VISITORS
Over the peaceful Israelitish hills came the piping of a reed flute.
Anyone familiar with the country would know that it was a shepherd,
seeking to assure the flock of his continued presence that they might
fear no evil, but to the young man, scarcely more than a boy, lying
prone on his back in the shade of the bushes, it conveyed nothing at
all, yet it was the only sound which persisted in his consciousness.
He lived by it as much as did the sheep and goats. When the tune was
blithe he saw sunlit fields and abundant harvests; shaded glens and
cool, gurgling streams; a palace and a soldiers’ barracks; the face of
an old, bedridden woman and a delicately pretty girl feeding pigeons in
a romantic spot. When the notes were sad--as they frequently were--he
defended this maid from some grave peril in which the odds were all
against him.
There came a day, however, when he no longer raved in delirium, but
looked upon his surroundings with recognition in his eyes. He tried to
sit up, to reach a little water-bag that looked cool and comforting,
but finding himself weighted down with a strange heaviness, contented
himself with gazing around wonderingly. The sky seemed so near. No,
it was not the sky. It was a covering of skins sewed together and
stretched from one bush to another over him. Nothing else save the
interminable flute which told his newly awakened senses that the
shepherd was near. It was all so soothing, just lying there, and he was
so unexpectedly weak, that he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and
refreshing slumber.
When he awoke the canopy over his head had been removed and he gazed
at the brilliant stars. Looking around, he decided that he must be
inside of a sheepfold. By the moonlight he discerned roughly built
stone walls on four sides. The open entrance was guarded by a recumbent
shepherd, staff in hand, alert, watchful. One, two, three other figures
he counted, evidently sleeping heavily beside great gray masses which
he knew must be sheep. All at once a scream pierced the silence, a
hideous, unearthly sound, and then a long, lithe body leaped over the
wall.
The young man who observed these things knew instinctively that it was
a mountain lion, tempted far from its rocky lair by hunger. He knew
that the shepherds, instantly awakened, would give battle, and that
they would be more than a match for any wild animal in search of food,
but a sense of his own helplessness swept over him. He saw the terror
of the sheep, the mangled body of a victim, heard the cry of its
mother, and then a great wave of sickness shut out sight and sound. He
had fainted from sheer weakness.
A little later he opened his eyes upon the troubled face of the
shepherd--_his_ shepherd, as he soon learned to call him in distinction
from the others, who paid him but scant attention. It was a kindly,
pleasant face, over-thoughtful perhaps but with health and youth
written large under its tan. In the days that followed, the invalid
found himself grasping at the strength and energy radiated by this
personality, basking in his sunny smile, entertained and quite
frequently instructed by his conversation, cheered and encouraged by
his practical helpfulness.
If, however, the convalescent was pleased with the shepherd, how much
more was the shepherd pleased with the convalescent! Moved at first
merely by motives of pity and generosity, he soon took a delight in the
presence of the stranger which was wholly inexplicable to himself. He
had never met anyone--at least not a very young man like himself--who
possessed such a fund of general information and seemed to have
such mature judgment. He talked as one who had lived in cities and
associated with those who had seen much of that world which was new and
strange to this mountain lad who had spent his eager, responsive youth
hand-in-hand with Toil and Responsibility, as youth often does in the
East.
One day, under the shadow of a great rock which shielded them from the
heat of the midsummer sun, they were talking. “How long sayest thou I
have been here, Benjamin?”
“It is eight weeks, Isaac, since I found thee under the bushes yonder,
sick with fever.”
“Then eight weeks hast thou cared for me, night and day. How knewest
thou that I was not a robber, or, worse still, what thy countrymen
despise most, a Syrian spy?” The tone was careless and breathed a
laugh, but the speaker glanced searchingly at his companion, who, after
a moment’s silence, replied quietly:
“I stopped but to consider thy pressing need, Isaac, for our Law
commandeth us to regard the necessity of the stranger, but if I had
thought further, the pack on thy back would have proclaimed thee a
peddler, though thy stock be small. Likewise, thy pronunciation showeth
that our tongue is native to thee and thou hast an Israelitish name.”
Isaac sighed and there sounded in it something of relief. “My mother
was of thy nation,” he explained, “a captive in Syria, where she
married my father, who was of Egyptian blood and a servant in the same
house with herself. I am named for some of her people and she spoke
to me always in her own language.” Then, hastily, as if he feared
questions: “But for thee I might have died, an awful, burning death
here in the wilderness, without even a drink of cold water to allay my
thirst or a friend to save my body from the vultures.”
“Think not of it, Isaac. It is only thy departure on the morrow which
saddeneth me. Caring for thee was as balm to a sore heart, better than
all the aromatic herbs in Gilead.”
Isaac looked questioningly: “A woman?”
The shepherd assented. “From childhood have I had no thought save _of_
her and _for_ her. When I could make her a home, I desired my father
to ask her in marriage of her parents, as is our custom. At first
they were willing, as I had believed, but their consent was refused,
the maiden being pleasing to a man of greater means. Yet was she true
to me. I had it from her own lips and through the mouth of my little
sister, Miriam, of whom I have before spoken to thee. All at once
the maiden changed. Deaf, dumb, and blind did she become to all that
concerned me, and when I would see her they said she was sick, which I
cannot believe, and I had to come away without a word of explanation.
It troubleth me.”
To Isaac, more worldly wise, the reason was plain. “She favoreth the
other,” he said, “and thou shouldst not cherish the memory of one who
hath treated thee with contempt. Canst thou not think of someone else,
Benjamin?”
The shepherd laughed in a mirthless way. “None to fill her place,
Isaac; nor is it of another she thinketh. Nay! One there was who
always appeared at the spring when I was waiting for my beloved. She
was a clever, amusing maid, but a life with her would be like living on
honey without any bread.”
Isaac nodded in comprehension. “The same have I felt toward all the
maidens I ever met save one. Once, as I traveled with my pack, I was
able to avert a danger she knew not of, and her face hath been in my
memory ever since. I have not wished to dislodge it. She fed wild
pigeons, I recall, in a romantic little gorge.”
A silence fell between them, each, with fine feeling, unwilling to ask
for details not volunteered.
The next day, at parting, Isaac took from his own arm a heavy bracelet
of gold and clasped it around Benjamin’s. “Not for its value,” he
insisted, when the shepherd demurred, “but as a covenant of lasting
friendship ’twixt thee and me. As thou hast saved my life so doth it
belong to thee or thine if in aught I can ever serve thee.”
The next minute Benjamin was alone. At the turn of the road Isaac
looked back and waved his hand in farewell and the shepherd, with a
sigh, turned to his sheep and his constant thoughts of Rachel. He did
not know that at that very hour events of considerable importance to
both of them were taking place in the little “city” of their nativity.
* * * * *
Noontime, whose brightness had no power to dispel the sorrow which
hung over Caleb’s household, saw Judith slipping, with a shudder, out
of its gloomy portal. Abner was coming up the hill as she started to
descend it. She answered his pleasant greeting with assumed diffidence.
“I hasten, my lord, desiring to spend a time with Rachel, who, as thou
knowest, hath spent these eight weeks and more in the house and mostly
on her bed, suffering from a mysterious sickness none dareth yet to
name. Save that she hath long been secretly betrothed to my kinsman,
Benjamin, who taketh his sheep to the hills, we know not where, and
that her parents are very wroth--yet because thou hast looked with
favor upon the maid would I warn thee--”
“I thank thee,” he said, slowly, his face somewhat paler than usual,
and the two hurried their separate ways.
In strange contradiction to such solicitude, however, Judith did not
visit Rachel. She rarely did. It was Miriam who sat by her friend’s
side telling her of Hannah’s plight.
“There is not enough grain and olive oil in the whole city to satisfy
Abner’s claim and save Eli and Nathan from bondage, nor will he wait
for the next barley and wheat to be harvested. As for grapes and
olives, they will not be ripe for months. Father hath tried to shame
Abner, but he saith he is grieved to be so misunderstood; that Hannah
should be grateful to him for taking upon himself the burden of her
sons’ support.”
Apparently, Rachel was not in a mood for conversation. The younger girl
gazed at her in great dejection for a few minutes and a tear splashed
down on her hand. “It would be easier to bear other people’s troubles,
Rachel, if one could help. I am going to bathe thy feverish face and
hands and take down thy hair. Thou shalt hold the little mirror of
polished bronze that Ezekiel, thy kinsman in Damascus, sent thee.”
Suiting the action to the word she went on talking: “Damascus must be
a very great city, peradventure almost twice as large as ours. Father
hath told me about the war between Israel and Syria and the treaty of
peace, so that Syrian merchants may come to Israel and a street hath
been set aside in Damascus in which our people may dwell.”
Rachel seemed to take no more interest in foreign affairs than in
those at home, but the little maid was not discouraged. “Thou art more
comfortable now. Thou hast been sick ever since that day the heat
overcame thee in the gorge when thou wert feeding the pigeons, but thou
dost not have to go on being miserable. Thou knowest, the Lord is thy
strength and song. I am going to see how Hannah doeth and remind her of
this. She abode with us through the night, but now she is in her own
house. First, though, I shall sing thee to sleep. Thou seest I have
brought my timbrel. Then will I steal softly away.”
Having made good her word, Miriam was about to depart when the kindly
voice of Rachel’s mother detained her: “Stay, Miriam, yet a moment and
take to Hannah this little pot of oil. The gift is not much to her that
dwelleth in the house of sorrow, but it carrieth a message of sympathy.”
Halfway to her destination Miriam met Judith. “I have been seeking for
thee,” said the older girl. “Knowest thou that we have a guest, a man?
He hath come from a distance in the heat and dust, and I have been to
draw cool, fresh water wherewith to bathe his hands and feet and so
refresh him while thy mother prepareth a meal to set before him.”
Miriam hazarded a few guesses as to the identity of their visitor, but
Judith shook her head. “It is none whom thou hast mentioned, but who it
is I know not. He weareth a mantle.”
“Then he is one of the prophets.”
“Nay, for he is bald and the prophets wear long hair. Neither hath
he the appearance of a fanatic, as do they. Rather, he seemeth like
some well-to-do man of the cities, peradventure a merchant. His speech
is gracious and gentle and he carrieth a walking stick like any
serious-minded, elderly gentleman. He is attended by a younger man and
thy father did him great obeisance. Also--”
But Judith was alone. Miriam was running like some wild thing straight
to Hannah’s house. Out of breath she stumbled over the threshold and
thrust the pot of oil into the woman’s hands.
“Hannah--Hannah--the Man of God hath come, my lord Elisha, and even
now sitteth at meat in our house. Do thou go quickly. Thy husband was
of his young men. Do thou tell him about Abner taking Eli and Nathan
as bondmen for debt. Jehovah hath sent him that as God hath been thy
strength, he shall now be thy song. Hasten, Hannah,” but Hannah was
already gone.
Twenty-four hours later Miriam, wild with excitement, paused on the
threshold of Rachel’s house. Within were voices and while she hesitated
as to whether or not to enter, she heard the message.
Abner had sent his friend, after the manner of the East, to speak on
the subject of his betrothal to Rachel, not to bring the customary
gifts and make necessary arrangements, but to do the rather unusual
thing: to withdraw his previous proposal on the plea of her ill-health.
The affair was conducted with elaborate civilities on the part of both
the emissary and Rachel’s parents, hiding the contempt of the one and
the rage of the other.
It was a very awed little Miriam but one with shining eyes who held
Rachel’s hand a few minutes after the messenger had departed. “Art thou
not glad?” she whispered.
The older girl nodded slightly, aware of her mother’s frown.
“And Benjamin will be so happy,” Miriam declared, but Rachel sighed.
“He thinketh no more upon me,” she said, and refused to be comforted.
The general gloom of the household was soon overborne, however, by the
tidings Miriam had brought. At the feet of the prophet Hannah had knelt
in supplication and he had had compassion upon her distress.
“At his command,” recited Miriam, joyfully, “we borrowed from our
neighbors all the empty vessels possible, then she and Eli and Nathan
went into their own house and shut the door. Eli told me what happened.
_From the little pot of oil thy mother sent by me, Hannah filled all
those vessels!_ Then came she again to the Man of God, who was still
in our house, and he instructed her what next to do. Now she hath gone
to sell the oil and pay Abner. Yet will there be something left, for I
heard my lord Elisha say unto her, ‘Live thou and thy children _of the
rest_.’”
When the happy comments had died away Miriam stroked her friend’s hair.
“Why dost thou not ask to be healed, Rachel? Let us go to the Man of
God.”
But Rachel shook her head. “I must not ask for what I do not want,
Miriam, and when Benjamin no longer thinketh upon me, why should I
desire to get well?”