NAZARETH.
“This is indeed the blessed Mary’s land,
Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer!
All hearts are touched and softened by her name;
Alike the bandit with the bloody hand,
The priest, the prince, the scholar and the peasant,
The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer,
Pay homage to her as one ever present.”—LONGFELLOW—“_Golden Legend_.”
“I walked along the top of the hills overlooking Nazareth. A
glorious scene opened on the view. The air was perfectly serene
and clear. I remained for some hours lost in contemplation of
the wide prospect and the events connected with the scene. One
of the most beautiful and sublime prospects on earth.”—ROBINSON’S
_Biblical Researches_.
The avenging Turks easily persuaded themselves that they could serve God
better by participating in the sacking of fallen Acre than by pursuing
the conquered, fleeing Christian knights; so they let the latter escape
inland, while they themselves returned to the pillage. Ere long, by
stealth, good fortune and Providential leading, the fugitives arrived
unmolested at the top of a hill, overlooking the little city of Nazareth,
forever memorable as having been once the earthly abiding place of Jesus
and Mary. On the way thither scarcely a sentence had been spoken,
for each felt that murmuring would be harmful, mirth inopportune.
They chose their course indifferently, all following Sir Charleroy de
Griffin because he rode bravely and onward. The fugitives paused, partly
sequestered by the shrubbed hillock, forgetting for a time all else in
admiration of the outspreading panorama in view. Heaven and earth were
smiling at each other; thousands of leagues of sky were filled with the
raptured songs of larks, while as echo and challenge of the songs from
above, the thrush and robin of the grass knoll and thicket responded.
From the plains of El Battaf on the north to Esdrælon on the south
Nature, God’s flower queen, had decked the earth everywhere with blossoms
of pinks, tulips and marigolds.
“Those dusky cowards,” spoke Sir Charleroy, “though numbering ten to one,
will not seek us here; they’ll wait an opportunity to ambuscade us.”
“We’ve broken our knight’s pledge, never to flee more than the distance
of four French acres from a foe, and yet methinks we’ve made them respect
our swords; that’s something to say, though we’ve not made them respect
our creed.” It was a Knight of the Golden Cross that spoke.
Sir Charleroy continued, while his eyes turned toward the city: “I thirst
for the waters of a fount in Nazareth as did David once for one in
Bethlehem.”
“For all of our getting at it, Nazareth’s water might as well be in
Ethiopia,” spoke a Hospitaler.
“I’ve a yearning that comes near to sending me on a charge into the city.”
“That would be a hot pursuit of death surely.”
“A fair one, then, since death has been long pursuing us.” After a
moment’s pause Sir Charleroy continued:
“Ah, death! None can escape, none overtake him; see we are his prisoners
now, yet he tantalizes us by a show of immunity. As a sarcophagus is let
down by suspending ropes in tedious stages, with jogglings and pauses,
into the grave, so passes each through perils and sickenings from life to
death. No, no, an undue fear of death intoxicates us until phantasmagoria
possess the brain. We call these hopes; they are delusive! But will any
of you follow for a charge down to the Virgin’s fountain? We can not
more than die; that we must soon, in any event. I think I could die more
complacently, having cooled my thirst where she was wont to cool hers.”
“Ugh,” exclaimed the Templar, with a shudder of disgust, “the fountain
flows out through an old stone coffin! By my plume! while drinking there
I’d be fancying that the ghost of the one robbed of his last house
were leering at me and reveling in the thought that I’d soon be poor
and thirstless as he. Verily the flavor of a drink depends much on the
goblet!”
“We may have plenty of miserable fancies, if we only court such; for
me, Templar, I prefer to comfort myself by cheerier thoughts; while I
drank there, I’d think of the coolings of death’s streams; of her, that
at this fountain slaked her body’s thirst and from the chalice of death
drank serenely at last. My sword, the gift of my king, after having
shed torrents of blood, hangs uselessly at my side. It seems cruel as
powerless; ay, ’tis hateful! My mother gave me, on my departure, better
gifts by far; tears, kisses, undying love, and the charge to call on Mary
if ever evil befell me. The latter I know not how to do; but still my
weak faith, methinks, would be helped to cry ‘Mother’ to God, if I could
only stand where that mother stood who won the first love of the infant
Jesus, the last anxious thoughts of the God man.”
“Sir Charleroy is unusually pious to-night; but alas, though I’ve
been taught to say our church’s _Litany_, calling on ‘the Virgin most
faithful,’ ‘Virgin most merciful,’ ‘Help of the Christian,’ ‘Lady of
Victories,’ I can not use those phrases here. Where’s the help, the
mercy, the victory now? The _Litany_, belongs to England!”
“We are in our present plight because we have won heaven’s neglect
through having more vices than graces, probably.”
“Whatever the cause, the mocking disappointment is apparent. It is
nigh thirteen hundred years since the Holy son and His mother began
proclaiming and exemplifying the White Kingdom here. Now in all this
land of theirs, we thirteen, fateful number, alone are left of those who
openly own His cause. Yea, and the city where He grew in favor, these
nature-blessed plains whose flowers gave Him picture sermons, are all
filled with burrowing monsters eternally at war with Him and His.”
“Faith will rest until assured that the Promiser is dead, and that can
never be, Sir Knight.”
“My faith staggers at the sights of Nazareth. Chief, look yonder.”
The knights all now called Sir Charleroy chief, when addressing him.
“At what?”
“The ruins!”
“Ah, all that’s left of our Crusader church. They say it was built on the
very spot where Mary fell fainting, when she saw the Nazarenes in wrath
dragging her son away to cast him down from the precipice to death. But
He escaped, though the church since built did not!”
“True; therefore it seems to me that the hand on time’s dial turns
backward. This city is filled with creatures having hearts as hard as
the limestone walls of the cave-like houses they fittingly inhabit. If
Christ and His Mother were again on earth as before, mercy’s ministers,
the present inhabitants of Nazareth would surpass His ancient persecutors
in the zeal with which they would drag not only Him but His mother to the
cliffs.”
“Over the door of yon ruined church, some hand of faith carved the word
‘Victory!’ The word is there yet, and though the hand that carved it is
dead, the faith which prompted it hath victory assured it.”
“‘Victory,’ in ruins! A meaningless boast, as it seems to me, Sir
Charleroy. Such victory as ours; shadowy and very distant!”
At that moment one of the Templars, who had been secretly praying behind
a cactus hedge, drew near and the Hospitaler addressed him:
“Brother, any token?”
“Praise Jehovah! yes, of peace.”
“How came it?”
“In my communings, God brought to my mind how the wondrous Deborah, not
far from here, pushed the pusillanimous Barak from his refuge among the
pistacas and oaks, from waverings to courage and to glorious victory over
God’s foes.”
“A happy thought; ‘the stars on their course fought against Sisera!’”
“Barak was called the ‘thunderbolt,’ but Deborah was the ‘lightning.’ The
lightning gave force to the bolt and God to the lightning.”
Sir Charleroy, catching the last sentence, joined in the debate:
“Gentlemen, there is another lesson on the brow of that history; it is,
that women, having more trust, cleave closer to God in peril than do men.
Men are in a panic when their devices fail; women have fewer devices to
fail, hence are less easily confounded. For that reason God sent out our
race in pairs.”
“Hermon’s breast holds the last ray of the setting sun,” remarked the
Golden Cross.
“And the Transfiguration of Christ is recalled! I think some angel of God
is holding the sunlight there for our instruction, now,” exclaimed the
chief.
“Our instruction?” queried the Templar. “I do not discern its meaning;
campaigning I fear has dulled my brain.”
“The Son of Mary, on yon mount, met Elijah, representative of the
prophets, Moses, representative of the law; both called from the
deathless land to proclaim the fulfillment of all prophecy and law
through His coming passion.”
“And still I question how this applies to us?”
“A Knight of the _Red Cross_ should easily discern that suffering unto
death for truth’s sake is the way, all prophecy declares that a reign
of law transforming things to spiritual splendor shall at last come to
earth.”
“Ah, Sir Charleroy, the interpretation is entrancing, but why did the
glory need to fade into night, and to be followed by Gethsemane and
Calvary?”
“Life is but a series of temporary glimpses of the glory that shall be
revealed. Night and cloud come and go, yet the sun never dies.”
“But, Sir Charleroy, was it not hard that the loving Immanuel should be
forced to bide these pangs though ever pursuing true righteousness?”
“Yea, Templar, but the glory of the Transfiguration came to all that
group while Jesus prayed; as the angel hastened to minister when
Gethsemane was darkest. These things teach that heaven watches its own,
with succor according to want; great light at hand to baffle great
darkness and royal answers for anxious prayers!”
“You mean, Sir Charleroy, that we few, surrounded by a sea of enemies,
in an inhospitable land, far from home, should despise each despairing
thought?”
“Good Templar, I am certain of this, anyway: Suffering for the right has
full reward, for after passion as Christ’s, so to His followers there
comes the ascension.”
“Amen,” fervently ejaculated several surrounding knights, and Sir
Charleroy felt the glow that he felt that time the English bishop blessed
him.
As they thus communed, the sun had quietly sunk down into the far-off
Mediterranean, flooding the west with light like molten gold. Doubtless
one thought came to each at the sight; for all smiled sadly when one
remarked: “The _West_ is very beautiful to-night!” They thought with
deep yearnings of home. But the darkness quickly drew over the scene and
the song of the baleful nightingales began to start forth here and there
from thickets which, in the darkness, appeared like plumes of mourning
on acres of black velvet. One knight, for a while entranced by the grim,
gloomy spectacle, shuddered; then looked up as if to say: “When will
the moon rise? the darkness is oppressive!” Another tried to cheer his
comrades by crying: “England’s songsters know us and come to sing us into
hopefulness!”
“Men, to rest; you’ll need it.” It was Sir Charleroy who spoke.
Responsibility made him motherly.
“Let us revel awhile in memories of better days,” replied the Templar.
“But listen; do you not hear afar off something like the moaning of the
winds before a storm?”
“What of it? A storm could add little to our misery.”
“The sound you hear is the cry of jackal and wolf; our omens. Forget now
all unnerving thoughts of home and steel yourselves to meet hard fortune.
For a while rest. Rest is now our wisdom; night, our mother; for a time
in safety she will swaddle us within her black garments. And then——”
“Even so, good Sir Charleroy, and I’m thinking this is her last visit to
us. She has come, I guess, to lead us to the portals of eternal day.”
“When I say good-night to you, comrades, it will be with the expectation
of next saying good-morning where the wicked cease from troubling,”
solemnly said the Golden Cross.
“But,” interrupted the Hospitaler, “while the pulse beats we have a
mortgage on time and a duty to plan to live.”
“Bravely said; now tell us how to plan,” exclaimed several knights.
“Merge all our orders into one, for the present; elect a leader, and——”
The Hospitaler paused, for he could not guess the needs or course of
the future. But the knights quickly acquiesced in the unity of action
proposed.
“Who shall lead?” was the next question.
“I nominate,” shouted the Hospitaler, “the one whom we all believe must
be under the especial care of the good angels of these places sacred to
all revering mother Mary.”
The knights, with one voice, responded, “Sir Charleroy de Griffin,
Teutonic Knight of the Order of St. Mary!”
The little band dared their danger for a moment by a spontaneous cheer.
“We have no priest to anoint the chief of the Refugees, but with God to
witness, let each who would ratify the choice place hilt to shield, as an
oath of service and defense.”
Every hilt rang against Sir Charleroy’s shield, as the Hospitaler ceased
speaking.
“Comrades,” said Sir Charleroy, “I thank you for your confidence in this
hour when the issue is life or death. Let us seek the God of battles.”
The knights formed a hollow square about their leader, and all kneeled
upon the earth.
Their wondering steeds seemed to catch the spirit of their riders,
and, drawing near, drooped their heads. For a few moments there was
awing silence, and then in deep measured tones the Hospitaler began
chanting, “_Kyrie Eleison_” (Lord have mercy). The companions responded,
“_Christi Eleison_.” Then, amid those scenes of sacred history, the
kneeling soldiers, together, and without command, with only the stars for
altar-lights, solemnly chanted a portion of the sublime Litany of their
church. Galilee never before, nor since, heard a more sincere orison:
“Pour forth, we beseech Thee, oh, Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that
we to whom the incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the
message of an angel, may by His passion and His cross be brought to the
glory of His resurrection, through the same Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
As they arose, a Templar spoke: “Companions, if it so please you, put
a seal, the seal of the Red Cross Knights, upon our act.” So saying,
the knight crossed his feet, then spread out his arms horizontally;
similitude of the crucifixion. All reverently imitated the action,
meanwhile, their swords being in hand with blades crossing, forming a
fence of steel.
“Comrades,” spoke Sir Charleroy, with emotion, “I accept the trust, and
vow by Him that gave the single-handed Elijah on yonder far-off wrinkled
Carmel, sign by fire, that confounded Baal and its regal hosts, to lead
you to liberty and home or to glorious graves.”
“_In hoc signo vinces_, living or dead,” was the chorused response. Just
then the rising moon flooded their interlaced swords with light, and, as
they glittered, the knights took it for an omen that there was a blessing
in the union of their swords.
“Sir Charleroy, I proclaim thee king of Jerusalem; what say you,
comrades?” exclaimed a hitherto silent Knight of St. John. Once more
every knight’s sword touched the leader’s shield.
“Nobly proclaimed!” remarked the Templar. “When De Lusignan deserted us,
ceasing to be kingly, he ceased to be king.”
“Have charity, men,” interrupted their chief; “it takes a world of
courage to fall with a falling cause when a way of escape is open.”
“Oh, we’ll have charity; the same that Tancred had for that brave
preacher and craven soldier, Hermit Peter; the latter ran from peril and
Tancred raced him back. We can not reach Lusignan to whip him to duty,
but we can vote him dethroned and dead. All cowards are dead to the
brave.”
“But, companions, I must decline the presumptuous title and phantom
throne. Jerusalem shall have, to us, but one king; the Son of Mary. For
the future, to you, let me be simply Sir Charleroy. Now let us be moving.”
“Whither?” anxiously inquired several knights in a breath.
“Over the valley to the cactus hedges against the limestone cliffs before
us, where runs along the great highway from Damascus to Egypt. We shall
not need the route to either point, probably; but those hills are full of
caves for the living and tombs for the dead.” All obeyed.
“Why so thoughtful?” said the Hospitaler to the Knight of the Golden
Cross, who marched along with his cloak partly shielding his face.
“I’m living in the past,” he sententiously answered.
“The past? Ah, to make up by a back journey for an expected briefing of
thy future?”
“No, raillery here, Hospitaler. I was just wishing that since we are so
near Endor, Saul’s witch would call up some saintly Samuel to tell us
where we shall be this time to-morrow.”
“Oh, Golden Cross, know we can best bear the good or evil of the future
by seeing it only as it comes; for me, I prefer to think of another
place, near us, but having a more helpful incident for the memory of such
as we.”
“Dost thou mean Nain?”
“The same. There a dead only son was raised from the bier to comfort a
widowed mother.”
“Well said, Hospitaler,” responded Sir Charleroy, “and let us not forget
that it was a mother’s tearful prayers that won the working of the
miracle.”
“Alas, knight,” sighed the Templar, “we have no mothers to so petition
for us here, if we be quenched ere long.”
“Some of us have living mothers who never cease to pray for us, nor will
until their breath ceases. In this land, where God appeared through
motherhood, I have a strong confidence that our mothers’ prayers,
re-enforced by our appealing but unvoiced needs, will move the motherhood
of God, if such I may call His tenderest lovings. I’ll trust to-night my
mother’s prayers, reaching from England to Heaven and from thence to
here, further than all the sympathy forgetful Europe will vouchsafe us. A
nation cheered us to battle, and yet it will never seek for the fragments
defeat has left; but the man never lived, no matter what his ill deserts,
whom true mother love and eternal God love ever forgot.” After this long
address, Sir Charleroy again felt the glow within and the approvings that
he felt on the quay when the bishop’s hands were on his head.