound in her throat.

"That wouldst thou not venture with every beast in the flock," said one of the men good-naturedly. "They be ugly save with those who know them. Yonder camel can be touched by no other save Jered, his driver; but Mirah there is of another sort; I have seen my lord's little ones climb upon her back when they were babes. For speed she is a marvel; thou hast not seen it, for the camels travel but slowly."

"She can outrun them then?" said Seth, his heart beating violently.

"Assuredly, boy, there is nothing swifter save the wind."

"Fetch fuel, beggar!" cried Pagiel, accompanying his words with a fierce look, "and do thou afterward get into the tent and sleep, thou and the girl."

"Why dost thou speak thus harshly to the lad?" questioned the other after Seth had withdrawn in obedience to the command.

"He is a heathen beggar; why should he receive kindness at my hand? Listen! to-morrow we come to the fountain of Hodesh, 'tis but a day's march from the river; we will tarry there till a caravan shall pass by, then will we sell the lad and the maiden for gold. The gold shalt thou divide between the three of you, and thou shalt say naught to Ben Hesed concerning the matter; it will pass from his mind, even as the mist dissolves before the rising sun. But thou shalt have that wherewith to comfort thyself."

The man listened with bent brows. "What is comfort to me," he said sullenly, "if I have not thy daughter to wife; she is comely, and I love her better than gold."

Pagiel stared at the speaker with amazement. "Thou hast forgotten thyself," he said haughtily.

"Nay, I have not forgotten; thou art the son of my lord's sister, I am the son of Kish the herdsman. Yet in the desert what matters it, am I not a man like unto thee?"

Pagiel was silent a moment. "It shall be so," he said at length. "It is true thou art a man, and my daughter is, after all, only a woman; I have sons also, thanks be to Jehovah!"

"And the gold?"

"Shall be for the maid's dowry, in addition to what she hath already."

"Thou hast dealt graciously with me, my lord, I am henceforth as thy son, and as thy son will I obey thee."

On the morrow they came to the fountain of Hodesh, and they encamped there, waiting for a caravan. On the third day during the heat of the noontide the men slept within the tent, but Seth rose up softly, and went out. He filled his goat skin at the fountain and bound it upon his back; he took also of the parched corn a small measure, and of the dates a double handful; "for," he said to himself, "it was for us that these things were given by the lord of the desert."

"Why dost thou fill thy goat-skin, brother?" said Anat, hearing the familiar tinkle of the brasses.

"Wake not the men yonder," answered Seth in a cautious whisper. "They would deal with us after the manner of the brethren of Joseph. We will get us away upon the white dromedary, nor shall they be able to overtake us."

So the two went softly to where Mirah crouched beneath the shadow of the palms, and they climbed upon her back.

"It is a good thing for us that Pagiel commanded her to be saddled," quoth Seth. "He had the intent to ride after his sleep."

Then he spoke softly in the ear of the beast after the fashion of her driver; and she rose up with them, and went silently away into the desert towards the range of hills, beyond which lay the land of Judæa.

But Pagiel awaked out of his sleep and stood in the door of his tent. And when he saw the dromedary fleeing away, he made a great outcry and awakened the others also; and they pursued after them for many hours, but they were not able to overtake them because the gentle Mirah was very swift. Anon she disappeared from before their eyes like a white sail on the distant verge of the sea. When Pagiel saw that she was gone, bearing the two whom he would have sold into slavery, he tore his beard and wept with rage because he had promised his daughter to the son of Kish, the herdsman. For he feared his women, notwithstanding he was a man, and of great stature.

CHAPTER XI.

AT THE GATE BEAUTIFUL.

The long hours of the morning had worn themselves away, the sunshine had ceased to glitter on the wonderful carved brass of the great gate Shushan some three hours since. One without, standing on the marble pavement, might admire the marvels of Corinthian workmanship without an undue dazzling of the vision; so also might the lame man, who lay on his mat a little to one side of the entrance. Yet was he paying scant heed to the grandeur of his surroundings. He lay at the gate of the temple, which was called "Beautiful," not because it was beautiful, but because through it passed a stream of worshippers to and from the well-nigh ceaseless services of prayer and praise within. These all carried their money within their hand, since it was not lawful to enter the sacred enclosure having one's gold or silver within a purse nor indeed anywhere about the person save in the hand only. So the lame man profited by the law, inasmuch as many cast a coin into his bosom who might otherwise have been in too much haste for prayer to have fetched out their purses for a beggar.

On this day, however, the hands of the many had remained tightly closed upon their treasure, not only when they went in to bow themselves before the All-Giver, but also when they came out.

The lame man looked at them as they passed by him with unseeing eyes. He wondered what blessing these men with their hard, worldly-wise faces and closed fists had asked of the Almighty; he also wondered if they had received. He himself went but seldom within the gates. He could not approach too near the Holy Place because of his infirmity. God had declared that such as the lame, the halt and the blind were unholy and displeasing in his sight, so the priests taught. But he had been lame from his birth and was sadly accustomed to this and other miseries of his lot. For forty years his soul had looked from the windows of his prison-house upon the world. In these forty years he had ceased to look for happiness, but he had learned to be silent and to endure, which is perhaps better.

He had heard tales of the man Jesus, who had healed many; once he had begged his bearers to carry him to the healer that he also might be restored, but they had refused.

"Thou art able to earn the bread which thou eatest, and also to recompense us, who fetch thee back and forth from the temple gate; if thou art healed, what canst thou do more? thou art already old. There is no profit in having thee healed, therefore remain as thou art."

So he had remained as he was, and now the man Jesus was dead, crucified, and there was no further chance that he might be healed. He regretted it patiently; one learns to be patient even in one's regrets during forty years. But he often thought of the man who had been crucified. The priests had done it, he had been told; in secret he hated the priests, and for this thing he hated them the more. Why should they kill the man because he had healed upon the Sabbath day? he thought bitterly; but he said nothing, for there was no one who cared for his thoughts.

Presently he bethought himself to take account of his gains for the day, since the hour of sunset was drawing on apace. "'Tis not enough," he muttered, as he counted the copper coins from his greasy pouch. "I must pay Nicolas and Obed, else they will not fetch me home; I like not to stay here by night, the wind from the valley is chill." Then he lifted his head and saw two men ascending the marble steps. They were not rich, his experienced eye told him that, but it was not from the rich that he expected alms. They were too busy thinking of the ritual which they were going to repeat, or which perchance they had just repeated without a flaw; and the pieces of money within their hand were sure to be gold, or at least silver, neither meet for a beggar. No, it was from women going humbly in to their outer court of worship, or from children, that he received, or from such men as these in the plain garb of Galilean peasants. Therefore the beggar lifted up his voice with some confidence and cried aloud in the words which his mother--when she found that he was a hopeless cripple--had taught him, and which he had repeated many times each day since.

"Sons of Abraham! Chosen of Jehovah! have mercy, I beseech thee, on one lame from his birth! Give unto me from thy heaven-bestowed bounty; so will God recompense thee fourfold."

The two men stopped and looked at him intently, and the beggar repeated his cry, stretching forth his lean hand imploringly and lifting his ragged robe to show the helpless and shrunken limbs beneath. "They will give," he thought within himself. "It will not be much, but it has been a bad day with me so far, and every little helps."

"Look on us," said the older of the two men imperatively.

The beggar obeyed, marvelling within himself at the singular brightness of the man's eyes. He began to think that perhaps for once he had been mistaken, and that these men, despite their humble apparel, were after all rich and important.

"Silver and gold have I none," said the man, still holding the beggar's expectant gaze with his powerful eye, "but such as I have, give I thee. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk."

A thrill of hope passed into the beggar's starved soul; his heart beat violently, his eyes grew dim, he again stretched forth his hand, scarcely knowing what he did; it was seized in a strong grasp, and he felt himself raised to his feet--the feet upon which he had never stood in all the forty years of his life. His heart leaped within his bosom with a strange and wonderful joy. Involuntarily his feet leaped also, he could not help it. He clung to his deliverers, weeping out incoherent blessings and prayers. Then, walking and leaping, he entered into the temple with them, and remembering that he was no longer a cripple, and that now he might approach God freely, he cried aloud in his joy, not standing according to the law, with feet close together, hands upon his breast and head bowed, but walking and leaping and praising jubilantly with a loud voice. He knew that he had received, therefore his full soul overflowed its bounds.

As for the rest of the worshippers, who had prayed according to the law, and in whose souls there surged no such tumultuous happiness--and why indeed should there?--they were greatly disturbed at this unseemly exhibition. They looked askance at the strange ragged figure singing aloud of his wonderful deliverance, and they shook their heads and frowned. "Go forth into the porch," commanded certain who were in authority, "until we shall look into this matter."

And the beggar, nothing loth, obeyed, still clinging to his deliverers and praising more loudly than ever.

"Who art thou?" he cried. "Tell me, for I would know; mayhap ye be angels in the garb of men."

"Nay, we are but disciples of the crucified one, Jesus of Nazareth. 'Tis by faith in his name that we have been able to heal thee, and not by our own power."

And when the beggar heard the name, Jesus, he praised God yet more loudly.

Now all the people hearing the voice of the beggar ran together in the porch, which is called Solomon's, to see what had happened; and when they saw him that had been lame, walking and leaping as he praised God, they were filled with wonder. Some ran to the gate Beautiful to make sure that it was he and no other, but they found there only the empty mat on which the beggar had lain, and they returned marvelling more than ever.

"Behold!" they whispered, pointing out Peter one to another, "It was the man yonder who performed the miracle. It must needs be that he is most holy, that he hath kept the law without failure of jot or tittle, that he can do such marvels."

But when Peter perceived this he said unto the people: "Ye men of Israel, why wonder ye at this, or why look ye so earnestly upon us, as though by our own power or holiness we had made this man to walk? The God of Abraham, and of Israel, and of Jacob, the God of our fathers hath glorified his son Jesus, whom ye delivered up and denied in the presence of Pilate when he had determined to release him. Ye rejected the holy and righteous one and asked that a murderer should be granted you; but the giver of life ye killed. Yet hath God raised him again from the dead, whereof we are witnesses. By faith in his name hath this man been made whole, whom also ye see and have known. Yea, the faith which is by him hath given him this perfect soundness in the presence of you all. And now, brethren, I know that in ignorance ye did these things, as also your rulers; what God before announced by the mouth of all his prophets that the Christ should suffer, he thus fulfilled. Repent, therefore, and turn ye, that your sins may be blotted out, so may the times of refreshing come from the presence of the Lord. And he shall send the Christ who hath been before proclaimed unto you, even Jesus; yet he must needs remain in the heavens till the time cometh when all things shall be restored, which time hath God spoken of by the mouth of his holy prophets since the world began. For Moses said unto the fathers, 'A prophet shall the Lord your God raise up unto you of your brethren, like unto me. To him shall ye harken in all things whatsoever he shall say unto you. And it shall come to pass that every soul which will not hear him shall be utterly destroyed from among the people.' Yea, and all the prophets from Samuel and them that follow after, as many as have spoken, have likewise foretold of these days. Ye are the sons of the prophets, and of the Covenant which God made with our fathers, saying unto Abraham, 'and in thy seed shall all the kindreds of the earth be blessed.' Unto you first, God, having raised up his son Jesus, sent him, that he might bless you in turning away every one of you from his sins."

And all the people paid heed unto him; and many wept aloud for joy when they heard that they might be forgiven for their part in the crucifixion of Jesus. They had not forgotten that day, nor how they had cried "Away with him--away with him! Crucify him--crucify him!" Nor had they forgotten the terror of darkness at midday and the earthquake, nor the terrible sentence which they had pronounced upon themselves: "His blood be upon us and upon our children." Many times had they cried in secret what also they had said on that day, "We are undone--we are undone!" Therefore believed they with gladness the word which Peter had spoken unto them, and they prayed aloud that God would forgive them their blood-guiltiness. But as Peter and John would have spoken further unto them, the Priests and officers of the temple and the Sadducees came suddenly upon them.

"What mean ye, blasphemers?" they said, "that within the sacred precincts of the temple ye do preach in the name of an accursed malefactor the resurrection from the dead. These things shall not be." And they locked them up until the next day, for it was now eventide. As for the beggar that had been healed, they put him in hold also, that they might examine him at their leisure.