CHELLUH DRIVES A BARGAIN
The dog, Baladan, led a lonely life in these days. Confined to his own
little quarter of Jerusalem by that unwritten yet inexorable law which
prevails to this day among the half wild street dogs of oriental cities,
he dared not follow his adopted master beyond the corner of the short,
dark street which was his chosen haunt. After some mysterious fashion the
dog was aware that should he venture alone into the streets and squares
beyond he would be instantly torn in pieces.
’Tis seldom that an animal of the pariah breed shows the least regard or
affection for men. But Tor was so like a little animal himself that the
heart of the great, gaunt beast had gone out to him. And Tor responded in
kind. The undivided love of a beast is better than no love at all. Perhaps
it is because of this that the heart of a dog is so loving; more than once
has it solaced pain that would otherwise be unbearable in the nobler heart
of a child.
Baladan was licking with anxious care a fragment of leather once worn by
his little master. This done, he laid his ugly head upon it, and dreamed a
vague dream of delight in which one figure—the figure of Tor—moved always
before him.
Suddenly he sprang up, his rough coat bristling, and listened, then with a
whine of delight bounded forward and flung himself upon the small, half‐
naked figure that was stealing along in the shadow of the high walls.
Tor was breathing fast and his puny chest heaved with an occasional
strangling sob as he flung himself down by the dog. “Oh, Baladan,” he
whispered, “I can’t find him; what shall I do?”
Baladan covered the child’s feet with warm, wet kisses, his great yellow‐
brown eyes brimming over with tears of anxious affection. He moaned and
gurgled and laid one hard paw on his master’s knee in token of his utter
allegiance. Tor wound his thin arms about the dog’s neck, and buried his
face in the scanty yellow fur. “Let us sleep, Baladan,” he said drowsily,
after a time. And the two curled themselves in their old haunt under the
dark archway and presently dreamed and slept.
The sound of voices lowered to a hissing whisper suddenly aroused the
child. He touched the dog warningly, and listened. A name had been
spoken—the name of his Master—he was sure of it.
“I have a score to settle with the Galilean, I tell thee,” said the
whining voice of Chelluh. “The other man is nothing to me.”
“Did he not heal thee of blindness?” demanded the second voice with a
touch of impatience.
“He did, and that I will swear to. Since then the matter has been noised
abroad, and no one will give me so much as a denarius to buy my daily
victual. They tell me to work—to dig—to cut stone—to build walls. May the
Furies reward them! I will not work, and I will eat.”
“Thou shalt eat thy fill if thou wilt do my bidding. Listen. This man,
Jesus, who has so taken thy living from thee, is either a God or a false
prophet—may Jehovah help me, but I know not what he is! The priests and
Pharisees hate him. The people are divided. He must declare himself either
one way or the other. I have sworn that I will force him to it. And I have
sworn further to deliver him into the hands of the priests without tumult.
I have watched thee and thou art a tool fitted to my hand. Go thou among
those of thine own sort and arouse them against the man. Thou canst do it.
Thou hast a nimble tongue, and the rabble will hear thee.”
“What if he be a God,” demanded Chelluh, with a gesture of fear. “Nay, I
will have none of it. He opened mine eyes, and I was born blind. I am
afraid to lift my hand against such a man.”
“But if he be a God,” said the other eagerly, “he will make it known
rather than die like a criminal. Hark you, they will stone him, or crucify
him, if they are able.”
“I am afraid of the man,” growled Chelluh. “And who art thou to do this
thing! I am no whining Levite; but thou—art verily a devil.”
“I am a patriot,” declared the other boldly. “I know the man well. He
professes to be Messiah. If he is the true Deliverer not a hair of his
head shall be hurt; if not, let him die the death. I have sworn it.”
Then was a short silence broken by the musical chink of silver. “There is
naught to fear from Jesus of Nazareth,” said the voice of the man who had
declared himself a patriot. “He would render to no man evil for evil. I
have heard him say it many times, and I know that he is true. He loves his
enemies and forgives every one who offends—not once only, but seventy
times seven. If he prove to be Messiah I shall confess my plans and my
thoughts to him, and he will forgive me readily. I shall then be a great
prince and potentate in the new kingdom. This paltry sum shall be
multiplied to thee thrice over.”
“I will do it,” said Chelluh, shaking the silver pieces in his hard palms
till they chinked again. “And I also will be forgiven, after I have worked
my will with the man and with the multitude.” The beggar laughed aloud.
Tor shuddered at the evil sound as he lay quiet in his lair. After that
the silence remained unbroken, and the child at length ventured to peep
out from the archway. The two men were just emerging into the brightly‐
lighted square beyond, and the sun falling full upon the face of Chelluh’s
companion revealed it as the face of Judas. Tor flung his arms about the
neck of the dog. “Oh, Baladan,” he whispered, “I must find my Master. If I
were only a great man with a great sword how I would fight for him!”
But the boy remained where he was for another hour till the sun had sunken
behind the mountains. Then, emerging into the twilight of the narrow
street, he trotted noiselessly away. Baladan followed at his heels like a
shadow, and like a shadow refused to be left behind at the accustomed
boundary. Some vague stirring in the dog’s loving heart told him that his
master was going into danger, and forthwith his own imminent peril was
forgotten.
To his unbounded joy, Tor saw not many rods distant the figure of Peter,
the Galilean, walking swiftly along with bent head. He ran to him and,
placing himself directly in the man’s way, bowed himself humbly before
him. “I beseech thee to listen to me, honorable Galilean,” he began, “for
I have evil tidings which concern my Master.”
The dog whined uneasily, and flattened his lean body against the stones.
The man’s angry eyes cut him like a lash.
“Out of my way, companion of a pariah,” said the Galilean, with profound
disgust. “What hast thou to do with the Master?”
He strode forward, shaking off with a shudder of loathing the small
imploring hand of the beggar child. “They will kill him,” cried Tor. “The
man said so. They hate him!”
The dog sprang forward with a low growl of anger and fastened his white
teeth in the garments of the fisherman. That wail of anguish in his
master’s voice had roused him to a frenzy.
The Galilean raised his stout oaken staff and smote the animal
twice—thrice with all his strength. The gaunt body quivered, dropped,
rolled over once, and was still.
The Jew hurried away, breathing deep in his anger and disgust. “I am
defiled,” he muttered, “for the breath of an unclean beast hath polluted
my garments.” He glanced back over his shoulder and beheld the beggar
kneeling by the body of the dog. And his indignation found vent in deep‐
mouthed, muttered curses.
That same night the passover was sacrificed, and all Jerusalem feasted
with solemn rites and decorous rejoicings. But Tor crouched on the stones
outside one of the low, dark houses within the third wall of the city. He
had followed the Galilean afar off, had seen him at length with his Master
and the eleven enter this house. The child drowsed between whiles as the
hours passed, and the white moon looked down at him between the houses. He
had forgiven Peter, the Galilean, for the death of Baladan, even as his
Master had commanded, and that singular peace which the world neither
gives nor takes away filled his soul.
He could have told no man why he was so strangely content, when, in the
old days, fury would have scorched him. For the moment he had forgotten
the evil words of Chelluh and the disciple called Judas; and, remembering
them, he murmured a simple prayer to the mysterious, unseen Father, in
whom he was coming to believe with all the strength of his childish being.
“Our Father will take care of my Master,” he said aloud, and smiled alone
in the darkness.
Within the house, in a large upper chamber, Jesus sat at his last meal
upon earth with the few whom he had chosen, knowing all things that should
shortly come to pass, and understanding to the full the pitiful ignorance
and darkness in the hearts of the disciples.
Again they disputed among themselves as to which of them should be
accounted greatest in that coming kingdom of glory which the Master now
told them plainly had been appointed unto him. To sit upon twelve thrones
judging the twelve tribes of Israel was, indeed, a glorious future; they
accepted the idea with complaisance, but one must be greater than his
fellows in any kingdom, and each of them coveted the supreme crown of
power.
Then Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands,
and that he came forth from God, and was going to God, arose from supper,
and laying aside his garments, took a basin and began to wash the
disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel wherewith he was girded.
And so he came in turn to Peter.
Peter said to him, “Lord, thou shalt never wash my feet.”
Jesus answered, “If I wash thee not, thou hast no part with me.”
“Lord, not my feet only,” said Peter, “but my hands and my head.”
Then came that dark moment when the man called Judas received the morsel
of bread dipped in wine. “What thou doest, do quickly,” said the Master,
with a look of full understanding which penetrated the dismal labyrinth of
the man’s soul like a flash of blinding light.
Judas ran violently out of the house, and the darkness swallowed him. He
knew himself at last. He was no eager patriot, no doubting disciple,
anxious to force a triumphant issue. He ground his teeth in a very fury of
rage and hatred, as he sped on his terrible mission.
The beggar child, drowsing on the cold stones without, shuddered at sound
of that ominous, hurrying footfall. “My Father will take care of him,” he
murmured, and again slept.
Within that dimly‐lighted upper chamber the compassionate Master was
trying to prepare the little company of unsuspecting disciples for the
darker hours just before them. “All ye shall be offended because of me
this night,” he said sorrowfully. “For it is written, I will smite the
shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad. But after
I am raised up, I will go before you into Galilee.”
Peter answered in his bold, positive way, “Although all shall be offended,
yet will not I.”
Jesus said to him, “Verily, I say unto thee, that this night, before the
cock crow twice, thou shalt deny me thrice.”
But the Galilean answered with exceeding vehemence, “If I must die with
thee, I will not deny thee!”
And so likewise said all the others.