From the conversation that Hiram overheard, supplemented by
after-information, he learned much of the family history of his
benefactor.
Ben Yusef's father had belonged to one of the captive families in
Babylon, who, taking advantage of the decree of Cyrus, had returned with
Zerubbabel to their ancestral land. Ben Yusef himself was born in
Jerusalem; and, though he deemed himself a faithful Jew, had not chosen
to resist the charms of a Samaritan maiden, a descendant of the
colonists whom Nebuchadnezzar had sent from Hamath to repopulate the
land made desolate by the deportation of the people of Israel. When
Ezra, the Great Scribe, arrived at Jerusalem with his new bands of
devotees, and endeavored to enforce his mandate against marriage with
any not of pure Jewish stock, Yusef had opposed him, feeling at first
that this was but a device by which the newly arrived would override the
descendants of those who had originally returned with Zerubbabel. Though
afterwards he became convinced of the honesty of Ezra's purpose, and of
the sincerity of his patriotism in wishing to purge Judaism of all
elements foreign to it, he could not believe, as many did, in the Great
Scribe's inspired wisdom in this regard. So pure and strong was Ben
Yusef's love for Lyda, his wife, so beautiful was she in character, so
true even in her devotion to Israel's god, and so many blessings had she
brought to him, that he could not expel the belief that Jehovah had
indeed favored their union. To accede to Ezra's demand that he should
divorce Lyda, or by any compact separate from her, seemed like striking
the hands which God had extended in benediction upon them both. Lyda was
not a concubine, as Hagar had been to Abraham. He therefore would not
send her away, but chose rather to go with her when she was expelled
from the gates of the city.
But still Ben Yusef was a Jew. He loved the traditions and shared the
hopes of his people. He therefore would not leave the Sacred Land, but
took up his abode in the far northern portion of it, among the Scythian
colonists whom Nebuchadnezzar had settled there. He built no house for
permanent abode, because he believed that the time would come when he
should return to Jerusalem.
Lyda had died. His first mourning over, he proposed to return to the
capital, but was confronted by the fact that her children would be
counted as of impure blood by the aristocratic and stricter caste of
Jews. He would not subject them to such disparagement, and therefore
unpacked his already laden beasts of burden, drove again his stakes,
and stretched his cords. The very names of his children were intended
to be a protest against what he thought to be the narrowness of the
Jewish rulers. "Elnathan" signified "Given of God," and when the little
maiden came he called her "Ruth," after the famous Moabitish woman, whom
the faithful Jewish Boaz wedded and made the ancestress of King David.
But no quarrel with the rulers at Jerusalem could alienate his
patriotism or dim his larger hope in the coming glory of his people. His
soul thrilled with all the good news of prosperity in the sacred city.
He sent his contributions regularly for the temple service, and, when
able, made his pilgrimage "thrice in the year" to the festivals. When,
some twelve years before the date of our story, Nehemiah had come from
Susa to assist in rebuilding the temple and the walls, Ben Yusef had met
him on the way; indeed, had entertained the new governor as loyally as
his purse and peasant habits made possible. This act had cost him much
of the goodwill of his half-heathen neighbors, and forced him to a more
isolated life than before; for he was now looked upon as neither Jew nor
Gentile.
As Hiram caught partial information of what the reader now knows more
fully, he felt that Ben Yusef was a man who might understand and
sympathize with him in his expatriation, and consequently rested more
complacently. Yet he was persuaded that it would be wise voluntarily to
divulge his terrible secret to no one. If it were discovered, it would
be time enough to acknowledge it, and claim the kinship which common
persecution had made between him and his host.
The night passed in safety. The volcanic activity vented itself beneath
the ground, which trembled as if ten thousand chariots were driven over
it.
Strength came rapidly to the wounded man. He had prayed to Jehovah, and
an answer came either directly from the "God of the land" or indirectly
through the invigorating atmosphere of this hill-country; and was not
Jehovah the "God of the Hills?" Surely Hiram had heard Ben Yusef singing
a psalm of worship as the morning dawned: "I will lift up mine eyes unto
the hills, whence cometh my help!"
Ben Yusef again and again indulged his curiosity in such questions of
his guest as his sense of hospitality allowed. These Hiram cautiously
answered. He admitted that he was from the coast; that he was in
disguise and flight because of dissent from the doctrines of the
Baalitish religion; that he had voluntarily reduced himself to the
humble condition of a herdsman, rather than endure the degradation of
his conscience.
To all this Ben Yusef responded with lofty and generous emotion. He
eloquently told the story of ancient Israel; of the grand historic
triumphs of Jehovah among his chosen people; of the great patriarchs; of
the birth of his nation when, under Moses, the people had fled from
Egypt; of the valor of the Judges; of the glory of the Kings; of the
sins of the people in admitting Baalitish customs; of the Lord's heavy
curse in selling the nation into captivity to Babylon; and of the return
under permission of the Persians, the new masters of the world. He
spoke, too, with prophetic rapture of the day that was sure to come,
when a new King, greater than Solomon, the Lord's own gift to his
people, would spread the nation from the Euphrates to the Great Sea; or,
as their psalm had it, "from the river to the ends of the earth." The
venerable man's face shone as he enlarged even that vision, and spoke of
peace and righteousness filling all lands--even the fields breaking
forth into singing.
The substance of this story of the Jews' land and people Hiram had heard
before; but the old man's ardor impressed it with such vividness that
the listener seemed to see the unrolling scroll of history merging into
prophecy, and could not repress a feeling of the enthusiasm which the
speaker conveyed with his words, his gestures, and his looks.
Two days passed. Hiram had recovered from the weakness, which came more
from the shock of his emotions than from actual bruises. Ben Yusef read
the thoughts of his guest as he would now and then suddenly start at
some unusual sound, or hide within the inner room of the tent at the
approach of any neighbor. His observant host guessed that the patient
would be freer of heart if the day could be spent away from the
possibility of meeting with men.
Hiram, therefore, as strength returned, eagerly accepted the proposal
to accompany Ben Yusef in searching for some stray sheep upon the
mountains. The bracing air and the exhilarating views tempted them on.
They climbed the grand pinnacle of Safed. Here, nearly two thousand
cubits towards the heavens, no one could follow without being observed.
On the summit the old Jew gave wings to his memory and faith, as free
and strong as the wings of the eagle that started from its eyrie on the
crag. There, to the north, were the waters of Merom, by the shore of
which Joshua smote Jabin, King of Hazor. There, to the south, stood
Tabor, from behind which Deborah, the prophetess, with Barak for her
captain, had deployed against Sisera, when the very stars swung from
their courses, and beat the enemy with their baleful omens. Yonder, to
the east, rose Carmel, a mighty altar of the Hebrew's faith, where
Elijah had drawn fire from heaven to shame the priests of Baal. And
there, far beyond, gleamed the waters of the Great Sea, making
indentations upon the coast, but beaten back by the great docks of Tyre
and Sidon, as Baalism washed away at times the true religion of Israel,
but was beaten back by the valor and enterprise of God's true people.
Down there, almost beneath their feet, shone the pearly surface of the
inland Sea of Galilee, over which hung splendid prophecies yet to be
fulfilled; for the great Isaiah had declared, "The land of Zabulon, and
the land of Nephthalim, by the way of the sea, beyond Jordan, in
Galilee of the nations. The people that walked in darkness have seen a
great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon
them hath the light shined."
The old man's purpose had been, at first, only the diversion of the
thoughts of his companion, for he feared that his recent experience,
whatever it had been, had really affected his mind. But as he spoke he
became himself carried away with his theme. Hiram easily encouraged him
to continue, and by his appreciative questions led him to speak of the
higher spiritual truths of the Jews' religion. What he said of the human
sacrifices especially interested his hearer.
"Our father Abraham, living among those who offered their children to
the deity, was once allowed by the Lord to think that he, too, must
offer his son. To the rocky dome of Mount Moriah he led his beloved
Isaac; bound him upon an altar; raised the knife to slay him; when the
Lord's voice cried to him out of heaven, 'Lay not thine hand upon the
lad;' and, turning quickly, the trembling father saw a ram caught by the
horns in a thicket, and offered it instead of his son. That rock is now
the base of the great altar in the temple court at Jerusalem. All our
worship means this--the Lord God is a Father. He wants no suffering
sacrifice among men. If sin needs atonement, God's own gracious heart
will make it. He wants only man's contrition and love. The Lord is my
helper; not my hater. The Jews' sacrifice really means that there is no
need of sacrifice, except what Heaven itself shall provide. It is an
offering in gratitude, not in penalty; an offering to praise, not to
appease, the Judge of all the earth."
Ben Yusef's face beamed with an almost unearthly beauty as he spoke. His
voice trembled, but was sweetened, too, by the great depth of his
emotion. He uttered no formality of faith. His words were no echo of
men's thoughts. They had, as it seemed to Hiram, a double source of
suggestion--from heaven above, and from the profound experience of the
man's own soul.
Hiram could not help contrasting this peasant with the great Herodotus.
The Jew's philosophy seemed deeper than the Greek's. And it was not only
philosophy, but an inner life, a feeling, a knowledge. The Greek had
pushed away some shadows; the Jew stood out in the light. The Greek's
thoughts were formed with beauty, as his statues were carved from the
stone; the Jew's thoughts were immense, and untrimmed by human art, like
the rocky pinnacle of Safed upon which they stood.