CONFESSION
Somewhere out on the Syrian hills a shepherd was engaged in a most
interesting occupation. At the door of the sheepfold he was holding
a light rod, forked at one end, under which the flock passed as he
counted. It was always the last task of the evening.
“Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. So far nothing hath
disturbed thee through the day now gone. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine.
Nay, Master Bold, thou wilt wait thy turn. Eighty, eighty-one,
eighty-two. Come, thou timid one, thy mother is already in and calleth
for thee. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five. Now, Bright Eyes,
what mischief art thou up to? This rod is a means of counting, but it
can be turned into a means of punishment if it be necessary to make
thee see thy duty. Eighty-six, eighty-seven. Nay, not so much crowding
there. Youth is eager, knowing not that time is long and weariness
certain. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. What, my pearl, the heat of
the day hath been too much for thee? Wait thou.”
The shepherd hastily dipped his fingers in the horn of olive oil that
hung at his belt and anointed its temples.
“There, so shalt thou be refreshed, and here, do thou drink of this cup
of cold water which overfloweth for thee.”
The needy one attended to, he went on with his count of the others.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two--”
Two horsemen approached, the one behind leading a third animal which
was without a rider. At a sign, the one with the led horse halted while
the other dismounted and with some impatience waited until the long
enumeration was finished. Then he advanced toward the shepherd.
“Peace be unto thee.”
“And to thee,” the shepherd made answer. “Thou art in uniform. Hast
thou orders for thy servant? Quickly, thy name and errand. One of my
sheep hath strayed and I go to seek it, hastening lest the darkness
descend and I be unable to find it.”
“Well thou knowest, Benjamin, that I am Isaac, servant to Naaman,
commander-in-chief of the armies of Syria, but I come on a private and
not on an official errand. Lead thou the way and I will go with thee.”
There was an awkward silence broken at last by the soldier: “Thou art
looking somewhat haggard since I saw thee last, Benjamin.”
“I have passed through much sorrow of spirit, Isaac.”
“But surely thou hast no fault to find with thy treatment. Thou hast
a well-built sheepfold: the long, low buildings to shelter thy flock
in storms, the large space for them to roam in when thou dost not
bring them to pasture, and the whole surrounded by wide stone walls,
surmounted by sharp thorns to keep out wild beasts. Nor have we a hard
master to serve. Thy faithfulness and ability will be noted by those
who have charge of such matters for the king.”
The shepherd’s tones were infinitely sad: “Could any reward compensate
my parents for the loss of their only son; for their loneliness and
grief and real need of me? Could any reward make up to my little sister
for the brother who should guard and guide her? Could any reward atone
to me for the loss of my well-beloved, my betrothed?”
The light was already dim as they stumbled over the rocks and through
patches of woodland, the long briars catching at their garments and
tearing the flesh. They passed another sheepfold. Benjamin raised his
voice in a shout: “Hast thou found a sheep which is lost?”
Clearly the answer came back: “Nay, we have none but our own.”
Sighing, the shepherd went on, the soldier abreast of him.
“I have come to redeem my pledge, Benjamin.”
The other’s face was sadly accusing. “Here, on these lonely hills, with
only the fast-falling night for a witness, and not before the eyes of
men?”
The soldier’s face flushed. “If thou meanest our last meeting on the
way hither, I had thought thou wouldst understand. It was through no
information furnished by me that thou wert taken, nor was it by my
band. Naaman is Captain of the Host. I have but a few men under me and
my authority is small. I could not help thee then. Besides, thou wert
in no personal danger, else I would have risked it. It was thy flock of
which Eleazer’s company was so proud. They took thee because the sheep
knew thy voice but a stranger would they not follow, fleeing from any
but thee.”
A contemptuous smile played around Benjamin’s mouth. He unclasped from
his wrist a broad gold bracelet and handed it to Isaac.
“I thought thou wouldst be apt to consider this too costly a token,” he
said.
A pained look crossed Isaac’s face. “I redeem it with what hath cost me
more: the delight of a woman’s presence and a woman’s sweetness and a
woman’s wonderful devotion which otherwise might have been mine. I have
come to invite thee to a wedding--thine own wedding--with Rachel of
Hannathon in the Land of Israel.”
The shepherd was plainly startled. “Thou hast come to ask me to marry
my betrothed? I do not understand.”
“She was captured about the time thou wert by one of the men in my
company,” the soldier explained. “I am glad to say I was able to save
her from familiarity at the hands of the soldiers--”
“For which I am grateful to thee, Isaac.”
“But three days’ journey from Damascus she left us with another
captive, a young lad called ‘Nathan,’ being sore afraid. By accident I
discovered her hiding place, but knew not it was the maid of my dreams,
she being enveloped in her wedding veil, as I afterward learned it was.
Nevertheless, I discovered her identity in time to soften the hardships
of the journey with food and water, together with the leopard’s skin
thou gavest me, her clothing being insufficient protection against
the cold winds which swept down from the Lebanons. I was quite sure
the two would come to Damascus, so I had the gate watched and word
brought to me of her arrival. She appeared to be alone, the boy having
disappeared, and though she had wandered far out of her way in the
city, I found her after some search and conducted her, as she desired,
to the street of the merchants of Israel. Her kinsman, however, whom we
sought, had died a month before.”
Benjamin’s voice betrayed uneasiness. “And then?”
“And then I found lodging for her in the house of one, Amos the
perfumer, also of Israel, since which time she hath been there cared
for, provided with necessary raiment and awaiteth thee, desiring that
thou come quickly.”
Benjamin’s attitude became questioning. “It is now the height of the
rainy season. All this occurred months ago and I hear but now.”
“Thou art hearing as soon as it was convenient for me to bring thee
word. Am I in a place of authority? Do I not come and go at another’s
bidding? Besides, it was but little more than a week ago that she told
me of the whispered conversations which always break off when she
appeareth, the averted glances and, almost worse than this, the pitying
kindness of her friends--”
The shepherd’s face grew white and stern. “Then didst thou think
it was time to send for the one who would not fail her? I suppose,
Isaac, _thou_ hast not thought of marrying the maiden--considering the
circumstances.”
The soldier sought to restrain his anger. “I did,” he answered, “or at
least I would have had it not been for another maiden to whom I would
have found it hard to explain matters. This other--”
“I see it all,” the shepherd responded, bitterly. “Having a little
authority and noting that the maid was fair, she was thy lawful prey,
whereas the maiden who is surrounded by care and affection thou canst
not bear to offend. My little Rachel, pure as the snows of Hermon, and
entirely at thy mercy--”
He raised his stout staff. The soldier threw up one arm to ward off the
blow but he did not draw the short sword which hung at his girdle.
“Thou dost not let me make myself clear,” he said, gently, “but thou
shalt know for thyself. And another sorrow I have unwittingly brought
thee. At the same time that Rachel was taken by my band, Miriam was
also captured, although I knew not she was thy sister.”
Benjamin lowered his staff, grief succeeding indignation. “And what of
her? Tell me.”
“I have myself seen to her welfare, and my errand here is to tell thee
of both maidens and to conduct thee to them that thou mayest assure
thyself--”
Benjamin assented briefly. At that moment his keen ear detected the
far-off bleat of a sheep. Guided by its cries, he made his way to it
as quickly as possible and with his light, hooked rod disentangled
its wool from the cruel thorns which caught and tore his own flesh
meanwhile. Catching the forelegs together with one hand and the
hindlegs with the other, he swung the exhausted animal over his
shoulder and began retracing his steps. Isaac followed, a dozen times
essaying to reopen the subject upon which he had come prepared to
speak, and a dozen times being repulsed by the gloom in which Benjamin
seemed wrapped.
They passed the sheepfold where inquiry had earlier been made and the
shepherd raised his voice in a shout, “Rejoice with me, for I have
found my sheep that was lost.”
Arriving at last whence they had started and the weary and injured
animal tenderly cared for, Isaac and Benjamin took opposite sides of
the fire, each preferring the company of his own bitter thoughts to
conversation. A recumbent shepherd kept watch before the door of the
fold. Two more slept. To use the tongue of Israel would have been
to insure privacy to the message, but each waited for the other. If
Isaac were sufficiently penitent, thought Benjamin, he would talk even
though the words came falteringly. As it was, his errand was one of
expediency and no real satisfaction would be gained by forcing from his
lips details of the confession he should make voluntarily. If, thought
Isaac, Benjamin wished to ask questions, he would answer them fully,
but why give unasked information which was distorted and misunderstood
as soon as uttered? And so, each nursing a sense of injury, the long
night passed.
A couple of days were spent in making preparation for the care of the
flock while Benjamin should be away, and the fourth they started for
Damascus. At dawn a gentle rain was falling. The substitute shepherd
was delighted. Since the flock must remain within shelter of the
fold while the storm lasted, it were that much easier cared for. To
the three whose horses stood waiting, the rain mattered not at all.
Benjamin moved here and there, giving directions and making sure that
all was well before his departure. Once he paused and took a sick lamb
in his arms:
“I go to bring another,” he whispered, tenderly, “bruised and wounded
as thou art, but her spirit, like thine, shall be healed with the oil
of loving-kindness.”
An hour later he was riding across the rain-soaked plain, the other
horseman a little in advance, the servant in the rear. The two
foremost were quite unchanged, the one lost in the depths of profound
irritation, the other in melancholy, and neither speaking save when
their common errand made it necessary.
* * * * *
Miriam took an early opportunity of again calling upon the mistress
of the household. She felt no sense of obligation beyond her promise.
The visit was entirely a friendly one and was so understood. On the
threshold she paused with a bright smile of greeting, which was
cordially returned. Entering, she found a cushion of the right height,
threw it upon the floor and sat down, resting her arms confidingly on
Adah’s lap, studying the face above hers.
“I have noticed how sad thou art, and I think it is the way thy house
is built. Thou wouldst not be nearly so lonely if thy dwelling were
like ours in Israel: all in one big room with the animals in one part
and the family on a raised floor in the other. Of course thou hast too
large a household for that, but thou dost not know how comforting it
is to hear the animals stamping around in their stalls at night and on
rainy days. Here it is so quiet I cannot sleep sometimes.”
Adah frequently did not sleep, but she had never attributed it to the
silence.
“If thou couldst but rise early in the morning,” Miriam continued with
animation, “and grind the wheat--thou art so rich thou couldst have
an ass or a camel harnessed to the mill to do the hardest part of the
work--and if thou couldst make up the dough quickly and bake it in
cakes for thy family’s breakfast, it would give thee so much delight.
Hast thou never tried it?”
“Not the pleasure of toil, Miriam, but I have sometimes wondered--”
“And if thou wouldst pretend to find fault because thy bread is eaten
so fast and thy husband would pretend to find fault because thou hast
not baked enough, and he would caress thee and say thou canst bake the
best bread to be found in any house in Israel--I mean in Syria--it
would be such joy to thee. Hast thou never known this?”
“Not the joy of service, Miriam, but I have often thought--”
“And if thou didst see to the clothing of thy entire household instead
of having Milcah do it for thee; I mean the spinning and weaving and
washing, and couldst look after the conduct and instruction of thy men
servants and thy maid servants. If, while thy husband sits in the gate,
judging the cause of the people, thou wert also considering the needs
of the poor, thou wouldst never have time to be sad. Hast thou never
done these things?”
“Not enough to give me the happiness of being necessary, but I have
sometimes envied those who were.”
Adah recollected herself with a start. To be making such undignified
admissions! Her countenance settled back into its old lines of haughty
indifference and Miriam was quick to notice the change. She took the
older face tenderly between her hands and kissed it, quite unaware that
she was not expected to take such liberties. Her voice was full of pity:
“Thou dost look so sorrowful. I never knew before how much thou dost
need me. I can teach thee so much. I will show thee how to be happy.”
Adah thought it extremely doubtful, but it would have been cruel to
discourage such cheerful confidence. Besides, she saw a loophole of
escape from an embarrassing conversation: “Thou hast no time to give to
me.”
Miriam pondered. “I will take time,” she said with decision, “just as
much as I can spare from Isaac and Milcah and their mother.”
She ran to the door and looked appraisingly at the position of the sun
on the courtyard foliage.
“I must go now,” she said; “it groweth late. See how the shadows
lengthen?”
Adah, left alone, smiled, then she sighed. Alas, that the sorrow of the
House of Naaman should be past the little maid’s generously offered
assistance, past the ability of the wisest men and the greatest gods of
Syria!