IV

Again there was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, deeper and more

mysterious than the first interval, and I understood that the years of

Artaban were flowing very swiftly under the stillness, and I caught only

a glimpse, here and there, of the river of his life shining through the

mist that concealed its course.

I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous Egypt, seeking

everywhere for traces of the household that had come down from

Bethlehem, and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees of

Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the Roman fortress of New Babylon

beside the Nile--traces so faint and dim that they vanished before him

continually, as footprints on the wet river-sand glisten for a moment

with moisture and then disappear.

I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted their sharp

points into the intense saffron glow of the sunset sky, changeless

monuments of the perishable glory and the imperishable hope of man. He

looked up into the face of the crouching Sphinx and vainly tried to

read the meaning of the calm eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed,

the mockery of all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said--the

cruel jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never can

succeed? Or was there a touch of pity and encouragement in that

inscrutable smile--a promise that even the defeated should attain a

victory, and the disappointed should discover a prize, and the ignorant

should be made wise, and the blind should see, and the wandering should

come into the haven at last?

I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel with a

Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over the rolls of parchment

on which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud the pathetic

words which foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah--the

despised and rejected of men, the man of sorrows and acquainted with

grief.

“And remember, my son,” said he, fixing his eyes upon the face of

Artaban, “the King whom thou seekest is not to be found in a palace, nor

among the rich and powerful. If the light of the world and the glory

of Israel had been appointed to come with the greatness of earthly

splendour, it must have appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham will

ever again rival the power which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, or

the magnificence of Solomon throned between the lions in Jerusalem. But

the light for which the world is waiting is a new light, the glory that

shall rise out of patient and triumphant suffering. And the kingdom

which is to be established forever is a new kingdom, the royalty of

unconquerable love.

“I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the turbulent kings

and peoples of earth shall be brought to acknowledge the Messiah and pay

homage to him. But this I know. Those who seek him will do well to look

among the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed.”

So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again, travelling from place to

place, and searching among the people of the dispersion, with whom the

little family from Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. He

passed through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the

poor were crying for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken

cities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of

helpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom

of subterranean prisons, and the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets,

and the weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate

world of anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to

help. He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick,

and comforted the captive; and his years passed more swiftly than the

weaver’s shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom while the

web grows and the pattern is completed.

It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But once I saw him

for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise, waiting at the gate of a

Roman prison. He had taken from a secret resting-place in his bosom the

pearl, the last of his jewels. As he looked at it, a mellower lustre,

a soft and iridescent light, full of shifting gleams of azure and rose,

trembled upon its surface. It seemed to have absorbed some reflection of

the lost sapphire and ruby. So the secret purpose of a noble life draws

into itself the memories of past joy and past sorrow. All that has

helped it, all that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic

into its very essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer

it is carried close to the warmth of the beating heart.

Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of its meaning, I

heard the end of the story of the Other Wise Man.

V

Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he

was still a pilgrim and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker

than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that covered

them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull as

embers smouldering among the ashes.

Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had

come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy city

before, and had searched all its lanes and crowded bevels and black

prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had

fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make one

more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he

might succeed.

It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with strangers.

The children of Israel, scattered in far lands, had returned to the

Temple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of tongues in

the narrow streets for many days.

But on this day a singular agitation was visible in the multitude. The

sky was veiled with a portentous gloom. Currents of excitement seemed

to flash through the crowd. A secret tide was sweeping them all one way.

The clatter of sandals and the soft, thick sound of thousands of bare

feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that

leads to the Damascus gate.

Artaban joined a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews who

had come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of the

tumult, and where they were going.

“We are going,” they answered, “to the place called Golgotha, outside

the city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heard

what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with them

another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful

works among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priests

and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out to

be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said

that he was the ‘King of the Jews.’”

How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban!

They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now they came to

him mysteriously, like a message of despair. The King had arisen, but

he had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he

was already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in Bethlehem

thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had appeared in heaven,

and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?

Artaban’s heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful

apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within

himself: “The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it

may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of his enemies,

and shall come in time to offer my pearl for his ransom before he dies.”

So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps

toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the

guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging

a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused

to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of

her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the

knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.

“Have pity on me,” she cried, “and save me, for the sake of the God of

Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by

the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I

am seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than

death!”

Artaban trembled.

It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the

palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict

between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift

which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn

to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate

probation, the final and irrevocable choice.

Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not tell.

One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was inevitable.

And does not the inevitable come from God?

One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helpless

girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the

soul?

He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so

radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of the

slave.

“This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I

kept for the King.”

While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and shuddering tremors

ran through the earth heaving convulsively like the breast of one who

struggles with mighty grief.

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and

crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled

in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he

had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.

What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given away the last

remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope

of finding him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in that

thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation.

It was not submission. It was something more profound and searching. He

knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he could from

day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him.

He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was

all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that

was possible. He had not seen the revelation of “life everlasting,

incorruptible and immortal.” But he knew that even if he could live his

earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the

ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man

on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting

on the young girl’s shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As

she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through

the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance,

in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to

see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she saw no

one.

Then the old man’s lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard

him say in the Parthian tongue:

“Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or

thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee

in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and

came unto thee? Three-and--thirty years have I looked for thee; but I

have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King.”

He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it,

very faint and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood the

words:

“Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the

least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me.”

A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like

the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath of relief

exhaled gently from his lips.

His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man

had found the King.