IN JERUSALEM.
Among those who watched the approach of Judas and his host to Jerusalem
were two men, one in extreme old age, the other numbering, it would seem,
about fifty years. They wore the priestly garments, old indeed and
threadbare, but still clean and showing many signs of careful repair.
Theirs was a strange history. For two years they had been in hiding in the
city. When Apollonius had filled the streets of Jerusalem with blood, the
murderers had sought with especial care for all priests and Levites. To
them at least no mercy was to be shown. These two men—Shemaiah was the
name of the elder of the two, and Joel that of the younger—had narrowly
escaped death from the soldiers of Apollonius. They had taken refuge—so
close was the pursuit—in a garden, the gate of which happened to be open,
and had hidden themselves in the bushes till nightfall. Where they were,
who or of what race was the owner of the house, whether they were likely
to meet with more mercy from his hands than they could expect from the
soldiers, they knew not. But that hiding-place was their only chance, and
in their desperate strait they snatched at it. While they were debating in
whispers whether they should throw themselves on the compassion of this
unknown person, they saw—for it was a moonlight night—the figure of a
woman walking down a path which passed close by their hiding-place. They
could see from her features, which the brilliant moonlight of the East
lighted up, that she was a countrywoman of their own, and they resolved to
appeal to her for protection. Shemaiah, whose age and venerable appearance
would, they judged, be less likely to alarm, threw himself on the ground
at her feet. She started back in astonishment.
“Lady,” he said, “I see that you are a daughter of Abraham. Can you help
two servants of the Lord that have so far escaped from the sword of the
Greeks?”
She was reassured by a nearer view of the speaker. “Who are you?” she
said. “Speak without fear, for there is no one to harm you.”
Shemaiah told his story.
“And your companion,” said Eglah—for that was the woman’s name—“where is
he?”
The old man called to Joel, who came forth at his bidding from his
hiding-place.
Eglah stood for a few minutes buried in thought. Then she spoke.
“As I hope that the Lord will have mercy on me and pardon my sin, so will
I help you even to the giving up of my life. But I am not worthy that you
should come under my roof. Now listen to my story. When Antiochus—the Lord
reward him for the evil that he has done to His people!—came to this city,
I was seized and sold for a slave. And a certain Greek soldier, Glaucus by
name, the captain of a company, bought me in the market. He had compassion
on me, and dealt honourably with me, and made me his wife after the
fashion of his people. And I consented to live with him, though I knew
that it was a sin for a daughter of Abraham to be wife unto a man that was
a heathen. But alas! sirs, what was I to do? for I was a weak woman, and
there was no one to help me. Should I have slain him in his sleep, as
Judith slew Holofernes? Once I thought to do so, and I took a dagger in my
hand, but when I saw him I repented. Whether it was fear or love that
turned me I know not. That I was afraid I know, for the very sight of the
steel made me tremble. And I must confess that I loved him also, for he
had been very kind and gentle with me; and there is not a goodlier man to
look at in all Jerusalem.”
“Be comforted, my daughter,” said Shemaiah, whose years had taught him a
tolerance to which his younger companion had, perhaps, scarcely attained.
“’Tis at least no sin for a wife to love her husband.”
“Then you do not think me so wicked as to be beyond all hope?” cried poor
Eglah, eagerly.
“Nay, my daughter,” said the old man; “you were in a sore strait, and all
women are not as Judith was.”
“Then you will not refuse to come into my house? I have a large cellar
where you can lie hid. ’Tis under the ground, indeed, but airy and dry,
and you can make shift to live there. And I will feed you as best I may.
My husband has an open hand, and never makes any question as to the money
that I spend upon the house, and he will not know what I have done. I
judge it best to keep the thing from him, not because I fear that he would
betray you—for he is an honourable man and kindly, but it would go hard
with him, being an officer in the army of the King, if it should be
discovered that he knew it.”
And so for two years Shemaiah and Joel had inhabited the cellar in Eglah’s
house. Glaucus, the husband, was just the kindly, generous man whom his
wife had described. Once or twice he had terrified her by some joking
remark about the rapidity with which the provision purchased for the house
disappeared. “When we dine together, my darling,” he said, on one
occasion, “you eat what would be scarce enough for a well-favoured fly;
but I am glad to think that you are hungry at other times.” “O husband,”
she said, “there are many poor of my own people, and I cannot deny them.”
She hoped as she said it that the falsehood would not be counted as
another sin against her. “Nay, nay, darling,” said the good-natured man.
“Give as much as thou wilt. Thank the gods and his Highness the King I
have enough and to spare.”
Glaucus, though allowed to live in his own house, had, of course, to spend
much time upon his military duties, and was, consequently, often away.
During his absence Eglah could bring out the two prisoners from their
underground lodging, and allow them to enjoy the fresh air of the garden,
which, happily, was not overlooked. She gave them the best food that her
means would procure, and at the same time took pains, as has been said, to
keep their garments scrupulously clean and neat. On the whole they passed
the time of their captivity in tolerable comfort, and without much injury
to their health. Latterly they had been cheered by the tidings, always
given to them at the very earliest opportunity by their hostess, of the
successes of Judas. Within the last few days Glaucus had told his wife
that a decisive battle was expected, that it would probably be fought at
Beth-zur, and that if her countrymen won it, there was nothing that could
hinder them from taking possession of Jerusalem.
Glaucus, who held a command in the garrison of the fort, had not been with
Lysias at Beth-zur, but he had heard late on the evening of the day of the
result of the battle and had, of course, told it to his wife, and she in
turn had communicated it to her inmates. They had been scarcely able to
sleep for joy, and had eagerly waited for news of the conqueror’s
approach. Evening was come, and Eglah had not paid them the accustomed
visit. The house was curiously silent; all day not a sound of voices or
steps had reached their ears. And now the suspense had become unbearable.
“Go forth,” said Shemaiah to his younger companion, “go forth, and bring
me word again.” Joel crept out of his retreat. The streets were deserted;
but the fortress was crowded. The garrison stood thickly clustered on the
walls, and with them were many inhabitants of the city. It was easy to
guess that what Glaucus had foretold had happened. Judas was on his way to
take possession of Jerusalem, and all who had compromised themselves by
resisting him, had either fled from the place altogether or had taken
refuge in the fort. He returned to Shemaiah with a description of what he
had seen, and the two at once hastened down to the walls to greet the
deliverers.
The sun was near its setting when they entered the city. Without turning
to the right or left, though many must have been consumed with anxiety to
hear the fate of kinsmen and friends, they marched to Mount Sion. It was
an hour of triumph, the fruition of hopes passionately cherished through
many a dark day of sorrow. To stand once more in the place which God had
chosen to set His name there, how glorious. But it had its bitterness, as
such hours will have, for it was a miserable sight that greeted them.
Nothing, indeed, had been done of which they had not heard. There was
nothing that they might not have expected or foreseen. Yet the actual view
of the holy place in its dismal forlornness overpowered them. It was as if
the sight had come upon them by surprise. “When they saw the Sanctuary
desolate and the altar profaned, and the gates burnt with fire, and shrubs
growing in the courts as in a forest or one of the mountains, and the
chambers of the priests pulled down, they rent their clothes, and made
great lamentations, and cast ashes upon their heads, and fell down flat to
the ground upon their faces.”
To repair this ruin, to put an end to this desolation, to purify the place
which had been so shamefully polluted, was the first duty of the
deliverers. But that the work might be done in peace it was necessary that
the fortress of Acra, to use military language, should be masked. A strong
force was told off to perform this duty; the rest would lend their aid to
the great work of purification.