In the prophet's chamber, also, the moonbeams fell upon the marble
floor; but a seven-beaked Hebrew lamp of bronze shed a warmer light
around, soft and mellow, yet strong enough to illuminate the scroll that
lay open upon the old man's knee. His brows were knit together, and the
furrows on his face were shaded deeply by the high light, as he sat
propped among many cushions and wrapped in his ample purple cloak that
was thickly lined with fur and drawn together over his snowy beard; for
the years of his life were nearly accomplished, and the warmth of his
body was even then leaving him.
Zoroaster raised the heavy curtain of carpet that hung before the low
square door, and came and bowed himself before the teacher of his youth
and the friend of his manhood. The prophet looked up keenly, and
something like a smile crossed his stern features as his eyes rested on
the young officer in his magnificent armour; Zoroaster held his helmet
in his hand, and his fair hair fell like a glory to his shoulders,
mingling with his silky beard upon his breastplate. His dark blue eyes
met his master's fearlessly.
"Hail! and live for ever, chosen of the Lord!" he said in salutation. "I
bring tidings of great moment and importance. If it be thy pleasure, I
will speak; but if not, I will come at another season."
"Sit upon my right hand, Zoroaster, and tell me all that thou hast to
tell. Art thou not my beloved son, whom the Lord hath given me to
comfort mine old age?"
"I am thy servant and the servant of thine house, my father," answered
Zoroaster, seating himself upon a carved chair at a little distance from
the prophet.
"Speak, my son,--what tidings hast thou?"
"There is a messenger come in haste from Shushan, bearing tidings and
letters. The seven princes have slain Smerdis in his house, and have
chosen Darius the son of Gushtasp to be king."
"Praise be to the Lord who hath chosen a just man!" exclaimed the
prophet devoutly. "So may good come out of evil, and salvation by the
shedding of blood."
"Even so, my master," answered Zoroaster. "It is also written that
Darius, may he live for ever, will establish himself very surely upon
the throne of the Medes and Persians. There are letters by the hand of
the same messenger, sealed with the signet of the Great King, wherein I
am bidden to bring the kinsfolk of Jehoiakim, who was king over Judah,
to Shushan without delay, that the Great King may do them honour as is
meet and right; but what that honour may be that he would do to them, I
know not."
"What is this that thou sayest?" asked Daniel, starting forward from his
reclining position, and fixing his dark eyes on Zoroaster. "Will the
king take away from me the children of my old age? Art not thou as my
son? And is not Nehushta as my daughter? As for the rest, I care not if
they go. But Nehushta is as the apple of my eye! She is as a fair flower
growing in the desert of my years! What is this that the king hath done
to me? Whither will he take her from me?"
"Let not my lord be troubled," said Zoroaster, earnestly, for he was
moved by the sudden grief of the prophet. "Let not my lord be troubled.
It is but for a space, for a few weeks; and thy kinsfolk will be with
thee again, and I also."
"A space, a few weeks! What is a space to thee, child, or a week that
thou shouldest regard it? But I am old and full of years. It may be, if
now thou takest my daughter Nehushta from me, that I shall see her face
no more, neither thine, before I go hence and return not. Go to! Thou
art young, but I am now nigh unto a hundred years old."
"Nevertheless, if it be the will of the Great King, I must accomplish
this thing," answered the young man. "But I will swear by thy head and
by mine that there shall no harm happen to the young princess; and if
anything happen to her that is evil, may the Lord do so to me and more
also. Behold, I have sworn; let not my lord be troubled any more."
But the prophet bowed his head and covered his face with his hands. Aged
and childless, Zoroaster and Nehushta were to him children, and he loved
them with his whole soul. Moreover, he knew the Persian Court, and he
knew that if once they were taken into the whirl and eddy of its
intrigue and stirring life, they would not return to Ecbatana; or
returning, they would be changed and seem no more the same. He was
bitterly grieved and hurt at the thought of such a separation, and in
the grand simplicity of his greatness he felt no shame at shedding
tears for them. Zoroaster himself, in the pride of his brilliant youth,
was overcome with pain at the thought of quitting the sage who had been
a father to him for thirty years. He had never been separated from
Daniel save for a few months at a time during the wars of Cambyses; at
six-and-twenty years of age he had been appointed to the high position
of captain of the fortress of Ecbatana; since which time he had enjoyed
the closest intercourse with the prophet, his master.
Zoroaster was a soldier by force of circumstances, and he wore his
gorgeous arms with matchless grace, but there were two things that, with
him, went before his military profession, and completely eclipsed it in
importance.
From his earliest youth he had been the pupil of Daniel, who had
inspired him with his own love of the mystic lore to which the prophet
owed so much of his singular success in the service of the Assyrian and
Persian monarchs. The boy's poetical mind, strengthened and developed by
the study of the art of reasoning, and of the profound mathematical
knowledge of the Chaldean astronomers, easily grasped the highest
subjects, and showed from the first a capacity and lucidity that
delighted his master. To attain by a life of rigid ascetic practice to
the intuitive comprehension of knowledge, to the understanding of
natural laws not discernible to the senses alone, and to the merging of
the soul and higher intelligence in the one universal and divine
essence, were the objects Daniel proposed to his willing pupil. The
noble boy, by his very nature, scorned and despised the pleasures of
sense, and yearned ever for the realising of an ideal wherein a sublime
wisdom of transcendent things should direct a sublime courage in things
earthly to the doing of great deeds.
Year after year the young Persian grew up in the splendid surroundings
of the court, distinguished before all those of his age for his courage
and fearless honesty, for his marvellous beauty, and for his profound
understanding of all subjects, great and small, that came within the
sphere of his activity; most of all remarkable, perhaps, for the fact
that he cared nothing for the society of women, and had never been known
to love any woman. He was a favourite with Cyrus; and even Cambyses,
steeped in degrading vice, and surrounded by flatterers, panderers, and
priests of the Magians, from the time when he began to suspect his
brother, the real Smerdis, of designs upon the throne, recognised the
exceptional merits and gifts of the young noble, and promoted him to his
position in Echatana, at the time when he permitted Daniel to build his
great tower in that ancient fortress. The dissipated king may have
understood that the presence of such men as Daniel and Zoroaster would
be of greater advantage in an outlying district where justice and
moderation would have a good effect upon the population, than in his
immediate neighbourhood, where the purity and temperance of their lives
contrasted too strongly with the degrading spectacle his own vices
afforded to the court.
Here, in the splendid retirement of a royal palace, the prophet had
given himself up completely to the contemplation of those subjects
which, through all his life, had engrossed his leisure time, and of
which the knowledge had so directly contributed to his singular career;
and in the many hours of leisure which Zoroaster's position allowed him,
Daniel sought to bring the intelligence of the soldier-philosopher to
the perfection of its final development. Living, as he did, entirely in
his tower, save when, at rare intervals, he caused himself to be carried
down to the gardens, the prophet knew little of what went on in the
palace below, so that he sometimes marvelled that his pupil's attention
wandered, and that his language betrayed occasionally a keener interest
in his future, and in the possible vicissitudes of his military life,
than he had formerly been wont to show.
For a new element had entered into the current of Zoroaster's thoughts.
For years he had seen the lovely child Nehushta growing up. As a boy of
twenty summers he had rocked her on his knee; later he had taught her
and played with her, and seen the little child turn to the slender girl,
haughty and royal in her young ways, and dominating her playfellows as a
little lioness might rule a herd of tamer creatures; and at last her
sixteenth year had brought with it the bloom of early southern
womanhood, and Zoroaster, laughing with her among the roses in the
gardens, on a summer's day, had felt his heart leap and sink within him,
and his own fair cheek grow hot and cold for the ring of her voice and
the touch of her soft hand.
He who knew so much of mankind, who had lived so long at the court, and
had coldly studied every stage of human nature, where unbridled human
nature ever ruled the hour, knew what he felt; and it was as though he
had received a sharp wound that thrust him through, body and heart and
soul, and cleft his cold pride in two. For days he wandered beneath the
pines and the rhododendron trees alone, lamenting for the fabric of
mighty philosophy he had built himself, in which no woman was ever to
set foot; and which a woman's hand, a woman's eyes had shattered in a
day. It seemed as if his whole life were blasted and destroyed, so that
he was become even as other men, to suffer love and eat his heart out
for a girl's fair word. He would have escaped from meeting the dark
young princess again; but one evening, as he stood alone upon the
terrace of the gardens, sorrowing for the change in himself, she found
him, and there they looked into each other's eyes and saw a new light,
and loved each other fiercely from that day, as only the untainted
children of godlike races could love. But neither of them dared to tell
the prophet, nor to let those of the palace know that they had pledged
each other their troth, down there upon the moonlit terrace, behind the
myrtles. Instinctively they dreaded lest the knowledge of their love
should raise a storm of anger in Daniel's breast at the idea that his
chosen philosopher should abandon the paths of mystic learning and
reduce himself to the level of common mankind by marriage; and Zoroaster
guessed how painful to the true Israelite would be the thought that a
daughter and a princess of Judah should be united in wedlock with one
who, however noble and true and wise, was, after all, a stranger and an
unbeliever. For Zoroaster, while devoting himself heart and soul to the
study of Daniel's philosophy, and of the wisdom the latter had acquired
from the Chaldeans, had nevertheless firmly maintained his independence
of thought. He was not an Israelite, nor would he ever wish to become
one; but he was not an idolater nor a Magian, nor a follower of Gomata,
the half-Indian Brahmin, who had endeavoured to pass himself off as
Smerdis the son of Cyrus.
Either of these causes alone would have sufficed to raise a serious
obstacle to the marriage. Together they seemed insurmountable. During
the disorder and anarchy that prevailed in the seven months of the reign
of Pseudo-Smerdis, it would have been madness to have married, trusting
to the favour of the wretched semi-monarch for fortune and advancement;
nor could Nehushta have married and maintained her state as a princess
of Judah without the consent of Daniel, who was her guardian, and whose
influence was paramount in Media, and very great even at court.
Zoroaster was therefore driven to conceal his passion as best he could,
trusting to the turn of future events for the accomplishment of his
dearest wish. In the meanwhile, he and the princess met daily in public,
and Zoroaster's position as captain of the fortress gave him numerous
opportunities of meeting Nehushta in the solitude of the gardens, which
were jealously guarded and set apart exclusively for the use of Nehushta
and her household.
But now that the moment had come when it seemed as though a change were
to take place in the destinies of the lovers, they felt constrained.
Beyond a few simple questions and answers, they had not discussed the
matter of the journey when they were together; for Nehushta was so much
surprised and delighted at the idea of again seeing the magnificence of
the court at Shushan, which she so well remembered from the period of
her childhood, that she feared to let Zoroaster see how glad she was to
leave Ecbatana, which, but for him, would have been to her little better
than a prison. He, on the contrary, thinking that he foresaw an
immediate removal of all obstacle and delay through the favor of Darius,
was, nevertheless, too gentle and delicate of tact to bring suddenly
before Nehushta's mind the prospect of marrying which presented itself
so vividly to his own fancy. But he felt no less disturbed in his heart
when face to face with the old prophet's sorrow at losing his
foster-daughter; and, for the first time in his life, he felt guilty
when he reflected that Daniel was grieved at his own departure almost as
deeply as on account of Nehushta. He experienced what is so common with
persons of cold and even temperament when brought into close relation
with more expansive and affectionate natures; he was overcome with the
sense that his old master gave him more love and more thought than he
could possibly give in return, and that he was therefore ungrateful; and
the knowledge he alone possessed, that he surely intended to marry the
princess in spite of the prophet, and by the help of the king, added
painfully to his mental suffering.
The silence lasted some minutes, till the old man suddenly lifted his
head and leaned back among his cushions, gazing at his companion's
face.
"Hast thou no sorrow, nor any regret?" he asked sadly.
"Nay, my lord doth me injustice," answered Zoroaster, his brows
contracting in his perplexity. "I should be ungrateful if I repented not
leaving thee even for the space of a day. But let my lord be comforted;
this parting is not for long, and before the flocks come down from
Zagros to take shelter from the winter, we will be with thee."
"Swear to me, then, that thou wilt return before the winter," insisted
the prophet half-scornfully.
"I cannot swear," answered Zoroaster. "Behold, I am in the hands of the
Great King. I cannot swear."
"Say rather that thou art in the hand of the Lord, and that therefore
thou canst not swear. For I say thou wilt not return, and I shall see
thy face no more. The winter cometh, and the birds of the air fly
towards the south, and I am alone in the land of snow and frost; and the
spring cometh also, and I am yet alone, and my time is at hand; for thou
comest not any more, neither my daughter Nehushta, neither any of my
kinsfolk. And behold, I go down to the grave alone."
The yellow light of the hanging lamp above shone upon the old man's
eyes, and there was a dull fire in them. His face was drawn and haggard,
and every line and furrow traced by the struggles of his hundred years
stood out dark and rugged and tremendous in power. Zoroaster shuddered
as he looked on him, and, though he would have spoken, he was awed to
silence.
"Go forth, my son," cried the prophet in deep tones, and as he spoke he
slowly raised his body till he sat rigidly erect, and his wan and
ancient fingers were stretched out towards the young soldier. "Go forth
and do thy part, for thou art in the hand of the Lord, and some things
that thou wilt do shall be good, and some things evil. For thou hast
departed from the path of crystal that leadeth among the stars, and thou
hast fallen away from the ladder whereby the angels ascend and descend
upon the earth, and thou art gone after the love of a woman which
endureth not. And for a season thou shalt be led astray, and for a time
thou shalt suffer great things; and after a time thou shalt return into
the way; and again a time, and thou shalt perish in thine own
imaginations, because thou hast not known the darkness from the light,
nor the good from the evil. By a woman shalt thou go astray, and from a
woman shalt thou return; yet thou shalt perish. But because there is
some good in thee, it shall endure, and thy name also, for generations;
and though the evil that besetteth thee shall undo thee, yet at the last
thy soul shall live."
Zoroaster buried his face in his hands, overcome by the majesty of the
mighty prophet and by the terror of his words.
"Rise and go forth, for the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and no man
can hinder that thou doest. Thou shalt look upon the sun and shalt
delight in him; and again thou shalt look and the light of the air shall
be as darkness. Thou shalt boast in thy strength and in thine armour
that there is none like thee, and again thou shalt cast thy glory from
thee and say, 'This also is vanity.' The king delighteth in thee, and
thou shalt stand before the queen in armour of gold and in fine raiment;
and the end is near, for the hand of the Lord is upon thee. If the Lord
will work great things by thee, what is that to me? Go forth quickly,
and rest not by the way, lest the woman tempt thee and thou perish. And
as for me, I go also--not with thee, but before thee. See that thou
follow after--for I go. Yea, I see even now light in the darkness of the
world, and the glory of the triumph of heaven is over me, triumphing
greatly in the majesty of light."
Zoroaster looked up and fell to the ground upon his knees in wonder and
amazement at Daniel's feet, while his heavy helmet rolled clanging on
the marble pavement. The prophet stood erect as a giant oak, stretching
his withered hands to heaven, all the mass of his snow-white hair and
beard falling about him to his waist. His face was illuminated as from
within with a strange light, and his dark eyes turned upward seemed to
receive and absorb the brightness of an open heaven. His voice rang
again with the strength of youth, and his whole figure was clothed as
with the majesty of another world. Again he spoke:
"Behold, the voice of the ages is in me, and the Lord my God hath taken
me up. My days are ended; I am taken up and shall no more be cast down.
The earth departeth and the glory of the Lord is come which hath no end
for ever."
"The Lord cometh--He cometh quickly. In His right hand are the ages, and
the days and the nights are under His feet. His ranks of the Cherubim
are beside Him, and the armies of the Seraphim are dreadful. The stars
of heaven tremble, and the voice of their moaning is as the voice of the
uttermost fear. The arch of the outer firmament is shivered like a
broken bow, and the curtain of the sky is rent in pieces as a veil in
the tempest. The sun and the moon shriek aloud, and the sea crieth
horribly before the Lord."
"The nations are extinct as the ashes of a fire that is gone out, and
the princes of the earth are no more. He hath bruised the earth in a
mortar, and the dust of it is scattered abroad in the heavens. The stars
in their might hath He pounded to pieces, and the foundations of the
ages to fine powder. There is nothing of them left, and their voices are
dead. There are dim shapes in the horror of emptiness."
"But out of the north ariseth a fair glory with brightness, and the
breath of the Lord breatheth life into all things. The beam of the dawn
is risen, and there shall again be times and seasons, and the Being of
the majesty of God is made manifest in form. From the dust of the earth
is the earth made again, and of the beams of His glory shall He make new
stars."
"Send up the voices of praise, O ye things that are; cry out in
exultation with mighty music! Praise the Lord in whom is Life, and in
whom all things have Being! Praise Him and glorify Him that is risen
with the wings of the morning of heaven; in whose breath the stars
breathe, in whose brightness also the firmament is lightened! Praise Him
who maketh the wheels of the spheres to run their courses; who maketh
the flowers to bloom in the spring, and the little flowers of the field
to give forth their sweetness! Praise Him, winter and summer; praise
Him, cold and heat! Praise Him, stars of heaven; praise Him, men and
women in the earth! Praise and glory and honour be unto the Most High
Jehovah, who sitteth upon the Throne for ever, and ever, and ever...."
The prophet's voice rang out with tremendous force and majestic
clearness as he uttered the last words. Throwing up his arms to their
height, he stood one moment longer, immovable, his face radiantly
illuminated with an unearthly glory. One instant he stood there, and
then fell back, straight and rigid, to his length upon the cushioned
floor--dead!
Zoroaster started to his feet in amazement and horror, and stood staring
at the body of his master and friend lying stiff and stark beneath the
yellow light of the hanging lamp. Then suddenly he sprang forward and
kneeled again beside the pale noble head that looked so grand in death.
He took one of the hands and chafed it, he listened for the beating of
the heart that beat no more, and sought for the stirring of the least
faint breath of lingering life. But he sought in vain; and there, in the
upper chamber of the tower, the young warrior fell upon his face and
wept alone by the side of the mighty dead.