Totila, avoiding the more thickly populated parts of the inner town,
hurried through the suburbs towards the Porta Capuana and the tower of
Isaac, the Jewish gate-keeper.
This tower stood on the right of the gate, and had strong walls and a
massive arched roof. It was divided into different stories, each being
smaller than the one below it. In the top story, close to the
battlements, were two low but roomy chambers, intended for the dwelling
of the gate-keeper.
There lived the old Jew, with Miriam, his beautiful daughter.
In the largest of these two rooms--where, against the walls, hung
a row of heavy keys belonging to the principal and side doors of
this important gate, a curved signal-horn, and the spear of the
gate-keeper--sat Isaac, the aged warder, a tall, bony figure, with the
hooked nose and arched and bushy eyebrows of his nation. He sat upon a
reed mat, with his legs crossed, a long staff laid upon his knees,
listening attentively to the words of a young, ill-favoured-looking
man, evidently an Israelite, whose hard, sober features were expressive
of all the cunning of his race.
"Look here, father Isaac," he was saying, in a thin, unpleasant voice,
"my words are no vain words, and do not come only from the heart, which
is blind, but from the mind, which is sharp to discern. I have brought
letter and document for every word that I speak. Here is my appointment
as architect of all the aqueducts in Italy; fifty gold solidi yearly,
and ten more for every new undertaking. I have just reconstructed the
half-ruined aqueduct for this city of Neapolis; in this purse are the
ten solidi, money down. Thou seest I can keep a wife, and besides, I am
thy cousin Rachel's son, so do not let me speak in vain, but give me
Miriam, thy child, to wife, so that she may set my house in order."
But the old man stroked his long grey beard, and shook his head slowly.
"Jochem, son of Rachel, I say to thee, leave it alone, leave it alone."
"Why, what hast thou against me? Who in Israel can speak against
Jochem?"
"No one. Thou art just and peaceful and industrious, and increasest thy
substance, and thy work flourisheth before the Lord. But hast thou ever
seen the nightingale mated with the sparrow, or the slender gazelle
with the beast of burden? They do not suit each other; and now, look
there, and tell me thyself if thou art fitted for Miriam?"
He softly pushed aside the curtain which shut off the outer chamber. At
a large bow-window which commanded a view of the splendid city, the
blue sea, and the distant mountains, stood a young girl, holding a
strangely-shaped stringed instrument in her arms. The room was filled
with the glowing light of the setting sun, which bathed the white
garments and the noble features of the girl with a rosy lustre. It
played upon her shining black hair, which, stroked back behind the
small ears, exposed the delicate temples; and, like this sunshine, a
poetical harmony seemed to envelop her whole figure, accompanying her
every movement, and every dreamy look of her dark blue eyes, which,
filled with gentle thoughts, gazed out over sea and city. Piso, the
poet, had called these eyes "dark sea-blue."
As if in a half dream, her fingers touched the strings of her
instrument softly, while from her half-open lips there breathed an old
and melancholy song:
"By the waters of Babylon
We sat down and wept.
When comes the day when Israel
Shall cease to weep?"
"Shall cease to weep?" she repeated dreamily, and leaned her head upon
her arm, which, enclosing the harp, she rested upon the window-sill.
"Look there!" said the old man in a low voice, "is she not as lovely as
the rose of Sharon, or the hind upon the mountain, without spot or
fleck?"
Before Jochem could answer, there sounded from below three knocks upon
the small iron door. Miriam started from her reverie, and hurried down
the narrow winding staircase. Jochem went to the window, and his face
grew dark and frowning.
"Ha! the Christian! the cursed Christian!" he growled, and clenched his
fist. "That fair Goth again, with his insufferable pride! Father Isaac,
is that the stag that suits thee for thy hind?"
"Son, speak no mocking word against Isaac! Thou knowest that the youth
has set his heart upon a Roman girl; he thinks not of the Pearl of
Judah!"
"But perhaps the Pearl of Judah thinks of him!"
"With joy and gratitude, as the lamb thinks of the strong shepherd who
has saved it from the jaws of the wolf. Hast thou forgotten, that, when
last these cursed Romans hunted for the treasures and gold-heaps of
Israel, and burnt down the synagogue with unholy fire, a band of these
wicked men chased my poor child through the streets, like a pack of
wolves after a white lamb, and tore the veil from her face, and the
kerchief from her shoulders? Where was Jochem then, my cousin's son,
who had accompanied her? He had fled from danger with swift feet, and
had left the dove in the claws of the vulture!"
"I am a man of peace," said Jochem uneasily; "my hand holds not the
sword of force."
"But Totila held it, brave as the Lion of Judah; and the Lord was with
him. Alone he sprang amid the group of impudent robbers, struck the
boldest with his sharp sword, and drove away the others as a falcon
frighten crows. He covered my trembling child carefully with her veil,
and supporting her tottering footsteps, led her home, unhurt, to the
arms of her old father. May Jehovah the Lord bless him for this deed
with long life and happiness!"
"Well," said Jochem, taking up his papers, "then I will go: this time
for a long while. I must travel over the great waters to transact an
important business."
"An important business? With whom?"
"With Justinianus, the Emperor of the East. A portion of the great
church, which he is building to the glory of God, in the golden town of
Constantine, has fallen in. I have made a plan for the restoration of
the building."
The old man sprang up hastily, and struck his stick upon the ground.
"What, Jochem, son of Rachel! wilt thou serve the Romans? Wilt thou
serve the Emperor, whose forefathers destroyed the holy city of Zion,
and reduced the Temple of the Lord to ashes? Wilt thou build a house
for the erring faith, thou, the son of the pious Manasseh? Woe, woe to
thee!"
"Why callest thou 'woe,' and knowest not wherefore? Canst thou smell
whether a gold piece comes from the hand of a Jew or from that of a
Christian? Does it not weigh as heavily and shine as brightly?"
"Son of Manasseh, thou canst not serve God and Mammon."
"But thou thyself art a servant of the unbelievers! Do I not see the
warder's keys on the walls of thy chamber? Dost thou not keep them for
these Goths, and openest the doors for their outgoing and incoming, and
guardest the castle of their strength?"
"Yes, I do so," said the old man proudly; "and I will watch for them
faithfully, day and night, like a dog for its master; and as long as
Isaac lives, no enemy of their nation shall enter these gates. For the
children of Israel owe fervent thanks to them and to their great King,
who was as wise as Solomon and as mighty as Gideon! We owe them such
thanks as our forefathers owed to Cyrus, who freed them from the
Babylonian captivity. The Romans destroyed the Temple of the Lord, and
scattered His people over the face of the earth. They have mocked and
beaten us, and burnt our holy places, and plundered our towns, and
defiled our houses, and forced our wives, all over this land, and have
made many a cruel law against us. But there came this great King from
the North, whose seed may Jehovah bless! and he rebuilt our synagogues,
and where the Romans had destroyed them, they were obliged to rebuild
them with their own hands and their own money. He protected our homes,
and whoever injured an Israelite was punished as if he had offended a
Christian. He left us our God and our belief, and protected our
commerce, and we celebrated the Paschal in such joy and peace as we had
never known since the time when the Temple still stood upon Zion. And
when a Roman noble had taken my Sarah from me by force, King Theodoric
ordered that his proud head should be struck off that very day, and
gave me back my wife unhurt. This I will remember as long as my days
endure, and I will serve the nation faithfully till death, and once
again it shall be said far and wide: as faithful and true as a Jew!"
"Mayst thou not reap ingratitude where thou sowest gratitude," said
Jochem, preparing to go; "it seems to me that the time will come, when
I shall again sue for Miriam--for the last time. Perhaps, father Isaac,
thou wilt then be less proud." And he went through Miriam's chamber and
down the steps, where he met Totila.
With an ungracious bow and a piercing look, the little man pressed
past the slender Goth, who was obliged to stoop, as he entered the
warder's dwelling.
Miriam followed Totila immediately.
"There hangs your gardener's dress," said she in a melodious voice,
without raising her long lashes, "and here in the window I have placed
the flowers ready. You said lately that she loved the white narcissus.
I have taken care to procure some. They smell so sweet!"
"You are a good little maiden, Miriam," said Totila, taking off his
helmet with the silver-white swan's wings, and setting it upon the
table. "Where is your father?"
"The blessing of the Lord rest upon thy golden locks," said the old
man, as he entered the room.
"Good even, faithful Isaac!" cried Totila, taking off the long white
mantle which hung from his shoulders, and enveloping himself in a brown
cloak, which Miriam took down from the wall. "You good people! without
you and your faithful silence, all Neapolis would know of my secret.
How can I thank you!"
"Thank?" said Miriam, fixing her beaming eyes upon him, "you have
thanked us beforehand to all eternity!"
"No, Miriam," said Totila, pulling a broad-brimmed brown felt hat low
down upon his forehead, "that was nothing. Tell me, father Isaac, who
is that little man who just went away, and whom I have often met here?
It seems to me that he has cast his eyes upon Miriam. Speak frankly. If
a dowry is wanting--I would gladly be of use."
"Love is wanting--on her side," said Isaac quietly,
"Then I can certainly do no good! But if her heart has chosen
elsewhere--I should like to do something for my Miriam!" and he laid
his hand gently upon the maiden's shining hair.
The touch was but slight, but as if a flash of lightning had startled
her, Miriam fell suddenly upon her knees. Her head sank upon her bosom,
and, crossing her arms, she slipped down at Totila's feet like a flower
heavy with dew.
Totila drew back a step in surprise. But the next moment the girl had
risen.
"Forgive, it was only a rose--it fell at your feet," She placed the
flower upon the table, and seemed so composed, that neither her father
nor Totila thought further of the occurrence. "It is growing dark
already; make haste, sir!" she said quietly, and gave him a basket
containing flowers and plants.
"I go. Valeria is very thankful for all your kindness. I have told her
a great deal about you, and she has long wished to see you. Well,
perhaps we can soon manage it--to-day is, probably, the last time that
I shall need this disguise."
"Do you mean to carry off the daughter of Edom?" cried the old man.
"Bring her here! here she will be well hidden!"
"No," interposed Miriam, "not here! no, no!"
"Why not, thou strange child?" asked her father in a tone of annoyance.
"This is no place for a bride--this chamber--it would bring her no
blessing."
"Be not uneasy," said Totila, as he went to the door, "I shall soon
put an end to secrecy by sueing for her hand openly. Farewell!" He
hastened out.
Isaac took the spear, the horn, and several keys from the wall, and
followed in order to open the gate for Totila, and make the round of
all the doors of the great tower.
Miriam remained alone.
For a long time she stood with closed eyes motionless on the same spot.
At last she passed both hands over her forehead and cheeks, and looked
about her.
The room was very quiet; through the open window stole the first beam
of moonlight. It fell silvery upon Totila's white mantle, which hung in
long folds over a chair. Miriam ran and covered the hem of the mantle
with burning kisses. She took the glittering helmet, which stood near
her upon the table, and pressed it tenderly to her heart with both
arms. Then holding it a little way from her, she gazed upon it dreamily
for a few moments, and, at last--she could not resist--she lifted it up
and placed it upon her lovely head. She started as the heavy bronze
touched her forehead, and then, stroking back her dark braids, she
pressed the cold hard steel firmly upon her brow. She then took it off,
and set it, looking shyly round, in its former place, and going to
the window she looked out into the magic moonlight and the scented
night-air. Her lips moved as if in prayer, but the words of the prayer
were the same old song:
"By the waters of Babylon
We sat down and wept.
O daughter of Zion, when comes the day
Which stills thy heavy pain?"