Читать книгу The Big Fisherman - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 7

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Saidi, the bay filly, was independent and impertinent but sure-footed. Old Kedar, increasingly prudent at eighty, distrusted her; but Fara, better understanding the filly’s caprices, knew that while Saidi was mischievous she was not malicious.

For the first five miles of gradual descent, Fara did not spare her. Time was precious. At any moment old Nephti, though strongly admonished to take her rest, might come in and find the bed empty. Immediately the household would be roused and a search would begin forthwith.

At first Saidi—in need of exercise—wanted to play, changing her gait without warning from canter to lope and pretending to be frightened at every huge white boulder and pale gray clump of sage standing in the bright moonlight, but Fara’s spurs soon dissuaded her of the belief that this was a romp.

After a while the grade leveled off for a few miles before taking the sharp zigzags toward the valley floor. Here Fara dismounted and led Saidi until she began to toss her head impatiently, for she always objected to being led unless quite exhausted.

Occasionally they passed a weaver’s hut; no lights visible, everyone asleep except the little huddle of goats that stirred and lifted a few heads inquisitively. The night was still. Fara thought it strange that she was not lonely. Even her bereavement, not yet of seven hours’ duration, seemed to have occurred long ago, as indeed it had, for that incurable sorrow had set in when Arnon’s waning strength presaged the inevitable end.

It was strange too, thought Fara, that she felt no apprehensions about the grim and hazardous mission on which she had set forth. She made the experiment of saying to herself that this was a very serious business, a man’s business, that undoubtedly would cause her much trouble long before she reached her well-fortified objective in Galilee; in short, that she was riding toward almost certain disaster as fast as Saidi’s slim legs could carry her. But this re-examination of her purpose did nothing to discompose her, doubtless because she had so long and earnestly planned this audacious undertaking that it had become the sole aim of her life.

And there was dear Voldi! What a deal of anxiety she had caused him. How much more kind it would have been, reflected Fara, if she had told him firmly that she could never marry him; and, if pressed for the reason, she could have said that she did not love him. But Voldi would have known it wasn’t true, for she had given him too many guarantees of her affection. However—Voldi would not fret very long. A girl might, in similar circumstances, but a man would quickly forget. How fortunate men were in their ability to pull their love up by the roots and transplant it so successfully that it grew again without the loss of a leaf or a petal. There was really no need for her to worry about Voldi.

Only one anxiety disturbed her: what success would she have in masquerading as a young man? Of course there was no other alternative. It was quite inconceivable that a sixteen-year-old girl could travel alone from southern Arabia to northern Galilee without risking some very unpleasant, if not positively dangerous, experiences; but this effort to pose as a young man would be very risky business.

A few facts were in Fara’s favor. Her natural speaking voice was low-pitched and throaty; it might easily be mistaken by a stranger for the voice of a boy in his mid-teens. Too, the loose-fitting burnous ignored the curves of her girlish figure. But—even so—it would require much courage and self-confidence to maintain her rôle if suddenly projected into the company of men. It had not yet occurred to her that it would be quite as difficult to deceive another woman.

This dilemma had cost Fara many an anxious hour. She had privately practiced being a bold and bumptious youth, accustomed to rough talk and capable of serving a large helping of convincing profanity. She had stalked up and down her bed-chamber with long stiff-legged strides, jerking her head arrogantly from side to side as she scowled crossly into her mirrors, and growling gutturally. Once the absurdity of it had momentarily overcome her, and she had laughed at her reflection in the highly polished metal plate that hung by her door; but had instantly sobered at the sight of a pair of girlish dimples in this young man’s cheeks, and resolved that she would do no more smiling.

At the first signs of dawn, Fara crossed the southern extremity of the fertile Valley of Aisne and moved on into the arid Valley of Zered that skirted the eastern shore of the Dead Sea. It was a desolate expanse of parched and blistered land, utterly without vegetation, birds, rodents, or reptiles. There were even no insects, with which most deserts abounded. The Dead Sea had been aptly named. Saidi clearly shared her rider’s hope that they might soon be out of this forsaken country and quickened her pace, Fara straining her eyes for a glimpse of the ancient village of Akra which, she knew, maintained a precarious existence on a bit of oasis at the southernmost tip of the Dead Sea.

The sun was already hot when she sighted it, a clump of palms and cypress, a straggling group of shabby cottages surrounding a large brown tent. This would be the khan where travelers and their pack-trains were accommodated. At the door of the tent, Fara dismounted from the perspiring filly, handed the reins to a taciturn old Arabian, and with long steps and an experimental swagger followed along to the corral where she gruffly gave instructions how her mount was to be rubbed down and properly watered. And when the testy hostler growled that he knew how to take care of a horse, Fara shouted untruthfully that if he did he was the first old man she had ever seen who knew or cared whether a hot horse was safely watered, and that she proposed to stand by him until he had done it.

A wizened old woman glumly prepared a bad breakfast of stale eggs and staler bread. Feeling that she had need of practice in maleness, in the presence of women, Fara complained bitterly about the food and reviled the old woman in what she felt might be the customary terms for a man to use on such occasions. Then she demanded a bed, and denounced the old woman as a foul and dirty slattern when she saw the untidy cubicle provided for her. This execration she attempted in Greek, aware that her vocabulary of vituperation in that language—learned of the gentle Ione—would need some polishing.

After two hours of deep sleep, Fara was on her way again, after paying her hosts twice what they asked, and swearing manfully that the place wasn’t fit for a goat to live in, to which contemptuous accusation the old man and his slovenly wife—grateful for their unexpected windfall—respectfully agreed. Fara smiled complacently as Saidi bounded away over the north-bound trail, her fears about her ability to be a man having been somewhat alleviated.

Late afternoon, after a sultry, monotonous ride along the blinding white seashore, she entered the town of Engedi, eastern terminus of the old salt trail from the Port of Gaza. It was an incredibly ugly place, its small, box-shaped houses built of sun-baked brick, suffocating a narrow, dusty street. At the principal inn, a little farther on, the stable-yard of which was crowded with camels, donkeys, and their grimy attendants, Fara asked courteously for food and a bed for the night. Instantly she realized that she had made a mistake when the surly proprietor showed her a filthy pallet in a room containing a half dozen similar cots. Backing disgustedly out of the room, she opened her accumulated treasures of Arabian profanity and made it known to the master of the inn that she wasn’t in the habit of sleeping in rabbit-hutches, dog-kennels, or pig-sties. Thus advised, the inn-keeper deferentially led the way to a private room where the bed, if not comfortable, was less dirty than the one she had rejected.

Fara gave this incident much earnest thought. It was obviously a mistake to ask for anything politely. The public considered politeness a sign of weakness. It had a very low opinion of gentle speech. To wait patiently and take your turn, or to accept unprotestingly whatever was offered you, meant only that you were accustomed to being pushed aside; that you knew you could not defend your rights. It was a thoroughly abominable world, decided Fara; but if it was that kind of world she would try to meet it on its own terms. Contracting her brows into a sullen frown and puffing her lips arrogantly, she marched heavily up and down the bare creaking floor. In this belligerent mood she returned, with long steps, to the common room and flung herself into a dilapidated chair. Crossing her legs she sat impatiently flicking her high-laced boot with a finely crafted riding whip—a gift of Voldi’s.

Well-dressed, good-looking men of affairs came and went, occasionally nodding to one another. Almost everybody knew everybody else. Fara honestly wished she were a man. They all seemed so effortlessly sure of themselves. She admired their self-sufficiency; tried to make herself think she was one of them. For the most part, her presence in the big, dingy room went unnoticed. Sometimes a young man, passing by, would toss an impersonal glance in her direction and move on without giving her a second look. This was ever so good, and Fara breathed more comfortably.

Immediately to the left of her, in the row of battered chairs backed against the wall, sat two men engaged in earnest conversation. They spoke in Greek, though it was evident that they were Romans. Fara had never seen one but she had been told how they looked.

The man in the nearest chair was probably forty. It was plain that he was a person of some consequence. Like his friend, who was many years his senior, he was smooth-faced and his graying hair was close-cropped. His face was deeply tanned, except for a narrow strip of white on his upper forehead which a bandeau had protected from the sun. His sand-colored tunic, trimmed in red, was of fine texture; his belt, dagger-sheath, and tooled-leather sandals, strapped almost to the knee, showed expensive workmanship. Fara surmised that they both were directors of caravans probably belonging to the same company. Another survey of them revealed that the younger man had a small V-shaped notch in the top of his ear. So—he was a slave. But apparently his servitude didn’t bother him much.

“I hope he is still there next week when we return,” the distinguished looking slave was saying. “I should like to hear him again. But it is doubtful whether he will be at large by that time. The legionaries will have taken him in; for, as you have said, it was very inflammatory talk. But—by the Gods, Aulus, it was all true—what he was saying.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed Aulus, “the world is bad enough to deserve a drubbing, and it always was. But—the fellow is crazy as a beetle, Tim.” The older man turned his full face and Fara saw a long scar across his cheek; relic of a savage fight long ago, she thought.

“That’s where we differ, Aulus,” countered Tim. “What the hermit was preaching showed him to be indiscreet, foolhardy; but no merely crazy man could collect a crowd like that, and keep them standing for hours in the broiling sun listening with wide eyes and open mouths; and they say he has been doing it day after day!”

“Oh—you know how people are,” said Aulus, indifferently. “This half-starved fanatic, living on dreams and desert bugs, climbs up on a big rock and begins to yell that the world is due for punishment. Naturally the rabble, with nothing better to do, gathers around to watch his antics and shudder at his predictions.” Aulus shifted his position in the creaking chair and continued to extemporize. “People like to be scared, Tim. Their empty lives are without stimulating sensations, and they enjoy feeling the cold shivers run down their backs—especially when their instinct tells them it’s all a lot of damned nonsense.”

There was quite a pause here; and Fara, who had been intently eavesdropping, leaned forward a little, hoping that Aulus hadn’t said the last word. Presently Tim remarked soberly, “I wonder if it is—just damned nonsense.”

“Poof!” scoffed Aulus. “The fellow is crazy as a beetle!” He rose, stretched, yawned. “And so are you,” he added. “I’ll see you at supper. I must have another look at that lame camel.”

“Just a minute, Aulus.” Tim patted the arm of the adjoining chair and his scar-faced friend sat down again with an indulgent grin. “You have been talking of that throng at Hebron as if it were composed entirely of ignorant and lousy nobodies who would as gladly stand all day watching a caged monkey scratch itself. But that doesn’t account for it. There were at least a dozen well-dressed, intelligent men in the crowd giving serious attention to everything the hermit said.”

Aulus dismissed this with a negligent flick of his hand.

“Local citizens, no doubt,” he explained, “annoyed by the fellow’s presence in their town, and waiting for him to start a brawl—so that they could lock him up—as a disturber of the peace.”

“But some of them had come from afar, Aulus. I asked a bright-looking camel-boy if he wanted a job, and he loftily replied that he was in the employ of an eminent lawyer, Ben-Judah, a member of the Sanhedrin in Jerusalem.”

“What’s this Sanhedrin?” demanded Aulus, scornfully.

“The Jews’ law-making body.”

“I thought Rome made their laws.”

“Just the laws on taxes. The Sanhedrin attends to the rest of it.”

“You surely have a strange talent,” observed Aulus, “for collecting useless information. What else do you know about Jewish laws?”

“Only that there are far too many of them. Why, a Jew can be arrested for dragging a chair across his dooryard on the Sabbath! It might dig a little furrow in the ground—and that would be plowing.”

“I think you made that up, Timmie,” chuckled Aulus. “But—be that as it may—perhaps this wise Ben-Judah, in the course of a journey, turned aside to listen to the prattle of this fool, just as we did—out of curiosity.”

“Possibly; but it is much more likely that some influential people are spying on this hermit. He himself is a Jew, and he is talking to his own countrymen. Surely the Temple can’t afford to let this fellow go on, gathering up a bigger crowd every day, shouting that the world is so bad it needs to be cleansed. That’s the Temple’s exclusive business; to see that the world—or at least the Jewish world, which is all that matters in this country—behaves itself. These learned lawyers and rabbis surely cannot permit a fiery prophet to march across Judaea informing thousands of people that their land is filthy with graft, greed, and injustice, all the way from top to bottom; and that his God—who is also theirs—means to take the whole job of renovation out of the hands of the recognized authorities, and attend to it personally!”

Aulus grinned at this long speech, and again rose to his feet.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he drawled. “In that case, they will probably toss the hermit into a dungeon—and forget about him. And so will the people. If a man dies a bloody death as a martyr to some new idea, the people remember, and build him a monument; but if he gets pitched into prison—Pouf! Let him rot!” Aulus dusted his hands, and sauntered away.

After a while the handsome man with the deep crows’-feet at the corners of his eyes and the notch on his ear turned his head slowly toward Fara and coolly looked her over.

“Which way are you headed, young man?” he inquired in Aramaic, signifying that he considered her a Jew.

“I am going west, sir,” replied Fara in Greek—“as far as Gaza.”

“Ever been there?” asked Tim; and when Fara had shaken her head, he remarked, “Very fine place—to lose your shirt—and have your throat cut. Let me warn you to ride straight down the middle of the street and have nothing to do with any of the inhabitants. Do not eat their food or drink their water or believe their lies.”

“I gather that you do not care much for Gaza,” commented Fara. “I shall take your advice. The first large city to the west is Hebron, is it not? Is that any better?”

“Much! Hebron has been sound asleep for two thousand years, so there’s nothing very lively about it; but at least it won’t rob you or poison your food or murder you in your bed.” Tim recrossed his long legs and gave Fara a candid stare. “How do you happen to speak Greek, young man? You don’t live in Greece, do you?”

“Nor do you, sir,” said Fara, with equal bluntness, “yet you speak Greek.”

“I am a Greek!” declared Tim, proudly. “You are a Jew, are you not?”

“I am not!” replied Fara. “I am an Arabian.”

Tim studied her face with interest, pursed his lips, and nodded.

“My mistake,” he muttered. “No offense, I hope.”

“Not at all, sir. I have no quarrel with the Jewish people.”

Tim laughed quietly, and said that he never thought he would hear an Arabian say that.

“But it is not so long, sir,” Fara risked saying, “since the Jews and Arabians were in alliance.”

“What an alliance!” scoffed Tim. “Of course you know all about that wretched marriage. One thing I never could understand: I know many Arabians; fine fellows who love nothing better than a good fight. Why haven’t they ripped the bowels out of that Jewish rascal who humiliated your Princess? Surely it can’t be that they have forgotten—or do not care!”

Unable to think of an appropriate answer to that, Fara abruptly changed the subject by saying:

“I could not help overhearing your talk about a prophet you met who said the world was to be punished for its misdeeds. Does he propose to attend to this chastisement?”

“No; not he,” said Tim. “The fellow was careful to say that he himself was only a courier, announcing the early arrival of a divine person whom he depicted as a mighty avenger, a divinity to be sent from Heaven with an ax in his hand. The rotten old growth we have called Civilization was to be cut down, so that something healthy and fruitful might grow.”

“Coming soon?” asked Fara.

“You would think, from his talk, that the prophet expected the avenger by next week—at the latest. If he had said it would occur a hundred years from now, his prediction would have been less risky.”

“And less interesting,” added Fara. “Do you think the prophet might be there—at Hebron—tomorrow?”

“Unless he has moved farther toward the hills. He was at least half a mile north of the road when we sighted the crowd. Apparently he does not study the people’s convenience. They say he goes where he likes, and the multitude follows. If you are interested I suggest that you inquire along the way as you approach Hebron. Almost anyone will tell you. The air is full of him, over there.” Tim rose to move away, and Fara also came to her feet.

“Am I right in surmising that you were inclined to believe what he said?” she asked, seriously.

Tim tugged at his lip, debating a reply.

“I don’t know rightly what I do think about it,” he answered, measuring his words. “The Jews are a singular people. They have always had their prophets, and many of their predictions have proved true, even to the dating of important events and the outcome of far distant wars. You’d better hear this man John for yourself. He may be greatly mistaken, but he is no fool!”

“Your friend says the man is crazy as a beetle,” said Fara.

“My friend,” drawled Tim, “is a typical Greek who became a typical Roman. He doesn’t believe in anything he can’t eat or wear or buy or sell or ride.”

In spite of Saidi’s strong objections to leaving the broad highway, Fara turned off at the unmistakable spot where an improvised road, fully fifty yards wide, led northward through a stubble-field. The tilled ground had been trampled soft, and the going was slow.

The deserted trail moved on across the field, across another less traveled highway, through another harvested field, over a bridge that spanned a little stream. It curved to miss a grove of cypress, climbed a hill, traversed a pasture, forded a creek, and went on—and on. After five miles of monotonous riding, Fara sighted a village. At the cross-roads a stone said the place was Tekoa. The trail had by-passed the little town but Fara rode into it. Perhaps someone could inform her how far she must go to find the prophet.

The village was quite abandoned. The small bazaars and markets on the principal street were closed. Farther on, in the residential section, a frail old woman bent over the ledge of a community well, tugging at the handle of the windlass. Fara drew up alongside, dismounted, and lent a hand. The dripping chain brought up a large wooden bucket which they pulled to anchorage on top of the low wall. The ragged old woman, breathing heavily, gave Fara a toothless smile and offered a rusty iron dipper.

“It is good!” said Fara. She filled the dipper for her hostess, emptied the bucket into the stone trough beside the well, and slipped off the filly’s bridle. “Saidi is thirsty too,” she added, lowering the bucket again.

“Never knew of a horse named Saidi,” remarked the old woman. “Where do you come from, young master?”

“Arabia.”

“But you are an Israelite, I think.”

“No—we are both Arabians; Saidi and I.”

The old woman tightened her shrunken lips and scowled.

“How do you happen to ask a drink of me?” she demanded crossly.

“Because you seemed friendly; and, besides, I was thirsty,” replied Fara, unruffled by the woman’s surliness. “I shall gladly pay you for the water.”

“We don’t sell water.”

“Here is a little gift, then.” Fara offered her a shekel.

The beady old eyes brightened at the sight of so much money, but the white head shook vigorously. Fara laid the shekel on the ledge of the well. The old woman turned and spat unprettily on the ground.

Suppressing her amusement, Fara said, “I am looking for a Jewish prophet. His name is John. Many people are following him, and I wish to hear him. I think he has passed this way. Do you know where he has gone?”

“He is a son of Satan!” shrilled the old woman. “A blasphemer! Cursed be all the infidels who listen to his revilings of Israel!”

Fara, who had been toying with her coin-pouch, unwound its thong and asked quietly, “Do you know where he is?”

For a moment the old woman maintained a sullen silence while Fara poured a few silver coins into her own palm. Pouring them back into the pouch, she vaulted into the saddle and gathered up the bridle-reins. The wrinkled old jaw was quivering. Obviously her poverty and her piety were in combat. Impetuously she pointed toward the northeast.

“They said he was heading for the river,” she shouted—“and all Judaea is following him! Everybody in Tekoa has joined the infidels!” Tears ran down the leathery cheeks. “My own son—and my daughter—and her husband—and their children—they too have gone mad, like the others.”

Honestly sorry for the pitiable old creature, who was now weeping aloud, Fara asked, quietly, “But what has this man been saying—to distress you so?”

“He scorns our ancient faith!” sobbed the old woman, scrubbing her cavernous eyes with the skirt of her faded apron. “He sits out there in the desert for years, doing no work, helping nobody, never attending the Synagogue, never bringing a gift to the altar; and now he comes forth railing at the religion of his fathers!”

“He has a new religion then?” asked Fara.

“An angel is about to appear, he says, who will show us what to do—as if we were heathen who knew no God.”

“Your priests are probably annoyed by such talk,” surmised Fara.

“Annoyed!” The old woman slowly nodded her head and drew an unpleasant grin. “You wait! They will soon silence his blasphemies! God is not mocked!”

Fara opened her pouch and poured silver into the wrinkled hand. The old woman clutched the money, scowled, and made an unsuccessful effort to spit. Saidi, who had been pawing the ground impatiently, was pleased to be on their way at a brisk trot.

A half-hour before sunset she found them, acres of them it seemed, seated singly or in pairs or by families in a close-nibbled sheep pasture on the high-banked shore of the Jordan. They were busy with their supper which they had been forehanded enough to bring with them. Fara stopped a little way apart from the area where most of the pack-animals were tethered, hung Saidi’s bridle on the pommel of the saddle, loosed the girths, adjusted a stout halter, buckled on a well-filled feed-bag, and staked out the tired filly for a hard-earned rest.

Strolling forward among the groups of people, she sat down near a good-looking family, father, mother, two half-grown boys and a pretty girl of her own age. The girl turned her head toward Fara and smiled shyly. Her father instantly muttered an inaudible command and his daughter, with some reluctance, left her place and wedged in between her parents. Fara was amused. She unwrapped her parcel of food and made a leisurely survey of the great multitude. It was a strangely quiet crowd. There was a low, inarticulate rumble of subdued conversation, but all faces were sober, pensive, and there was no laughter to be heard anywhere. A gentle but insistent, one-sided argument was in progress near by. The mother of the adjacent family was pleading earnestly with her husband. Yielding to her importunity he nodded, at length, and their well-favored daughter rose to resume the place where she had sat before. Her long black hair, unbound, was spread out covering her shoulders and back, and she seemed troubled about it. Turning to Fara with a smile she offered her a sweet roll which was accepted gratefully.

“My hair looks untidy,” said the girl. “It’s wet. I was baptized.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Fara, gallantly. “How did you say it got wet?”

“The great prophet was baptizing, this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” confessed Fara. “What does that mean—baptizing? This is my first time here.”

“The prophet leads us into the river and pushes us down under the water. That washes away our sins—and we are clean.”

“And very wet, I suppose,” remarked Fara, sympathetically.

The girl’s full lips parted in a slow, reluctant smile that displayed the tips of beautiful teeth. Unable to think of an appropriate rejoinder to this dry drollery on a solemn occasion, she suddenly sobered and nodded her head.

Nothing further was said for a while, Fara regretting that she had spoken flippantly, the pretty Jewess, her face averted, apparently wishing she knew how to explain the cleansing she had had in the Jordan.

“I cannot think that you have been so very sinful,” ventured Fara, gently.

“We are all sinful,” murmured the girl, in a lugubrious imitation of experienced piety.

“Yes—I suppose so,” admitted Fara with a companionable sigh. “Do you think the prophet is finished—for the day?”

“Oh no, he will speak again when the people have had their supper. It should not be long now.” The young Jewess tipped her head toward the groups who were rising and stirring about.

The girl’s plump mother, now that her family had been fed, wrapped up what was left; and, scrambling to her feet, came over and sat down beside her daughter. She and Fara exchanged amiable smiles.

“I am glad you made friends with our Ruth,” she leaned forward to say. “There are so few young people here of her own age. Hundreds of us older ones, and swarms of small children; but it seems that our young people nowadays—” She broke off abruptly in response to an imploring look from her daughter, but immediately continued, “They don’t seem to know that they have souls to save from the wrath to come!”

Ruth turned her head slowly toward Fara, with an expression that apologized for her zealous mother. Quite at a loss for a suitable comment, Fara mumbled, “Probably not,” quickly aware that it was the wrong thing to have said for it showed a deplorable unconcern. The woman’s eyes were alive with reproach.

“Young man,” she said severely, “may I ask whether you have come here to seek salvation?”

“I came to see and hear the prophet,” replied Fara.

“But not your own soul’s salvation?” demanded the woman.

“The prophet is interested only in his own countrymen, I think,” said Fara.

“Of course! But you are an Israelite, are you not?”

“I am an Arabian.”

“Then you have no right to be here at all!”

“But—Mother!” pleaded Ruth.

“Never mind! You come with me!” Rising, the indignant Jewess drew her embarrassed daughter to her feet.

“Good-bye,” Ruth turned to say softly.

Fara, who had risen, bowed and said with her lips rather than her voice, “I’m sorry.” Striding through the milling crowd she observed that the people well forward were seating themselves compactly in rows. Finding an unoccupied spot, she sat down to wait. Presently a murmur of expectation swept the great audience. The prophet John, who had evidently been resting by the river’s brink, appeared over the top of the embankment.

He was indeed a striking figure, tall, lean, lithe, bronzed. His heavy, tousled hair indicated an immense latent vitality. His massive head was held high above broad, bony shoulders. The craggy face was bearded, the forehead deep-lined, the dark eyes deep-set. He had the bearing of a man who had thought much and suffered. The crowd was very still. Stretching forth his long, brown arms, the prophet began to speak in a tone and mood of quiet entreaty. Fara found herself yielding at once to the strange compulsion of his vibrant voice. It was as one speaking from a great distance; from another age; from another world.

God had been patient—long—long. Of old He had planted a garden of delicious fruits and scented flowers for the delight of the human creatures He had made. It was a spacious garden, watered by cool springs and graceful rivers, along whose green banks were to be found much gold and many precious stones. On the hillsides jutted various metals which man’s ingenuity might fashion into plows, pruning-hooks and other implements of husbandry. Great quarries bulged with enduring granite and delicately tinted marbles with which man might build temples and monuments. There were tall forests filled with all manner of trees from which might be hewn boats and shelters. Innumerable beasts pastured in the valleys, some to provide food, some to bear burdens. And had God’s fortunate children been content to preserve and bequeath their rich heritage, their posterity might still be living comfortably and at peace in a garden.

Here the voice of the prophet rose to a little higher pitch as he proceeded to relate how this paradise was permitted to grow rank with weeds and brambles.

For, from the very beginning, God’s children cared nothing about the garden. The first man flouted God’s instructions. The elder of his two sons slew his brother and fled to the jungle. Restless and dissatisfied, humanity abandoned their paradise and began to roam, everywhere, without food, clothing, shelter, or destination, hoping only to escape the reproving eyes of their disappointed Father.

Sometimes, after long and aimless wandering, a group or tribe would settle in a fertile valley and till the soil. Another nomadic tribe, jealous of their neighbors’ small prosperities, would come upon them with spears and swords and stones, killing the workers together with their old and helpless ones and their little children. Their Father had endowed them with inventive minds, so that they might make better and better tools, but their most ingenious inventions were not better tools but deadlier weapons. Stone was not quarried for the building of temples and monuments but for great fortifications. Iron was not molded into implements of husbandry but into instruments of war.

Everywhere there was fear, hardship, hunger. Pillage, rapine and slaughter spread over the face of the world until there was no peace at all, anywhere at all, and a man was not safe even in the home of his brother.

But—John was continuing with mounting heat—throughout all these dreadful ages of hatred and oppression, God had waited, waited patiently, anxiously, for the world’s great ones to become aware of the poverty of their ill-gained wealth, and the empty sham of their vaunted power, and the shabbiness of their royal raiment, and the stink of starvation in their pilfered food. Now and again some brave voice would be raised in warning, but it would soon be stilled. Many were the messengers, sent of God, who were beaten, imprisoned and slain; fed to wild beasts, sawn asunder.

As a child, Fara had heard the legends about the world’s creation, the disobedience of Adam, the wickedness of his posterity, and the great flood that had drowned them all—except one family. But the ancient tales, as John recited them, seemed fresh and frightening. For now his voice was at storm! God’s patience was exhausted! He finally gave up hope of seeing His incorrigible children develop any beauty, any grace, any goodness, any peace. He determined to wash the world clean of them—thoroughly clean of them—and their filth and their spoor and the ravages of their hands until not a trace or a track or a trail of them remained! He told one peace-abiding old man to build a boat for his household; and the rain began to fall. The rain kept on coming—and coming—day after day after day. It poured as no rain had ever poured before!

Fara had listened, quite unmoved, when the wandering minstrels had sung of the fabled rain, but today the graphic picture of that appalling disaster made her draw her burnous tightly about her shoulders. The story made her flesh creep, as she heard the hoarse cries and strangled gasps of the doomed, clutching at one another in the swirl of rising waters, while the livid sky roared and the tempest screamed and the lightning stabbed relentlessly at the tossing debris.

And then—there was a sudden calm. The waters stilled and subsided. The sun was shining again; not upon a garden this time, but upon a stripped, deserted world of ruined cities leveled to the ground, and of empty thrones half-buried in the mud. Now men could begin anew and try to build a better world. But it was without any success—and without any promise.

John’s voice took on a tone of deep sadness—and of shame too—as he reported how these men, wading out of the ooze and slime, began again to plot against one another as before. Prophets came and went, reminding the people of the great calamity that had befallen their fathers and predicting more trouble if they did not now obey God’s command for peace. But the stronger ones ignored them, and those who sought the favor of the stronger ones laughed at them, and even the weak, who were set upon daily and robbed of their very rags—they too mocked the prophets and threw stones.

Here John paused for a long time—and bowed his head. The awed multitude sat transfixed, far eyed, holding its breath, though well it knew what was coming.

“So—now—in these latter days,” he went on sadly, measuring his phrases, “it is our fate to witness another outpouring of God’s wrath. It is not a flood this time, but a purge of the world’s wickedness. You will ask, ‘When is it coming?’ And I shall answer, ‘It is not coming: it is here!’

“And do I hear you say, ‘It is not my fault that the world is wicked: it is the Empire that enslaves and robs and kills: am I to be punished for the crimes of Caesar?’ Then I must answer you that everyone of us is guilty!” John’s words came fast now, fast and scathing. “Do not blame all injustice, all cruelty, all meanness on Caesar’s Empire! For each one of you is a little Empire filled with lust and greed and hate! It is easy enough to condemn the government which is, indeed, a rapacious thing that God will cleanse and cleanse until its bones show through! Easy enough to denounce the Temple for its well-fed lethargy: it deserves and will receive just punishment! But if any peace is to bless this sick world, salvation must first come to you; to you, the lonely shepherd in the hills; to you, the farmer at the plow; to you, the carpenter at the bench; to you, the housewife at the loom; to you, rabbi; to you, lawyer; to you, scribe; to you, magistrate. For—except you repent, you shall perish! It is so decreed! God has again spoken! There is One near at hand to rid the world of its iniquities! Indeed—He is now here!”

Suddenly a black-robed, distinguished-looking man of middle age, at the far end of the second row, arose from the small group of similarly well-groomed company surrounding him, and called out in a loud voice that turned all eyes his way:

“Meaning you, Baptizer? Are you, then, this avenger who will wreak God’s wrath upon Caesar—and the High Priest—and upon us all?”

“No—I am not He,” answered John, humbly. “I am but His courier, unworthy to stoop down and buckle His sandal-straps. I am but a voice, crying in the desert. I am commanded to say: make the way straight for the oncoming of the Anointed One. Level the road! Lift up the valleys where the poor despair! Pare down the mountain-tops where the powerful have sat in their arrogance and pride! Level the road for Him in your own hearts!”

Here the impassioned voice lashed out like the crack of a bull-whip.

“Do not be content with saying that the world might find justice and peace if the Greeks stopped hating the Egyptians, and the Romans stopped robbing the Greeks! Look to yourselves! Let the Macedonian merchant stop hating the Syrian camel-driver! Let the Jew stop hating the Arab! Let the Pharisees and Sadducees stop hating one another! Let the poor farmer, with two cows and an ass and twenty chickens, stop his sneering at the poor farmer with only two goats and ten chickens! Let the woman, with the fine cloak for Sabbath and the wedding-feast, stop her haughtiness toward the woman with only a week-day cloak and no wedding garment!”

Another man of the little company of critics now stood up in his place and said, “Does this avenger come with a sword—to make peace?”

“Not with a sword,” said John, “but none the less with a power so mighty that the whole world will be shaken by it! He comes with an ax and a flail! The ax will be laid at the roots of all the trees. Every tree that bears fruit will be spared, but every tree that is barren and an encumbrance to the ground will be cut down and burned! His flail will thresh the harvest of your deeds. He will save the grain, but the chaff will be blown away!”

It was some moments before the crowd realized that the prophet had made an end of speaking, for he stood in silence before the people, with his head bowed in weariness; or perhaps, Fara thought, in silent prayer.

At length he lifted his head, turned slowly, and walked away toward the neighboring hill to the north. Their eyes followed him until he disappeared among the scraggy olive trees. Wordlessly, and without looking at one another, they rose and moved toward the camp-sites they had chosen in the broad pasture-field.

Dazed and bewildered, Fara followed the slow-moving crowd. She found herself abreast of the family she had met at supper. The pretty girl, Ruth, gave her a sidelong glance and smiled. Her mother, alert to her daughter’s behavior, scowled and muttered, intentionally loud enough for Fara to hear, “Any more of that—and I shall tell your father!”

Having brought no camping equipment except a pair of camel’s-hair rugs, Fara slept for the first time in her life under the open sky. She retired early, for there was little else to do. A half-grown boy had been given a few pennies for bringing water to Saidi, after which Fara had removed the saddle and bridle, carrying them to a grassy spot near a cypress tree. During the slow twilight the people quietly pitched their simple camps and by the time the stars appeared in full splendor the pasture-field was still. Occasionally a tired baby cried, a dog barked, there was a brief argument among the pack-asses; but the people were quiet. Fara wondered whether they slept or reflected soberly on the strange words they had heard. The distinguished men from the city—what were they thinking? Ruth’s mother—did she say to herself that at least she was innocent of any fault? And what would this peace-loving prophet think if he knew that one of his interested auditors was on her way to kill her own father? It was a long time before her mental confusion gave way to her bodily fatigue. She went to sleep wondering whether Arabia, too, would be warned of what was coming. And would anyone speak to the Romans about it? Surely the world was larger than Judaea.

Even before dawn there was a stir of activity. Fara rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, sat up and combed her boyish hair, drew the red bandeau down over her forehead, rolled up her rugs, and set off to see how Saidi had fared. Saidi was gone! There was the stake to which she had been tethered, but Saidi was nowhere to be seen. Doubtless she had contrived to tug loose and wander away. She might even be well started for home. Intelligent horses were known to do that.

After fruitless inquiries of the men and boys who were attending to their beasts, Fara decided to climb the hill for a wider view. As she reached the summit, her heart beating hard with the exertion and alarm, she shaded her eyes and carefully surveyed the plain below, every rod of it, from the faraway north to the congested encampment; but there was no sight of Saidi. She suddenly felt so weak and faint that she laid a hand against the trunk of a tree for support against the westerly morning breeze. She started at the sound of a voice immediately behind her.

“What are you looking for, daughter?”

Fara turned slowly to confront the prophet, who was regarding her with sober eyes.

“My horse,” she replied, unsteadily, returning to her search of the valley. “She must have wandered away in the night.”

“May have been stolen,” suggested John, advancing to stand beside her.

“Surely no one, among these people, would steal!” said Fara.

“There is no place in this greedy world, my daughter, where men do not steal.”

There it was again—“my daughter.” Fara hoped she had misunderstood, the first time; but there was no doubt about it now. Somehow he knew. But she must listen, for he was speaking, quietly, almost as to himself.

“They steal. They steal anything, everything, anywhere, everywhere; anything from a horse to a halter; anywhere, from a scroll in the Synagogue to a vase in the graveyard. They steal on the farm, in the market-place, on the highway, at the inn, at the goldsmith’s, at the rag-picker’s, in the gambling-house, and in the Temple. There is no limit to it. They steal from babes and pennies from dead men’s eyes. They steal from bankers and beggars. Where do you live, young woman, that you should be incredulous of theft?”

“I am from Arabia,” said Fara.

John chuckled briefly, but without smiling.

“You must have lived a sheltered life,” he said, dryly. “Your people have taken no prizes for honesty. Perhaps you are not very well acquainted with your countrymen. Have you always lived in Arabia? I detect an accent on your tongue, though I must say your Aramaic is correct. How do you happen to speak it? And you look Jewish—as much Jewish as Arabian. Tell me, daughter, why are you wearing a man’s burnous; and why that shorn hair?”

Fara’s knees were giving way now, and she sat down. The prophet seated himself on a small boulder near by. Slowly turning her face toward him, she encountered a searching gaze that compelled frankness.

“I am on an errand, sir, that could not be safely performed by a young woman. I told you that I am an Arabian, because I prefer to think of myself that way; but it is only half true. My mother was an Arabian. My father is a Jew.”

“Your mother is dead?”

“Only three days ago.” Fara turned her eyes toward the valley.

“And that sent you on your errand, I think; and your errand takes you to Judaea, and your father is a Jew. Perhaps you go to notify him of your mother’s death.”

“Ye-yes,” stammered Fara, hoping the answer might suffice.

There was a considerable silence before John spoke.

“So it is something else besides telling your father. Has he not lived with your mother in Arabia?”

“Not for many years.”

“How did they happen to marry?”

“It’s quite a long story, sir. I have no wish to detain you.” She looked again into his inquiring eyes. “Must I tell you?” she asked, in a voice that seemed a little frightened.

“Not if you don’t want to,” said John, kindly, “but perhaps it might help—if you confided in someone you could trust.”

“I am on my way to find my father,” said Fara. “He lives in Galilee—at the city of Tiberias.”

“Then he must be in the employ of the Tetrarch,” surmised John, “There is little else in Tiberias but the great establishment of Antipas.”

Fara nodded and turned her eyes away. Tardily, and in a barely audible, reluctant voice she said, “Antipas is my father.”

John seemed a person not easily surprised but he impulsively rose to his feet and exclaimed, “You don’t mean it!” He searched her face, and apparently satisfied that she was telling the truth, he said, “Of course I know the story. Everyone does. You have no cause to be proud of your father.”

“I am quite aware of that, sir,” agreed Fara.

“But—surely—after the cruel and shameful treatment he gave the Princess of Arabia, you are not going to Tiberias to live with this—”

“I have vowed to avenge my mother,” interrupted Fara, huskily.

“You mean—you would kill your father?”

“If I can.”

“But you can’t!” exclaimed John. “In the first place, it’s quite impossible. The place is fortified like a besieged city. I was born a Galilean, and my friends have told me that the Tetrarch lives like a fugitive, heavily guarded by night and day. You would only lose your life to no purpose at all. And—even if you succeeded, which is inconceivable, your crime would haunt you all your days. No good ever comes of revenge.”

“I heard you say yesterday that there was One arriving now to avenge God,” said Fara. “Is no good to come of that?”

John did not have an answer ready. After some delay, he said, “That is a far different matter, my daughter. Vengeance is permitted only to God. He will repay!”

“But I mustn’t!” Fara’s tone was satirical. “It’s all right for God to seek vengeance—but it is wrong for me to do it. I’m supposed to have a finer moral character?”

“That remark,” reproved John, “does you small credit, daughter. It is irreverent.”

“But practical,” defended Fara.

“And excusable, I suppose,” reflected John. “You probably had no religious training—in Arabia.”

“Why not?” Fara demanded. “The Jews and Arabians worship the same God, do we not? Abraham is our common father; is that not so?”

Any further discussion of this matter seeming fraught with more heat than light, John nodded, absently.

“Perhaps you may see the Anointed One in Galilee,” he said. “I wish you might be able to talk with Him. He lives in the town of Nazareth. He is a carpenter.”

“Disguised as a carpenter?” wondered Fara. “Same as I am disguised as a boy?”

“No, He really is a carpenter, and a very good one, whereas you are only pretending to be a boy—”

“And not doing so well at it,” she broke in, with a pensive smile. “However—” she added, “you are the first one to discover.”

“You mean—I am the first one to tell you.” John paced back and forth, frowning thoughtfully. “But this is no light matter,” he went on. “You have vowed a vow. I shall not be the one to induce you to break it. A vow is a vow. You are intent upon going to Tiberias. Very well. Go first to Nazareth: it is not far from there. Tell your story to the Carpenter—Jesus. Abide by His counsel. You will make no mistake if you do as He tells you.... I must leave you now. Since your horse is gone, you will proceed on foot, I suppose. Follow the Jordan. It is much shorter than by the traveled roads and it will be safer for you.” Pointing to an angling path down the northern slope of the hill, he said, “May God be with you, daughter, and keep you safe from any harm.” He extended a big, bony hand, and she confidently gave him her small one. Turning it about for inspection, he smiled. “It is not a boy’s hand. You must be very careful. I can’t advise you, now that your hair is shorn, to dress as a girl should; but,” he repeated, gently, “you must be careful. Those riding boots. That fine burnous. You should get into less conspicuous clothing—peasant’s clothes—as soon as possible. You could be thrown into prison for this, you know.”

“That would be unpleasant,” said Fara. “They say that prisons are very uncomfortable.”

“I have never been in one,” said John, “but I expect to be—at almost any hour now. The authorities will arrest me as a disturber of the peace.”

“But there is no peace,” said Fara.

“No—there is no peace,” agreed John, soberly.

“Is it the Temple that would silence you?”

“Yes—but the Temple has no authority to imprison me.”

“Who, then?”

“The provincial government; and as I am a Galilean I shall be taken before Antipas.”

“Then—we may meet again—in prison.” Fara smiled grimly.

John shook his shaggy head in reproof of her ill-timed levity.

“It is quite clear that you do not realize the utter hopelessness of your undertaking, my child,” he said sadly. “I do not expect ever to see you again.... Farewell.”

“Until we meet,” persisted Fara.

Halfway down the long hill, she turned and looked back. John was still standing where she had left him. She waved a hand and he extended his arm, as to give her his final blessing.