_The Departure of Constantius_
[Sidenote: The Hour of Banquet]
The remainder of this memorable day lingered on with a tardiness beyond
description. The criminal who counts the watches of the night before
his execution has but a faint image of that hot and yet pining anxiety,
that loathing of all things unconnected with the one mighty event, that
mixture of hopelessness and hope, that morbid nervousness of every fiber
in his frame, which make up the suspense of the conspirator in even the
noblest cause.
When the hour of banquet came, I sat down in the midst of magnificence,
as was the custom of my rank. The table was filled with guests; all
around me was gaiety and pomp, high-born men, handsome women, richly
attired attendants; plate, the work of Tyrian and Greek artists, in its
massive beauty; walls covered with tissues; music filling the air cooled
by fountains of perfumed waters. I felt as little of them as if I were
in the wilderness. The richest wines, the most delicate fruits, palled
on my taste. If I had one wish, it was that for the next forty-eight
hours oblivion might amount to insensibility! At my wife and daughters I
ventured but one glance. I thought that I had never before seen them look
so fitted to adorn their rank, to be the models of grace, loveliness, and
honor, to society, and the thought smote my heart—how soon may all this
be changed!
My eyes sought Constantius; he had just returned from his preparations,
and came in glowing with the enthusiasm of the soldier. He sat down
beside Salome, and his cheek gradually turned to the hue of death.
He sat like myself, absorbed in frequent reverie, and to the playful
solicitations of Salome that he would indulge in the table after his
fatigue, he gave forced smiles and broken answers. The future was
plainly busy with us both; with all that the heart of man could love
beside him, he felt the pang of contrast, and when on accidentally
lifting his eyes, they met mine, the single conscious look interchanged
told the perturbation that preyed on both in the heart’s core.
[Sidenote: Constantius Seeks Salathiel]
I soon rose, and under pretense of having letters to despatch to our
friends in Rome, retired to my chamber. There lay the chart still
on the table, the route to Masada marked by pencil lines. With what
breathlessness I now traced every point and bearing of it! There, within
a space over which I could stretch my arm, was my world. In that little
boundary was I to struggle against the supremacy that covered the earth!
Those fairy hills, those scarcely visible rivers, those remote cities,
dots of human habitation, were to be henceforth the places of siege and
battle, memorable for the destruction of human life, engrossing every
energy of myself and my countrymen, and big with the fates of generations
on generations.
It was dusk, and I was still devouring with my eyes this chart of
prophecy when Constantius entered.
“I have come,” said he gravely, “to bid you farewell for the night. In
two days I hope we shall all meet again.”
“No, my brave son,” I interrupted, “we do not leave each other to-night.”
He looked surprised. “I must be gone this instant. Eleazar has done his
part with the activity of his honest and manly mind. Two miles off, in
the valley under the date-grove, I have left five hundred of the finest
fellows that ever sat a charger. In half an hour Sirius rises; then we
go, and let the governor of Masada look to it! Farewell, and wish me good
fortune.”
“May every angel that protects the righteous cause hover above your
head!” I exclaimed; “but no farewell, for we go together.”
[Sidenote: Constantius Departs]
“Do you doubt my conduct of the enterprise?” asked he strongly. “’Tis
true I have been in the Roman service, but that service I hated from the
bottom of my soul. I was a Greek and bound to Rome no longer than she
could hold me in her chain. If I could have found men to follow me, I
should have done in Cyprus what I now do in Judea. The countryman of
Leonidas, Cimon, and Timeleon was not born to hug his slavery. I am now a
son of Judea; to her my affections have been transplanted, and to her, if
she does not reject me, shall my means and my life be given.”
He relaxed the belt from his waist and dropped it with his simitar on the
ground. I lifted it and placed it again in his hand.
“No, Constantius,” I replied, “I honor your zeal, and would confide in
you if the world hung upon the balance. But I can not bear the thought
of lingering here while you are in the field. My mind, within these few
hours, has been on the rack. I must take the chances with you.”
“It is utterly impossible,” was his firm answer; “your absence would
excite instant suspicion. The Roman spies are everywhere. The natural
result follows, that our march would be intercepted, and I am not sure
but that even now we may be too late. That inconceivable sagacity by
which the Romans seem to be masters of every man’s secret has been
already at work; troops were seen on the route to Masada this very day.
Let it be known that the prince of Naphtali has left his palace, and the
dozen squadrons of Thracian horse which I saw within those four days at
Tiberias will be riding through your domains before the next sunset.”
This reflection checked me. “Well then,” said I, “go, and the protection
of Him whose pillar of cloud led His people through the sea and through
the desert be your light in the hour of peril!”
I pressed his hand; he turned to depart, but came back, and after a
slight hesitation said: “If Salome had once offended her noble father by
her flight, the offense was mine. Forgive her, for her heart is still
the heart of your child. She loves you. If I fall, let the memory of our
disobedience lie in my grave!”
His voice stopped, and mine could not break the silence.
“Let what will come,” resumed he with an effort, “tell Salome that the
last word on my lips was her name.”
[Sidenote: The Festal Scene]
He left the chamber, and I felt as if a portion of my being had gone
forth from me.
This day was one of the many festivals of our country, and my halls
echoed with sounds of enjoyment. The immense gardens glittered with
illumination in all the graceful devices of which our people were such
masters, and when I looked out for the path of Constantius, I was
absolutely pained by the sight of so much fantastic pleasure while my
hero was pursuing his way through darkness and danger.
At length the festival was over. The lights twinkled fainter among the
arbors, the sounds of glad voices sank, and I saw from my casement
the evidences of departure in the trains of torches that moved up the
surrounding hills. The sight of a starlit sky has always been to me
among the softest and surest healers of the heart, and I gazed upon that
mighty scene which throws all human cares into such littleness, until my
composure returned.
The last of the guests had left the palace before I ventured to descend.
The vases of perfumes still breathed in the hall of the banquet; the
alabaster lamps were still burning; but excepting the attendants who
waited on my steps at a distance, and whose fixed figures might have been
taken for statues, there was not a living being near me of the laughing
and joyous crowd that had so lately glittered, danced, and smiled within
those sumptuous walls. Yet what was this but a picture of the common
rotation of life? Or by a yet more immediate moral, what was it but a
picture of the desertion that might be coming upon me and mine? I sat
down to extinguish my sullen philosophy in wine. But no draft that ever
passed the lip could extinguish the fever that brooded on my spirit. I
dreaded that the presence of my family might force out my secret, and
lingered with my eyes gazing, without sight, on the costly covering of
the board.
[Sidenote: A Beautiful Group]
A sound of music from an inner hall to which Miriam and her daughters had
retired, aroused me. I stood at the door, gazing on the group within.
The music was a hymn with which they closed the customary devotions of
the day. But there was something in its sound to me that I had never
felt before. At the moment when those sweet voices were pouring out the
gratitude of hearts as innocent and glowing as the hearts of angels,
a scene of horror might be acting. The husband of Salome might be
struggling with the Roman sword; nay, he might be lying a corpse under
the feet of the cavalry, that before morn might bring the news of his
destruction in the flames that might startle us from our sleep, and the
swords that might pierce our bosoms.
And what beings were those thus appointed for the sacrifice? The lapse
of even a few years had perfected the natural beauty of my daughters.
Salome’s sparkling eye was more brilliant; her graceful form was molded
into more easy elegance, and her laughing lip was wreathed with a more
playful smile. Never did I see a creature of deeper witchery. My Esther,
my noble and dear Esther, who was perhaps the dearer to me from her
inheriting a tinge of my melancholy, yet a melancholy exalted by genius
into a charm, was this night the leader of the song of holiness. Her
large uplifted eye glowed with the brightness of one of the stars on
which it was fixed. Her hands fell on the harp in almost the attitude of
prayer, and the expression of her lofty and intellectual countenance,
crimsoned with the theme, told of a communion with thoughts and beings
above mortality. The hymn was done, the voices had ceased, yet the
inspiration still burned in her soul; her hands still shook from the
chords’ harmonies, sweet, but of the wildest and boldest brilliancy;
bursts and flights of sound, like the rushing of the distant waterfall at
night, or the strange, solemn echoes of the forest in the first swell of
the storm.
Miriam and Salome sat beholding her in silent admiration and love. The
magnificent dress of the Jewish female could not heighten the power
of such beauty; but it filled up the picture. The jeweled tiaras, the
embroidered shawls, the high-wrought and massive armlets, the silken
robes and sashes fringed with pearl and diamond, the profusion of
dazzling ornament that form the Oriental costume to this day, were the
true habits of the beings that then sat, unconscious of the delighted yet
anxious eye that drank in the joy of their presence. I saw before me the
pomp of princedoms, investing forms worthy of thrones.
My entrance broke off the harper’s spell, and I found it a hard task to
answer the touching congratulations that flowed upon me. But the hour
waned, and I was again left alone for the few minutes which it was my
custom to give to meditation before I retired to rest. I threw open the
door that led into a garden thick with the Persian rose and filling the
air with cool fragrance. At my first glance upward, I saw Sirius—he was
on the verge of the horizon.
[Sidenote: The Fate of Constantius]
The thoughts of the day again gathered over my soul. I idly combined
the fate of Constantius with the decline of the star that he had taken
for his signal. My senses lost their truth, or contributed to deceive
me. I fancied that I heard sounds of conflict; the echo of horses’ feet
rang in my ears. A meteor that slowly sailed across the sky struck me
as a supernatural summons. My brain, fearfully excitable since my great
misfortune, at length kindled up such strong realities that I found
myself on the point of betraying the burden of my spirit by some palpable
disclosure.
Twice had I reached the door of Miriam’s chamber to tell her my whole
perplexity. But I heard the voice of her attendants within and again
shrank from the tale. I ranged the long galleries perplexed with
capricious and strange torments of the imagination.
“If he should fall,” said I, “how shall I atone for the cruelty of
sending him upon a service of such hopeless hazard—a few peasants with
naked breasts against Roman battlements? What soldier would not ridicule
my folly in hoping success; what man would not charge me with scorn
of the life of my kindred? The blood of my tribe will be upon my head
forever. There sinks the prince of Naphtali! In the grave of my gallant
son and his companions is buried my dream of martial honor; the sword
that strikes him cuts to the ground my last ambition of delivering my
country.”
The advice of Constantius returned to my mind, but like the meeting of
two tides, it was only to increase the tumult within. I felt the floor
shake under my hurried tread. I smote my forehead—it was covered with
drops of agony. The voices within my wife’s chamber had ceased. But was
I to rouse her from her sleep, perhaps the last quiet sleep that she was
ever to take, only to hear intelligence that must make her miserable?
I leaned my throbbing forehead upon one of the marble tables, as if to
imbibe coolness from the stone. I felt a light hand upon mine. Miriam
stood beside me.
[Sidenote: Miriam’s Comfort]
“Salathiel!” pronounced she in an unshaken voice, “there is something
painful on your mind. Whether it be only a duty on your part to disclose
it to me, I shall not say; but if you think me fit to share your happier
hours, must I have the humiliation of feeling that I am to be excluded
from your confidence in the day when those hours may be darkened?”
I was silent, for to speak was beyond my strength, but I pressed her
delicate fingers to my bosom.
“Misfortune, my dear husband,” resumed she, “is trivial but when it
reaches the mind. Oh, rather let me encounter it in the bitterest
privations of poverty and exile; rather let me be a nameless outcast
to the latest year I have to live, than feel the bitterness of being
forgotten by the heart to which, come life or death, mine is bound
forever and ever.”
I glanced up at her. Tears dropped on her cheeks, but her voice was firm.
“I have observed you,” said she, “in deep agitation during the day, but I
forbore to press you for the cause. I have listened now, till long past
midnight, to the sound of your feet, to the sound of groans and pangs
wrung from your bosom; nay, to exclamations and broken sentences which
have let me most involuntarily into the knowledge that this disturbance
arises from the state of our country. I know your noble nature, and I say
to you, in this solemn and sacred hour of danger, follow the guidance of
that noble nature.”
I cast my arms about her neck and imprinted upon her lips a kiss as true
as ever came from human love. She had taken a weight from my soul. I
detailed the whole design to her. She listened with many a change from
red to pale, and many a tremor of the white hand that lay in mine. When I
ceased, the woman in her broke forth in tears and sighs.
“Yet,” said she, “you must go to the field. Dismiss the thought that
for the selfish desire of looking even upon you in safety here I should
hazard the dearer honor of my lord. It is right that Judea should make
the attempt to shake off her tyranny. The people can never be deceived
in their own cause. Kings and courts may be deluded into the choice of
incapacity, but the man whom a people will follow from their firesides
must bear the stamp of a leader.”
“Admirable being!” I exclaimed, “worthy to be honored while Israel has
a name! Then I have your consent to follow Constantius. By speed I may
reach him before he can have arrived at the object of the enterprise.
Farewell, my best-beloved—farewell!”
She fell into my arms in a passion of tears, but at length recovered and
said:
[Sidenote: Go, Prince of Naphtali!]
“This is weakness, the mere weakness of surprise. Yes; go, prince of
Naphtali. No man must take the glory from you. Constantius is a hero,
but you must be a king, and more than a king; not the struggler for the
glories of royalty, but for the glories of the rescuer of the people of
God. The first blow of the war must not be given by another, dear as he
is. The first triumph, the whole triumph, must be my lord’s.”
She knelt down and poured out her soul to Heaven in eloquent supplication
for my safety. I listened in speechless homage.
“Now go,” sighed she, “and remember in the day of battle who will then be
in prayer for you. Court no unnecessary peril, for if you perish, which
of us would desire to live?”
She again sank upon her knees, and I in reverent silence descended from
the gallery.