Two paths led over the mountain from the oasis to the sea; both followed
deep and stony gorges, one of which was named the "short cut," because
the traveller reached his destination more quickly by that road than by
following the better road in the other ravine, which was practicable for
beasts of burden. Half-way up the height the "short cut" opened out on a
little plateau, whose western side was shut in by a high mass of rock
with steep and precipitous flanks. At the top of this rock stood a tower
built of rough blocks, in which the anchorites were wont to take refuge
when they were threatened with a descent of their foes.
The position of this castle--as the penitents proudly styled their tower
--was well-chosen, for from its summit they commanded not only the "short
cut" to the oasis, but also the narrow shell-strewn strip of desert which
divided the western declivity of the Holy Mountain from the shore, the
blue-green waters of the sea, and the distant chain of hills on the
African coast.
Whatever approached the tower, whether from afar or from the
neighborhood, was at once espied by them, and the side of the rock which
was turned to the roadway was so precipitous and smooth that it remained
inaccessible even to the natives of the desert, who, with their naked
feet and sinewy arms, could climb points which even the wild goat and the
jackal made a circuit to avoid. It was more accessible from the other
side, and in order to secure that, a very strong wall had been built,
which enclosed the level on which the castle stood in the form of a
horseshoe, of which the ends abutted on the declivity of the short road.
This structure was so roughly and inartistically heaped together that it
looked as if formed by nature rather than by the hand of man. The rough
and unfinished appearance of this wall-like heap of stones was heightened
by the quantity of large and small pieces of granite which were piled on
the top of it, and which had been collected by the anchorites, in case of
an incursion, to roll and hurl down on the invading robbers. A cistern
had been dug out of the rocky soil of the plateau which the wall
enclosed, and care was taken to keep it constantly filled with water.
Such precautions were absolutely necessary, for the anchorites were
threatened with dangers from two sides. First from the Ishmaelite hordes
of Saracens who fell upon them from the east, and secondly from the
Blemmyes, the wild inhabitants of the desert country which borders the
fertile lands of Egypt and Nubia, and particularly of the barren
highlands that part the Red Sea from the Nile valley; they crossed the
sea in light skiffs, and then poured over the mountain like a swarm of
locusts.
The little stores and savings which the defenceless hermits treasured in
their caves had tempted the Blemmyes again and again, in spite of the
Roman garrison in Pharan, which usually made its appearance on the scene
of their incursion long after they had disappeared with their scanty
booty. Not many months since, the raid had been effected in which old
Stephanus had been wounded by an arrow, and there was every reason to
hope that the wild marauders would not return very soon, for Phoebicius,
the commander of the Roman maniple in the oasis, was swift and vigorous
in his office, and though he had not succeeded in protecting the
anchorites from all damage, he had followed up the Blemmyes, who fled at
his approach, and cut them off from rejoining their boats. A battle took
place between the barbarians and the Romans, not far from the coast on
the desert tract dividing the hills from the sea, which resulted in the
total annihilation of the wild tribes and gave ground to hope that such a
lesson might serve as a warning to the sons of the desert. But if
hitherto the more easily quelled promptings of covetousness had led them
to cross the sea, they were now animated by the most sacred of all
duties, by the law which required them to avenge the blood of their
fathers and brothers, and they dared to plan a fresh incursion in which
they should put forth all their resources. They were at the same time
obliged to exercise the greatest caution, and collected their forces of
young men in the valleys that lay hidden in the long range of coast-
hills.
The passage of the narrow arm of the sea that parted them from Arabia
Petraea, was to be effected in the first dark night; the sun, this
evening, had set behind heavy storm-clouds that had discharged themselves
in violent rain and had obscured the light of the waning moon. So they
drew their boats and rafts down to the sea, and, unobserved by the
sentinels on the mountain who had taken shelter from the storm under
their little penthouses, they would have reached the opposite shore, the
mountain, and perhaps even the oasis, if some one had not warned the
anchorites--and that some one was Hermas.
Obedient to the commands of Paulus, the lad had appropriated three of his
friend's gold pieces, had provided himself with a bow and arrows and some
bread, and then, after muttering a farewell to his father who was asleep
in his cave, he set out for Raithu. Happy in the sense of his strength
and manhood, proud of the task which had been set him and which he deemed
worthy of a future soldier, and cheerfully ready to fulfil it even at the
cost of his life, he hastened forward in the bright moonlight. He
quitted the path at the spot where, to render the ascent possible even to
the vigorous desert-travellers, it took a zigzag line, and clambered from
rock to rock, up and down in a direct line; when he came to a level spot
he flew on as if pursuers were at his heels. After sunrise he refreshed
himself with a morsel of food, and then hurried on again, not heeding the
heat of noon, nor that of the soft sand in which his foot sank as he
followed the line of the sea-coast.
Thus passionately hurrying onwards he thought neither of Sirona nor of
his past life--only of the hills on the farther shore and of the
Blemmyes--how he should best surprise them, and, when he had learnt their
plans, how he might recross the sea and return to his own people. At
last, as he got more and more weary, as the heat of the sun grew more
oppressive, and as the blood rushed more painfully to his heart and began
to throb more rapidly in his temples, be lost all power of thought, and
that which dwelt in his mind was no more than a dumb longing to reach his
destination as soon as possible.
It was the third afternoon when he saw from afar the palms of Raithu, and
hurried on with revived strength. Before the sun had set he had informed
the anchorite, to whom Paulus had directed him, that the Alexandrian
declined their call, and was minded to remain on the Holy Mountain.
Then Hermas proceeded to the little harbor, to bargain with the fishermen
of the place for the boat which he needed While he was talking with an
old Amalekite boatman, who, with his black-eyed sons, was arranging his
nets, two riders came at a quick pace towards the bay in which a large
merchant-ship lay at anchor, surrounded by little barks. The fisherman
pointed to it.
"It is waiting for the caravan from Petra," he said. "There, on the
dromedary, is the emperor's great warrior who commands the Romans in
Pharan."
Hermas saw Phoebicius for the first time, and as he rode up towards him
and the fisherman he started; if he had followed his first impulse, he
would have turned and have taken to flight, but his clear eyes had met
the dull and searching glance of the centurion, and, blushing at his own
weakness, he stood still with his arms crossed, and proudly and defiantly
awaited the Gaul who with his companion came straight up to him.
Talib had previously seen the youth by his father's side; he recognized
him and asked how long he had been there, and if he had come direct from
the mountain. Hermas answered him as was becoming, and understood at
once that it was not he that the centurion was seeking.
Perfectly reassured and not without curiosity he looked at the new-comer,
and a smile curled his lips as he observed that the lean old man,
exhausted by his long and hurried ride, could scarcely hold himself on
his beast, and at the same time it struck him that this pitiable old man
was the husband of the blooming and youthful Sirona. Far from feeling
any remorse for his intrusion into this man's house, he yielded entirely
to the audacious humor with which his aspect filled him, and when
Phoebicius himself asked him as to whether he had not met on his way with
a fair-haired woman and a limping greyhound, he replied, repressing his
laughter with difficulty:
"Aye, indeed! I did see such a woman and her dog, but I do not think it
was lame."
"Where did you see her?" asked Phoebicius hastily. Hermas colored, for
he was obliged to tell an untruth, and it might be that he would do
Sirona an injury by giving false information. He therefore ventured to
give no decided answer, but enquired, "Has the woman committed some crime
that you are pursuing her?"
"A great one!" replied Talib, "she is my lord's wife, and--"
What she has done wrong concerns me alone,' said Phoebicius, sharply
interrupting his companion. "I hope this fellow saw better than you who
took the crying woman with a child, from Aila, for Sirona. What is your
name, boy?"
"Hermas," answered the lad. "And who are you, pray?"
The Gaul's lips were parted for an angry reply, but he suppressed it and
said, "I am the emperor's centurion, and I ask you, what did the woman
look like whom you saw, and where did you meet her?"
The soldier's fierce looks, and his captain's words showed Hermas that
the fugitive woman had nothing good to expect if she were caught, and as
he was not in the least inclined to assist her pursuers he hastily
replied, giving the reins to his audacity, "I at any rate did not meet
the person whom you seek; the woman I saw is certainly not this man's
wife, for she might very well be his granddaughter. She had gold hair,
and a rosy face, and the greyhound that followed her was called Iambe."
"Where did you meet her?" shrieked the centurion.
"In the fishing-village at the foot of the mountain," replied Hermas.
"She got into a boat, and away it went!"
"Towards the north?" asked the Gaul.
"I think so," replied Hermas, "but I do not know, for I was in a hurry,
and could not look after her."
"Then we will try to take her in Klysma," cried Phoebicius to the
Amalekite. "If only there were horses in this accursed desert!"
"It is four days' journey," said Talib considering. "And beyond Elim
there is no water before the Wells of Moses. Certainly if we could get
good dromedaries--"
"And if," interrupted Hermas, "it were not better that you, my lord
centurion, should not go so far from the oasis. For over there they say
that the Blemmyes are gathering, and I myself am going across as a spy so
soon as it is dark."
Phoebicius looked down gloomily considering the matter. The news had
reached him too that the sons of the desert were preparing for a new
incursion, and he cried to Talib angrily but decidedly, as he turned his
back upon Hermas, "You must ride alone to Klysma, and try to capture her.
I cannot and will not neglect my duty for the sake of the wretched
woman."
Hermas looked after him as he went away, and laughed out loud when he saw
him disappear into his inn. He hired a boat from the old man for his
passage across the sea for one of the gold pieces given him by Paulus,
and lying down on the nets he refreshed him self by a deep sleep of some
hours' duration. When the moon rose he was roused in obedience to his
orders, and helped the boy who accompanied him, and who understood the
management of the sails and rudder, to push the boat, which was laid up
on the sand, down into the sea. Soon he was flying over the smooth and
glistening waters before a light wind, and he felt as fresh and strong in
spirit as a young eagle that has just left the nest, and spreads its
mighty wings for the first time. He could have shouted in his new and
delicious sense of freedom, and the boy at the stern shook his head in
astonishment when he saw Hermas wield the oars he had entrusted to him,
unskilfully it is true, but with mighty strokes.
"The wind is in our favor," he called out to the anchorite as he hauled
round the sail with the rope in his hand, "we shall get on without your
working so hard. You may save your strength."
"There is plenty of it, and I need not be stingy of it," answered Hermas,
and he bent forward for another powerful stroke.
About half-way he took a rest, and admired the reflection of the moon in
the bright mirror of the water, and he could not but think of Petrus'
court-yard that had shone in the same silvery light when he had climbed
up to Sirona's window. The image of the fair, whitearmed woman recurred
to his mind, and a melancholy longing began to creep over him.
He sighed softly, again and yet again; but as his breast heaved for the
third bitter sigh, he remembered the object of his journey and his broken
fetters, and with eager arrogance he struck the oar flat on to the water
so that it spurted high up, and sprinkled the boat and him with a shower
of wet and twinkling diamond drops. He began to work the oars again,
reflecting as he did so, that he had something better to do than to think
of a woman. Indeed, he found it easy to forget Sirona completely, for in
the next few days he went through every excitement of a warrior's life.
Scarcely two hours after his start from Raithu he was standing on the
soil of another continent, and, after finding a hiding-place for his
boat, he slipped off among the hills to watch the movements of the
Blemmyes. The very first day he went up to the valley in which they were
gathering; on the second, after being many times seen and pursued, he
succeeded in seizing a warrior who had been sent out to reconnoitre, and
in carrying him off with him; he bound him, and by heavy threats learned
many things from him.
The number of their collected enemies was great, but Hermas had hopes of
outstripping them, for his prisoner revealed to him the spot where their
boats, drawn up on shore, lay hidden under sand and stones.
As soon as it was dusk, the anchorite in his boat went towards the place
of embarkation, and when the Blemmyes, in the darkness of midnight, drew
their first bark into the water, Hermas sailed off ahead of the enemy,
landed in much danger below the western declivity of the mountain, and
hastened up towards Sinai to warn the Pharanite watchmen on the beacon.
He gained the top of the difficult peak before sunrise, roused the lazy
sentinels who had left their posts, and before they were able to mount
guard, to hoist the flags or to begin to sound the brazen cymbals, he had
hurried on down the valley to his father's cave.
Since his disappearance Miriam had incessantly hovered round Stephanus'
dwelling, and had fetched fresh water for the old man every morning, noon
and evening, even after a new nurse, who was clumsier and more peevish,
had taken Paulus' place. She lived on roots, and on the bread the sick
man gave her, and at night she lay down to sleep in a deep dry cleft of
the rock that she had long known well. She quitted her hard bed before
daybreak to refill the old man's pitcher, and to chatter to him about
Hermas.
She was a willing servant to Stephanus because as often as she went to
him, she could hear his son's name from his lips, and he rejoiced at her
coming because she always gave him the opportunity of talking of Hermas.
For many weeks the sick man had been so accustomed to let himself be
waited on that he accepted the shepherdess's good offices as a matter of
course, and she never attempted to account to herself for her readiness
to serve him. Stephanus would have suffered in dispensing with her, and
to her, her visits to the well and her conversations with the old man had
become a need, nay a necessity, for she still was ignorant whether Hermas
was yet alive, or whether Phoebicius had killed him in consequence of her
betrayal. Perhaps all that Stephanus told her of his son's journey of
investigation was an invention of Paulus to spare the sick man, and
accustom him gradually to the loss of his child; and yet she was only too
willing to believe that Hermas still lived, and she quitted the
neighborhood of the cave as late as possible, and filled the sick man's
water-jar before the sun was up, only because she said to herself that
the fugitive on his return would seek no one else so soon as his father.
She had not one really quiet moment, for if a falling stone, an
approaching footstep, or the cry of a beast broke the stillness of the
desert she at once hid herself, and listened with a beating heart; much
less from fear of Petrus her master, from whom she had run away, than in
the expectation of hearing the step of the man whom she had betrayed into
the hand of his enemy, and for whom she nevertheless painfully longed day
and night.
As often as she lingered by the spring she wetted her stubborn hair to
smooth it, and washed her face with as much zeal as if she thought she
should succeed in washing the dark hue out of her skin. And all this she
did for him, that on his return she might charm him as much as the white
woman in the oasis, whom she hated as fiercely as she loved him
passionately.
During the heavy storm of last night a torrent from the mountain-height
had shed itself into her retreat and had driven her out of it. Wet
through, shelterless, tormented by remorse, fear and longing, she had
clambered from stone to stone, and sought refuge and peace under first
one rock and then another; thus she had been attracted by the glimmer of
light that shone out of the new dwelling of the pious Paulus; she had
seen and recognized the Alexandrian, but he had not observed her as he
cowered on the ground near his hearth deeply sunk in thought.
She knew now where the excommunicated man dwelt after whom Stephanus
often asked, and she had gathered from the old man's lamentations and
dark hints, that Paulus too had been ensnared and brought to ruin by her
enemy.
As the morning-star began to pale Miriam went up to Stephanus' cave; her
heart was full of tears, and yet she was unable to pour out her need and
suffering in a soothing flood of weeping; she was wholly possessed with a
wild desire to sink down on the earth there and die, and to be released
by death from her relentless, driving torment. But it was still too
early to disturb the old man--and yet--she must hear a human voice, one
word--even if it were a hard word--from the lips of a human being; for
the bewildering feeling of distraction which confused her mind, and the
misery of abandonment that crushed her heart, were all too cruelly
painful to be borne.
She was standing by the entrance to the cave when, high above her head,
she heard the falling of stones and the cry of a human voice. She
started and listened with out-stretched neck and strung sinews,
motionless. Then she broke suddenly into a loud and piercing shout of
joy, and flinging up her arms she flew up the mountain towards a
traveller who came swiftly down to meet her.
"Hermas! Hermas!" she shouted, and all the sunny delight of her heart
was reflected in her cry so clearly and purely that the sympathetic
chords in the young man's soul echoed the sound, and he hailed her with
joyful welcome.
He had never before greeted her thus, and the tone of his voice revived
her poor crushed heart like a restorative draught offered by a tender
hand to the lips of the dying. Exquisite delight, and a glow of
gratitude such as she had never before felt flooded her soul, and as he
was so good to her she longed to show him that she had something to offer
in return for the gift of friendship which he offered her. So the first
thing she said to him was, "I have staid constantly near your father, and
have brought him water early and late, as much as he needed."
She blushed as she thus for the first time praised herself to him, but
Hermas exclaimed, "That is a good girl! and I will not forget it. You
are a wild, silly thing, but I believe that you are to be relied on by
those to whom you feel kindly."
"Only try me," cried Miriam holding out her hand to him. He took it, and
as they went on together he said:
"Do you hear the brass? I have warned the watchmen up there; the
Blemmyes are coming. Is Paulus with my father?"
"No, but I know where he is."
"Then you must call him," said the young man. "Him first and then
Gelasius, and Psoes, and Dulas, and any more of the penitents that you
can find. They must all go to the castle by the ravine. Now I will go
to my father; you hurry on and show that you are to be trusted." As he
spoke he put his arm round her waist, but she slipped shyly away, and
calling out, "I will take them all the message," she hurried off.
In front of the cave where she had hoped to meet with Paulus she found
Sirona; she did not stop with her, but contented herself with laughing
wildly and calling out words of abuse.
Guided by the idea that she should find the Alexandrian at the nearest
well, she went on and called him, then hurrying on from cave to cave she
delivered her message in Hermas' name, happy to serve him.