All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been
waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground
impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her
master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant
of morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from
the plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along
the high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favorite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.
They drink at the same wayside springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes
of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the
day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name
he calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy,
this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our
souls from death!
And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their
spirited music along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two
hearts that are moved with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to
devour the distance, to attain the goal of the journey.
Artaban must, indeed, ride wisely and well if he would keep the
appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and
fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a
day. But he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety,
making the fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into
the night, and in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the
rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisasans, where the famous herds of
horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda's
approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of
wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great
circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of
surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the
threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the
huge temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the
rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting its immense rugged brow
out over the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his
fallen foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high
upon the face of the eternal cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across the
wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a black mountain-gorge,
where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; across
many a smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vines
and fruit trees; through the oak groves of Carine and the dark Gates of
Zagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where
the people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out
again by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where
he saw the image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall
of rock, with hand uplifted as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims;
past the entrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with
orchards of peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed
down to meet him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapors
spread their deathly mists; following along the course of the river,
under tremulous shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills;
and out upon the flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow
through the stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of
Ctesiphon, where the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis
of Seleucia which Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris
and the many channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the
corn-lands--Artaban pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall of
the tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and he would gladly have turned into the city
to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew that
it was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and
he must reach the place by midnight if he would find his comrades
waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the
stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea.
As she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to
pick her way more carefully.
Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to
fall upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her
heart to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it
wisely, as a good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as
the tomb; not a leaf rustled, not a bird sang.
She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and
sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick breath
of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every
muscle, before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying
across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard face
showed that he was probably one of the poor Hebrew exiles who still
dwelt in great numbers in the vicinity. His pallid skin, dry and yellow
as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged the
marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as
Artaban released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless
breast.
He turned away with a thought of pity, consigning the body to that
strange burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of
the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and
the beasts of prey slink furtively away, leaving only a heap of white
bones in the sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's
lips. The brown, bony fingers closed convulsively on the hem of the
Magian's robe and held him fast.
Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb
resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger?
What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his compassion
or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly reach
Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had given
up the journey. They would go without him. He would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If he stayed, life
might be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency
of the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his divine faith for
the sake of a single deed of human love? Should he turn aside, if only
for a moment, from the following of the star, to give a cup of cold
water to a poor, perishing Hebrew?
"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the holy path, the
way of wisdom which Thou only knowest."
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand,
he carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above
the sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals near
by, and moistened the sufferer's brow and mouth. He mingled a draught
of one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in
his girdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and
poured it slowly between the colorless lips. Hour after hour he labored
as only a skilful healer of disease can do; and, at last, the man's
strength returned; he sat up and looked about him.
"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of the country, "and why
hast thou sought me here to bring back my life?"
"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to
Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a great
Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon my
journey, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart without me.
But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine, and here is a
potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find
the dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon."
The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.
"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper the
journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired haven.
But stay; I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that I can
tell thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said
that he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May
the Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity
upon the sick."
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,
restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain and
swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her
strength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the sun sent her shadow before her as she entered
upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of Artaban,
anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of the
Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends.
The many-colored terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and
green and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, and
crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered
like a ruined rainbow in the morning light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the
highest terrace, looking out towards the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and
the border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and
jackals skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the
caravan of the wise men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and
under them a piece of parchment. He caught it up and read: "We have
waited past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the
King. Follow us across the desert."
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.
"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with no food and with a spent
horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of
camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends.
Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the
King because I tarried to show mercy."