wondered numbly, God's retribution for his cowardly flight from the
ordeal appointed by Him? Without hope and without fear he watched
some of the Arabs dismount and move among the captured company,
carrying drawn swords in their hands. Soon an Arab approached him
also, and he was led away to where four camels lay waiting. The
small heads with their great eyes and haughty muzzles moved,
scornfully inquisitive, on the top of the long bird-like necks. The
Arab stopped before the first and signed to Malchus to mount. A
figure wrapped in a black cloak was already in the saddle. Malchus
climbed up behind it. The figure did not stir, and Malchus, too,
neither stirred nor spoke, waiting idly for what should happen.
When all the prisoners were mounted and a party of Arabs had taken
charge of the captured camels, one of the Arabs came up and beat up
the four grumbling beasts and the company began to move. The van and
the rear of the caravan, which had fled forward and backward, were no
longer in sight. They had vanished among the rocks and sandhills.
Malchus, looking for the sun, saw that they were now traveling due
east. At first they moved slowly, but soon the leaders broke into a
canter and Malchus and his unknown companion were flung against each
other. The violent swaying began to give him great pain, and, seeing
that his companion was also distressed, Malchus put his arms about
him that they might steady each other. Thus bound together, they
were able to avoid the swaying and buffeting which had tormented them
and endangered their safety when apart. The thought of Alexandria,
which, when he had joined the caravan, had grown for Malchus into
something beautifully and terribly real, had shrunk back now into a
dream. Perhaps he would never go there now, and his mind
effortlessly began to picture the city--the streets, his parents'
house, his own house, and that little door, so piercingly familiar,
which opened into Helena's garden. He paused at the door, hesitated;
something--he could not remember what--held him forcibly back, but he
shook off the restraint and opened the door. He went in quickly and
secretly, shutting the door behind him, and stood breathless at the
beauty of the place, at the gentle stirring chequer of sunlight and
leaf shadows, the flowers drooping in clusters from the trees and
swelling in mounds of blended colors from the grass, the
fountains--silver ghosts half-seen among the trees--filling the place
with the cooling rustle of water. He ventured forward upon a grassy
walk, but figures moved among the trees and he hid himself till they
had passed. "Where is she?" he asked himself with ecstatic fear, and
just as he was going to move again he saw that Helena was watching
him through the boughs. She came toward him, her eyes shining with
pleasure, and he stood waiting. A voice called him loudly and
commandingly from the garden gate. He trembled, for he knew that it
was the voice of God; but he lingered like a disobedient child and
Helena caught him by the shoulders. Then, submitting wilfully to his
desire as he had done when the cane-gatherer came to his cell, he
threw his arms around Helena, whispering into her ear little
passionate phrases, deliciously aware of the smallness and suppleness
of the body in his arms. Then a startling rush of wind in his ears
and a gust of sand in his face, and he awoke to the flowerless desert
and the weary lurching of the camel. But still he was no more than
half awake; still his mind thrilled to the sweetness of his meeting
with Helena, his arms still felt that soft weight of her body.
Though a man is not responsible before God for his dreams, was it not
deadly sin to take delight in the memory of them? But this was more
than a memory. He still held the soft body in his arms. He cried
out in fear and the cry roused him from his drowsiness. The body
that he clasped was the body of his fellow captive. He shuddered and
loosed his grasp, as if what he clasped were a thing unclean. But at
his cry and the loosing of his arms his companion turned, and at the
same moment another gust of wind blew the cloak from the muffled
face. Malchus saw with horror and despair that the face looking at
him was the face of a woman.
Was she an evil spirit in human form? Or was it that God had rescued
him from his cowardly flight and his desperate attempt to return to
Alexandria, and brought him again, with an inexorable indulgence,
face to face with his sin? Malchus did not know; but he knew that he
was in dire jeopardy and he prayed from his heart, making the holy
sign at the end of each prayer. And still, despite his prayers, the
woman remained on the saddle in front of him, so that he knew she was
no demon, but a creature of flesh and blood like himself. The speed
of their going had slackened to a walk, but now again the leaders of
the company urged on the lurching beasts and again Malchus and his
companion clung together for safety. And Malchus cried to the soul
within him: "O my soul, such is the outcome of your attempt to escape
the judgment of God and return to the life which you had cast off."
[Illustration: woodcut]
_Chapter
Fourteen_
Late in the evening of the second day, when the sky was already
curdling into darkness and those sharp points of brightness which are
called the stars, they halted. They had reached the Arab encampment.
A dark cluster of tents showed square and angular on the gray plain
and the air was full of the mournful bleating of the flocks which had
been brought in from pasture. Then the same Arab came and made their
camel kneel down, and Malchus and the woman stepped stiffly into the
sand and lay down apart to rest in the place appointed for them.
Soon after the dawn Malchus awoke. A tall figure stood beside him,
who ordered him to rise up and follow him. It was the sheikh of the
company who had captured them, and he led Malchus toward the largest
of the tents and, lifting the curtain of the doorway, took him
inside. A woman crouched on the floor, preparing food. The sheikh
told Malchus that this was his mistress whom he must obey, and
Malchus, being defenseless, bowed himself down before the Arab woman.
Then food of curdled camel's milk was given to him for himself and
the woman who had ridden with him, and he returned to the place where
he had slept. Of the rest of the captives he saw nothing, and, being
alone with the woman among a strange people, Malchus was forced to
converse with her daily, to the peril of his soul. But he did not
allow his eyes to fall upon her, for he had seen that she was young
and beautiful. Her name was Veronica. She was a married woman of
his own race. Her husband's house was in Lycopolis, and when she had
fallen into the hands of the Arabs she had been traveling to
Alexandria; but of her life and circumstances Malchus knew no more,
since he forbore to question her or to talk with her more than was
needful. She herself spoke no more than he, but when she did so the
soft low note of her voice thrilled him, for it was too like the
voice of Helena--so like that, whenever she spoke, old memories and
old delights woke again in his heart and dreams of Helena troubled
his nightly sleep.
After a few days the sheikh led Malchus out and set him in charge of
their flock in place of the Arab shepherd who was so old that he
could scarcely drag his parched and wearied body as far as the meager
pastures where the beasts found a daily sustenance. For two days the
old shepherd accompanied Malchus, showing him where the sparse herb
sprang among the rocks and thorns, and in the evening when they had
returned to the tents he sat with Malchus, teaching him the names of
the sheep and goats. Each had its own name and each when called
would raise its head and come to the call. The Arabs scorn the
shepherd's lot, preferring the monotonous idleness of the camp to the
free and open life of the herdsman, and none of them will undertake
it except from bare necessity.
But the freedom and peace of the shepherd's life comforted Malchus.
He rose with the dawn and led forth the flock, and when they had
reached the pasture land the beasts browsed slowly forward till near
upon noon, when he called them in to shelter from the torrid heat in
the shadows of the rocks or thickets. There he milked a goat or
sheep for his midday meal and, having drunk, stretched himself full
length in the shade while the sheep stood together with hanging heads
and the goats drew apart and lay down to rest. Then, when the
breathless urgence of the noon was past, Malchus called them out to
pasture again till sunset, when he led them back to the encampment,
where the women were waiting to milk the ewes and female goats. Each
beast knew the woman that milked it and went of its own accord to the
accustomed tent. With the darkness the herd lay down to rest where
the horses and camels were gathered about the tents, and the sheep
dogs mounted guard through the night, prowling to and fro with
frequent snarling and barking. Sometimes a wolf came out of the
rocky hills, and at his approach the flock would suddenly shrink
together in a panic and the dogs set up a loud baying. Then the
shepherd with beating heart leaped up and raised a clamor to drive
off the thief; but often, when the night was moonless, a small,
agonized bleating was heard in the darkness and, when the light
returned, the flock was the less by a lamb. When no green herb
remained within a short distance of the camp, Malchus had to lead the
flock further afield, and sometimes for many days together they were
out in the open desert, since it was too far to return to camp each
night. At such times the sheikh used to ride out once in two or
three days to see that all was well with the flock.
Malchus was glad of this peaceful occupation. All day he had the
solitude that he desired and he was dependent upon no man, for by his
labor as shepherd he earned the milk which he drew from the flock for
his sustenance. In that high desert country the air was pure and
sweet and, except during the burning noon-tide hours, the sun was
less fierce than in the lower deserts he had known. His body, under
the daily exercise and the healthy diet of milk, grew firm and strong
and his sleep was the deep sleep of honest weariness. No visions,
good or evil, came to him there. That grim battle ground of the
spirit in which he had lived so long, where the difficult pursuit of
holiness and the endless struggle against evil were alike an
unceasing torment and all earthly things were but the outward
manifestation of striving spiritual forces, seemed now a country
remote as the moon. He had been carried, it seemed, into a peaceful
limbo where all was simple and kindly, and he loved the innocent
beasts that answered his call and intrusted themselves to his
guidance. Only two things marred his life's serenity--the knowledge
that he had failed before the great ordeal of the spirit and had
basely withdrawn from God the life he had dedicated to Him, and the
unappeasable desire of love which flamed up, still undiminished, in
dreams of Helena and the abiding memory of the cane-gatherer which
lived on in his mind unexorcised by all his agonies of repentance and
prayer. The presence of his fellow captive, Veronica, also disturbed
him, and made those unbidden memories more real and vivid than
before. But alone in the high desert with his flock he had many days
of peace in which it seemed to him that he was not altogether
excluded from the mercy of God, and as he led them from patch to
patch of the sparse herb or, unsheathing the sword which he carried
to guard them against wolves, set himself to cut a bundle of dry
thorns for his lonely camp fire, he prayed to God from a full heart
for final deliverance.
Yet in other moods, the fear came upon him that the untroubled quiet
of his life was not the peace of forgiveness, but the silence of
utter exclusion. Perhaps he was no longer tormented by evil spirits
or visited by comforting visions because the battle was over and lost
and Satan waited, secure of his prey, for the moment of his death.
Then horror came upon him and he lay on his face in the dust in the
agony of desperation. But those despairing moods were less frequent
than the other moods of serenity in which it seemed to him that his
life as a shepherd was a blessed respite from the tempestuous life of
hermit.
But one evening the sheikh called him to his tent. To reward him for
his honest service, he told Malchus, he was resolved to give him the
woman Veronica as his wife. "For every man," he said, "has need of a
woman to ease his loneliness and to pitch his tent and serve his
food." Malchus thrust out protesting hands, declaring that he was a
monk and might not marry, and the woman, besides, was married
already. But, hearing his generosity scorned, the sheikh's face grew
dark with anger and he drew his sword and would have killed Malchus
if he had not run for refuge to his mistress, the sheikh's wife, and
grasped her hand. Perforce he resigned himself to the sheikh's will
and, hearing that he submitted, the sheikh was appeased and a tent
was set apart for Malchus and Veronica and they were married after
the manner of the Arabs.
But when at the end of the day they had been brought together into
the tent and left alone, Malchus turned his face from Veronica and
crouched in a corner of the tent. He believed now that the Arabs had
been sent to capture him only that his damnation might be the more
certain. He was being inescapably drawn to commit once more the sin
which had imperiled his immortal soul. But as this thought grew to
terrible certainty in his mind it brought with it another--the
thought that it was surely Satan, and not God, who had led him back
through the wilderness to his cell and shown him the cane-gatherer
waiting for him. His sin, indeed, was unforgivable, God had
abandoned him from the moment he had committed it. He knew now that
all hope was past. The bitterness of death entered into his soul and
with a choking sob he bowed his head to the dust. But one thing, at
least, he could do, one act to bear witness before God that his soul
still desired chastity. Rising from the ground, he drew his sword
from its scabbard and turned the point to his heart.
But in the little moonlight that pierced the darkness of the tent the
woman saw the gleam of the sword and cried out. The sword slipped
from his trembling hands.
"What are you doing?" she cried.
"Do not be afraid," answered Malchus. "I will not harm you."
But Veronica was groping toward him in the dark. She set her foot on
the fallen sword. "Tell me," she whispered, "what you were going to
do."
No reply came from the motionless figure half seen in the darkness
before her. She spoke again:
"Swear to me by Jesus Christ that you will not kill yourself because
of me. Rather, if such is your wish, turn your sword against me, for
I am as anxious as you to preserve my chastity. I fled even from my
lawful husband for the sake of Christ, and when the Arabs captured me
I was on my way with the holy woman, Melania, to enter the White
Convent which is outside the walls of Alexandria. May we not, then,
live together in chastity, loving one another with a spiritual love?
I will cover up my face and speak to you only when necessity compels.
So we shall escape the sheikh's displeasure, for he will never know
that we are not in truth husband and wife."
When Malchus heard these words and perceived the mercy of God, he
knelt down in the tent and offered up thanks to Him who is the
sinner's salvation. Veronica also prayed in a corner of the tent
apart, and when they had made an end they lay down to sleep, for at
dawn Malchus would have to go far out into the desert with the flock
and Veronica would follow him, leading the ass on which they would
load their tent and a few household utensils. In those days the herb
was becoming rare and they had to seek it so far afield that the
shepherd and his flock were often a whole month away from the Arab
camp. But at intervals of three or four days the sheikh, as was his
custom, rode out to see that all was well, and, perceiving that
Malchus took good care of the flock, he was content.
For many weeks Malchus and Veronica lived together chastely in the
sandy solitudes, sharing their single tent and eating together; and
although they seldom spoke and Malchus never saw her face, yet he
knew that a kindness toward her was growing up in his heart, and,
imagining the face that he could not see, he had come to imagine it
always as the face of Helena. So day by day, as he sat lonely among
the high rocks and tended the grazing beasts, or lay drowsing at noon
in the shadow of some great stone or thorn bush, or watched nightly
with the prowling sheep dogs under stars which seemed every moment
about to shower down in their bright millions on to the dim gray
desert, his heart began more and more to turn back with longing
toward his cell.
Then his mind grew fruitful with schemes. The sheikh, secure in his
confidence in Malchus, never visited them now more often than once in
four days, and Malchus began to see that it might be possible for him
and Veronica to escape. He knew where the river lay. From the rocky
heights above their present grazing-grounds he had seen its thin
silvery scroll gleaming far to the west. If they could carry enough
food and water for six days they might be able to reach the river and
find there a boat or some northward-moving caravan.
One evening, when Veronica had finished milking the ewes, Malchus,
returning to their tent, found her in tears. Her trouble was so
great that she was unable to disguise it and she sat with her face
bowed in her hands, her shoulders shaken by sobs. At first, when
Malchus questioned her, she could not speak, but before long she had
gained control of herself. "I think," she sobbed, "that we shall be
captives until our death, and when I reflect that I shall never enter
the holy life for which I have left my husband and my home, despair
comes upon me, for it seems that God has not found worthy the life I
have offered to him."
Then, for the first time, Malchus spoke to her of his schemes. "But
for wanderers in the desert," he said, "there waits hunger and
parching thirst and infinite weariness of the body. Would you risk
these things, and worse, for the bare chance of escape?"
"I would gladly risk death itself," she said; and seeing her so
ready, Malchus began to build up a plan.
"We must wait till the moon is almost at the full, and we must wait,
too, for a day when the sheikh comes to visit us so that we may have
all the interval between that visit and his next before our flight is
discovered. It will be a long journey, four days at the least, and,
if we wander a little out of our direction, perhaps six or seven.
And I must set about preparing food for the journey and water skins
in which to carry water, so that we shall not have to linger on the
way, seeking for these things, for water and green herbs may be very
scarce in the part of the desert that we must cross."
During the days that followed, Malchus killed two kids and dried
their flesh for food, and from their skins he made water skins. It
was the shepherd's duty every second day to lead his flock to one of
the desert pools, for sheep must drink at least once in two days, and
next time he led them to the water Malchus took the skins and brought
them back filled. The moon was already waxing toward the full and,
everything being ready, Malchus and Veronica waited anxiously for the
sheikh's visit.
He came, late one afternoon, cantering on his long-tailed mare, with
two companions. He began at once, as they had feared, to count over
the flock, and soon noticed that two kids were missing. When Malchus
told him that they had died, his face darkened and they waited with
stopped breath for what he would do. But next moment it seemed that
he accepted Malchus's tale, for his face cleared and he spoke of
other matters, and soon he and his two companions mounted and rode
away.
Malchus and Veronica stood watching them as they grew smaller and
smaller and then vanished over the last visible wave of the desert
with bowed heads and cloaks filled out with the wind of their speed.
[Illustration: woodcut]
_Chapter
Fifteen_
Then they began with feverish haste to prepare for flight. First
they dug out of the sand the kids' flesh and water skins which they
had buried to hide them from the sheikh, and then, leaving their tent
standing, they led the flock to the nearest pool, because Malchus
could not bring himself to desert the innocent beasts where they
would perish of thirst.
When the light had almost gone and the flock had lain down about the
pool, they loaded the flesh and the two water skins on their
shoulders and struck out into the void. For a while the dead ashes
of the sunset guided them; then suddenly the heaven was full of
stars, waking depth beneath depth in glittering shoals, and when they
had marched a little above an hour the orange disk of the moon rose
out of the ghostly sands and the whole desert glimmered white and
visionary under the paling and brightening moonlight. They fled on
in haste, not daring for more than a few minutes and at rare
intervals to throw down their burdens and ease their aching
shoulders. Crest beyond crest and trough beyond trough, the desert
dropped downward beneath their stumbling feet and the uplands they
had left grew up higher and higher behind them, lines of black
ramparts against a luminous heaven. Dawn found them faint with
weariness on a rock-strewn waste between two crests. For two hours
still they labored on, till Veronica stumbled and fell and could not
rise. Then they ate a little of the flesh and drank some water and
laid themselves down to sleep a little in the shadows of the rocks.
But it was not long before their fears awoke them, and soon they were
hastening on again until burning noon, brooding breathless upon the
fiery sand, drove them to seek the shadow. And now their failing
bodies, grown careless, in their dire exhaustion, of peril and death,
claimed the repose without which they could no longer endure the
labors demanded of them. They slept till the noonday ardor was long
spent; then, waking with renewed energy and renewed fear, they
plunged on through the hot and clogging sand, turning their heads
sometimes as they hurried onward, to scan the horizon behind them.
But the horizon was bare and all the great spaces they had traversed
empty of life, and moonrise saw them plodding painfully toward the
ever-receding crest of a vast undulation in the sand, beyond which
opened the star-hung emptiness of night. In all their journey they
spoke hardly at all; all their strength and all their breath were
needed to carry them on. But without the help of words, fellowship
and sympathy were strong between them, born of the fears and
hardships they had shared. Sometimes Malchus, reminding himself that
his companion was but a woman, would urge Veronica to take more rest
and food, but Veronica bore up with an energy equal to his own and
for him the steadfastness of body and soul in this small woman was a
thing for wonder and admiration.