wilt succeed in thy undertaking. Begin at once. I will forthwith
engage the workmen."
"I need no workmen," was the Arab's singular reply. "Take me to the
land whereon I must build, and to-morrow thy palace shall be
complete."
"Tomorrow!"
"Even as I say," answered the Arab.
The sun was setting in golden glory when they reached the ground, and
pointing to the sky the Arab said: "Tomorrow, when the great orb of
light rises above the distant hills, its rays will strike the minarets
and domes and towers of thy palace, noble sir. Leave me now. I must
pray."
In perfect bewilderment, the merchant left the stranger. From a
distance he watched the man devoutly praying. He had made up his mind
to watch all the night; but when the moon rose, deep sleep overcame
him and he dreamed. He dreamed that he saw myriads of men swarming
about strange machines and scaffolding which grew higher and higher,
hiding a vast structure.
Ibrahim dreamed, too, but in his vision one figure, that of the Arab,
stood out above all other things. Ibrahim scanned the features of the
stranger closely; he followed, as it were, the man's every movement.
He noticed how all the workmen and particularly the supervisors did
the stranger great honor, showing him the deference due to one of the
highest position. And with grave and dignified mien, the Arab
responded kindly. From the heavens a bright light shone upon the
scene, the radiance being softest wherever the Arab stood.
In his dream, it so appeared to Ibrahim, he rose from his bed, went
out into the night, and approached the palace magically rising from
the waste ground beyond the city. Nearer and nearer his footsteps took
him, until he stood beside the Arab again. One of the chief workmen
approached and addressed the stranger--by name!
Then it was Ibrahim understood--and he awoke. The sun was streaming in
through the lattice of his bedroom. He sprang from his bed and looked
out upon a magnificent spectacle. Beyond the city the sun's rays were
reflected by a dazzling array of gilded cupolas and glittering spires,
the towers of the palace of marble that he had seen builded in his
dream. Instantly he went out and made haste to the palace to assure
himself that his dream was really over. Ibrahim and the jeweler
arrived before the gates at the same moment. They stood speechless
with amazement and admiration before the model of the Arab grown to
immense proportions.
Almost at the same moment, the gates, ornamented with beaten gold,
opened from within and the Arab stood before them. Ibrahim bent low
his head.
The Arab addressed the merchant.
"Have I fulfilled my promise and earned my freedom?" he asked.
"Verily thou hast," answered the merchant.
"Then farewell, and may blessings rest on thee and the good Ibrahim
and on all your works."
Thus spoke the Arab, raising his hands in benediction. Then he
disappeared within the golden doors.
The jeweler and Ibrahim followed quickly, but though they hastened
through the halls and corridors of many colored marbles, in and out of
rooms lighted by windows of clearest crystal, and up and down
staircases of burnished metal, they could find no one. Emerging into
the open again, they saw a huge crowd standing in wonderment before
the gates.
"Tell me," said the jeweler, "who was the builder of this magic
palace."
"Elijah, the Prophet," said Ibrahim, "the benefactor of mankind, who
revisits the earth to assist in their distress those deemed worthy.
Blessed am I, and blessed art thou for thy good deeds, for we have
been truly honored."
To show his gratitude, the merchant gave a banquet in his palace to
all the people in the city and scattered gold and silver pieces among
the crowds that thronged the streets.
The Sleep of One Hundred Years
It was at the time of the destruction of the First Temple. The cruel
war had laid Jerusalem desolate, and terrible was the suffering of the
people.
Rabbi Onias, mounted on a camel, was sorrowfully making his way toward
the unhappy city. He had traveled many days and was weary from lack of
sleep and faint with hunger, yet he would not touch the basket of
dates he had with him, nor would he drink from the water in a leather
bottle attached to the saddle.
"Perchance," he said, "I shall meet some one who needs them more than
I."
But everywhere the land was deserted. One day, nearing the end of the
journey, he saw a man planting a carob tree at the foot of a hill.
"The Chaldeans," said the man, "have destroyed my beautiful vineyards
and all my crops, but I must sow and plant anew, so that the land may
live again."
[Illustration: The sun was shining on a noble city of pinnacles
and minarets. (_P. 191_).]
Onias passed sorrowfully on and at the top of the hill he stopped.
Before him lay Jerusalem, not the once beautiful city with its
hundreds of domes and minarets that caught the first rays of the sun
each morning, but a vast heap of ruins and charred buildings. Onias
threw himself on the ground and wept bitterly. No human being could he
see, and the sun was setting over what looked like a city of the dead.
"Woe, woe," he cried. "Zion, my beautiful Zion, is no more. Can it
ever rise again? Not in a hundred years can its glory be renewed."
The sun sank lower as he continued to gaze upon the ruined city, and
darkness gathered over the scene. Utterly exhausted, Onias, laying his
head upon his camel on the ground, fell into a deep sleep.
The silver moon shone serenely through the night and paled with the
dawn, and the sun cast its bright rays on the sleeping rabbi. Darkness
spread its mantle of night once more, and again the sun rose, and
still Onias slept. Days passed into weeks, the weeks merged into
months, and the months rolled on until years went by; but Rabbi Onias
did not waken.
Seeds, blown by the winds and brought by the birds, dropped around
him, took root and grew into shrubs, and soon a thick hedge
surrounded him and screened him from all who passed. A date that had
fallen from his basket, took root also, and in time there rose a
beautiful palm tree which cast a shade over the sleeping figure.
And thus a hundred years rolled by.
Suddenly, Onias moved, stretched himself and yawned. He was awake
again. He looked around confused.
"Strange," he muttered. "Did I not fall asleep on a hill overlooking
Jerusalem last night? How comes it now that I am hemmed in by a
thicket and am lying in the shade of this noble date palm?"
With great difficulty he rose to his feet.
"Oh, how my bones do ache!" he cried. "I must have overslept myself.
And where is my camel?"
Puzzled, he put his hand to his beard. Then he gave a cry of anguish.
"What is this? My beard is snow-white and so long that it almost
reaches to the ground."
He sank down again, but the mound on which he sat was but a heap of
rubbish and collapsed under his weight. Beneath it were bones. Hastily
clearing away the rubbish, he saw the skeleton of a camel.
"This surely must be my camel," he said. "Can I have slept so long?
The saddle-bags have rotted, too. But what is this?" and he picked up
the basket of dates and the water-bottle. The dates and the water were
quite fresh.
"This must be some miracle," he said. "This must be a sign for me to
continue my journey. But, alas, that Jerusalem should be destroyed!"
He looked around and was more puzzled than ever. When he had fallen
asleep the hill had been bare of vegetation. Now it was covered with
carob trees.
"I think I remember a man planting a carob tree yesterday," he said.
"But was it yesterday?"
He turned in the other direction and gave a cry of astonishment. The
sun was shining on a noble city of glittering pinnacles and minarets,
and around it were smiling fields and vineyards.
"Jerusalem still lives," he exclaimed. "Of a truth I have been
dreaming--dreaming that it was destroyed. Praise be to God that it was
but a dream."
With all speed he made his way across the plain to the city. People
looked at him strangely and pointed him out to one another, and the
children ran after him and called him names he did not understand.
But he took no notice. Near the outskirts of the city he paused.
"Canst thou tell me, father," he said to an old man, "which is the
house of Onias, the rabbi?"
"'Tis thy wit, or thy lack of it, that makes thee call me father,"
replied the man. "I must be but a child compared with thee."
Others gathered around and stared hard at Onias.
"Didst thou speak of Rabbi Onias?" asked one. "I know of one who says
that was the name of his grandfather. I will bring him."
He hastened away and soon returned with an aged man of about eighty.
"Who art thou?" Onias asked.
"Onias is my name," was the reply. "I am called so in honor of my
sainted grandfather, Rabbi Onias, who disappeared mysteriously one
hundred years ago, after the destruction of the First Temple."
"A hundred years," murmured Onias. "Can I have slept so long?"
"By thy appearance, it would seem so," replied the other Onias. "The
Temple has been rebuilt since then."
"Then it was not a dream," said the old man.
They led him gently indoors, but everything was strange to him. The
customs, the manners, the habits of the people, their dress, their
talk, was all different, and every time he spoke they laughed.
"Thou seemest like a creature from another world," they said. "Thou
speakest only of the things that have long passed away."
One day he called his grandson.
"Lead me," he said, "to the place of my long sleep. Perchance I will
sleep again. I am not of this world, my child. I am alone, a stranger
here, and would fain leave ye."
Taking the dates and the bottle of water which still remained fresh,
he made his way to where he had slept for a hundred years, and there
his prayer for peace was answered. He slept again, but not in this
world will he awaken.
[Illustration: He heard a cry of alarm and saw a huge stone
fall on the soldier riding behind him. (_Page 201_).]
King for Three Days
Godfrey de Bouillon was a famous warrior, a daring general and bold
leader of men, who gained victories in several countries. And so, in
the year 1095, when the first Crusade came to be arranged, he was
entrusted with the command of one of the armies and led it across
Europe in the historic march to the Holy Land.
Like many a great soldier of his period, Godfrey was a cruel man, and,
above all, he hated the Jews.
"In this, our Holy War," he said to his men, "we shall slay all the
children of Israel wherever we shall fall in with them. I shall not
rest content until I have exterminated the Jews."
True to his inhuman oath, Godfrey and his soldiers massacred large
numbers of Jews. They did this without pity or mercy, saying: "We are
performing a sacred duty, for we have the blessings of the priests on
our enterprise."
Godfrey felt sure he would be victorious, but he also wanted to
obtain the blessing of a rabbi. It was a curious desire, but in those
days such things were not considered at all strange, and so Godfrey de
Bouillon sent for the learned Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, better known by
his world-famed name of Rashi.
Rashi, one of the wisest sages of the Jews, came to Godfrey, and the
two men stood facing each other.
"Thou hast heard of my undertaking to capture Jerusalem," said
Godfrey, haughtily. "I demand thy blessing on my venture."
"Blessings are not in the gift of man; they are bestowed by Heaven--on
worthy objects," answered Rashi.
"Trifle not with words," retorted the warrior, "or they may cost thee
dear. A holy man can invoke a blessing."
But Rashi was not afraid. He was becoming an old man then, but he was
as brave as the swaggering soldier, and he faced Godfrey
unflinchingly.
"I can make no claim on the God of Israel on behalf of one who has
sworn to destroy all the descendants of His chosen people," he said.
"So, ho!" exclaimed Godfrey, "you defy me."
But he stopped his angry words abruptly. He had no wish to quarrel
with any holy man, for that might make him nervous. And nervousness,
then, was misunderstood as superstition. Besides, the rabbi might
curse him.
"If you will not bless," he said, "perhaps you will deign to raise the
veil of the future for me. You wise men of the Jews are seers and can
foretell events--so they say. A hundred thousand chariots filled with
soldiers brave, determined and strong, are at my command. Tell me,
shall I succeed, or fail?"
"Thou wilt do both." Rashi replied.
"What mean you?" demanded Godfrey, angrily.
"This. Jerusalem will fall to thee. So it is ordained, and thou wilt
become its king."
"Ha, ha! So you deem it wisest to pronounce a blessing after all,"
interrupted Godfrey. "I am content."
"I have not spoken all," said the rabbi, gravely. "Three days wilt
thou rule and no more."
Godfrey turned pale.
"Shall I return?" he asked, slowly.
"Not with thy multitude of chariots. Thy vast army will have dwindled
to three horses and three men when thou reachest this city."
"Enough," cried Godfrey. "If you think to affright me with these
ominous words, you fail in your intent. And hearken, Rabbi of the
Jews, your words shall be remembered. Should they prove incorrect in
the minutest detail--if I am King of Jerusalem for four days, or
return with four horsemen--you shall pay the penalty of a false
prophet and shall be consigned to the flames. Do you understand? You
shall be put to death."
"I understand well," returned Rashi, quite unmoved, "it is a sentence
which you and your kind love to pronounce with or without the sanction
of those whom you call your holy men. It is not I who fear, Godfrey de
Bouillon. I seek not to peer into the future to assure my own safety."
With these words they parted, the rabbi returning to his prayers and
to his studies which have enriched the learning of the Jews, while
Godfrey proceeded to lay a trail of innocent Jewish blood along the
banks of the Rhine in his march to Palestine.
History has set on record the events of the Crusade. Godfrey, after
many battles, laid siege to the Holy City, captured it, and drove the
Jews into one of the synagogues and burned them alive. Eight days
afterward, his soldiers raised him on their shields and proclaimed him
king.
Godfrey was delighted, but two days later he thought the matter over
carefully and decided that he could not live in Jerusalem always. So
next day he called together his captains and said:
"You have done me great honor. But I must return to Europe, and it
would be more befitting that I should be styled Duke of Jerusalem and
Guardian of the Holy City than its sovereign."
That night, however, he suddenly remembered the prediction of Rashi.
"For three days I have been King of Jerusalem," he muttered. "The
rabbi of the Jews spoke truth."
He could not help wondering whether the rest of the prophecy would be
fulfilled, and he became moody. He was joyful when he gained a
victory, but there came also disasters, and he was plunged into
despondency. The reverses affected the buoyancy of his troops, disease
decimated their ranks, and desertions further depleted their numbers.
Slowly but surely his mighty army dwindled away to a mere handful of
dissatisfied men and decrepit horses.
It was a ragged and wretched procession that he led back across
Europe, and daily his retinue grew smaller. Men and horses dropped
from sheer fatigue helpless by the wayside, and were left there to
die, with the hungry vultures perched on trees, patiently waiting for
the last flicker of life to depart before they set to work to pick the
bones of all flesh.
Godfrey de Bouillon had gained his victory, but at what cost?
Thousands of men, women and children had been murdered, thousands of
his soldiers had fallen in battle, and now hundreds of others had
dropped out of the ranks to end their last hours on the ghastly road
that led from Jerusalem back to western Europe. Do you wonder that
Godfrey was unhappy, and that he thought every moment of the words of
Rashi?
At length he reached the city of Worms where Rashi dwelt. With him
were four men, mounted on horses.
"It is well," he said, with as much cheerfulness as he could muster,
as he surveyed the remnants of his once proud army. "The rabbi has
failed."
Godfrey bade his men fall into line behind him and he proudly rode
through the gate of the city. As he did so, he heard a cry of alarm.
He turned hastily and saw a huge stone falling from the city's gate.
It dropped on the soldier riding just behind him, killing both man and
horse.
"You have spoken truth; would that I had taken heed of your words," he
said to the rabbi. "I am a broken man. You will assuredly achieve
great fame in Israel."
And so it has come to pass. Should you, by chance, ever visit the city
of Brussels, the capital of Belgium, fail not to look upon the statue
of Godfrey de Bouillon, with his sword proudly raised. It stands in
the Place Royale but a few minutes' walk from the synagogue. Should
you ever be in the ancient city of Worms that stands on the Rhine, do
as other visitors, Jews and Gentiles--enter the synagogue that was
built many centuries ago, and you will see the room where Rashi
studied and the stone seat on which he sat. And not far from the
synagogue you will see the ancient gate of the city, named in honor of
Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, the Rashi Gate. Perhaps it is the very one
under which Godfrey de Bouillon passed into the city with his three
mounted companions, as the legend tells.
[Illustration: The four youths mounted the eagles which flew
aloft to the extremity of their cords. (_Page 211_).]
The Palace in the Clouds
Ikkor, the Jewish vizier of the king of Assyria, was the wisest man in
the land, but he was not happy. He was the greatest favorite of the
king who heaped honors upon him, and the idol of the people who bowed
before him in the streets and cast themselves on the ground at his
feet to kiss the hem of his garment. Always he had a kindly word and a
smile for those who sought his advice and guidance, but his eyes were
ever sad, and tears would trickle down his cheeks as he watched the
little children at play in the streets.
His fame as a man of wisdom was known far beyond the borders of
Assyria, and rulers feared to give offense to the king who had Ikkor
as the chief of his counselors to assist in the affairs of state. But
Ikkor would oft sit alone in his beautiful palace and sigh heavily. No
sound of children's laughter was ever heard in the palace of Ikkor,
and that was the cause of his sorrow. Ikkor was a pious man and
deeply learned in the Holy Law; and he had prayed long and devoutly
and had listened unto the advice of magicians that he might be blessed
with but one son, or even a daughter, to carry down his name and
renown. But the years passed and no child was born to him.
Every year, on the advice of the king, he married another wife, and
now he had in his harem thirty wives, all childless. He determined to
take unto himself no more wives, and one night he dreamed a dream in
which a spirit appeared to him and said:
"Ikkor, thou wilt die full of years and honor, but childless.
Therefore, take Nadan, the son of thy widowed sister and let him be a
son to thee."
Nadan was a handsome youth of fifteen, and Ikkor related his dream to
the boy's mother who permitted him to take Nadan to his palace and
there bring him up as his own son. The sadness faded from the vizier's
eyes as he watched the lad at his games and his lessons, and Ikkor
himself imparted wisdom to Nadan. But, first to his surprise, and then
to his grief, Nadan was not thankful for the riches and love lavished
upon him. He neglected his lessons and grew proud, haughty and
arrogant. He treated the servants of the household harshly and did not
obey the wise maxims of Ikkor.
The vizier, however, was hopeful that he would reform and gain wisdom
with years, and he took him to the palace of the king and appointed
him an officer of the royal guard. For Ikkor's sake, the king made
Nadan one of his favorites, and all in the land looked upon the young
man as the successor of Ikkor and the future vizier. This only served
to make Nadan still more arrogant, and a wicked idea entered his head
to gain further favor with the king and supplant Ikkor at once.
"O King, live for ever!" he said one day, when Ikkor was absent in a
distant part of the land; "it grieves me to have to utter words of
warning against Ikkor, the wise, the father who has adopted me. But he
conspires to destroy thee."
The king laughed at this suggestion, but he became serious when Nadan
promised to give him proof in three days. Nadan then set to work and
wrote two letters. One was addressed to Pharaoh, king of Egypt, and
read as follows:
"Pharaoh, son of the Sun and mighty ruler on earth, live for ever!
Thou wouldst reign over Assyria. Give ear then to my words and on the
tenth day of the next month come with thy troops to the Eagle Plain
beyond the city, and I, Ikkor, the grand vizier, will deliver thine
enemy, the King of Assyria, into thy hands."
To this letter he forged Ikkor's name; then he took it to the king.
"I have found this," he said, "and have brought it to thee. It shows
thee that Ikkor would deliver this country to thine enemy."
The king was very angry and would have sent for Ikkor at once, but
Nadan counseled patience.
"Wait until the tenth of next month, the day of the annual review, and
thou wilt see what will surprise thee still more," he said.
Then he wrote the second letter. This was to Ikkor and was forged with
the king's name and sealed with the king's seal which he obtained. It
bade Ikkor on the tenth of the next month to assemble the troops on
the Eagle Plain to show how numerous they were to the foreign envoys
and to pretend to attack the king, so as to demonstrate how well they
were drilled.
The vizier returned the day before the review, and while the king
stood with Nadan and the foreign envoys, Ikkor and the troops, acting
on their instructions, made a pretense of attacking his majesty.
"Do you not see?" said Nadan. "The king of Egypt not being here, Ikkor
threatens thee," and he immediately gave orders to the royal
trumpeters to sound "Halt!"
Ikkor was brought before the king and confronted with the letter to
Pharaoh.
"Explain this, if thou canst," exclaimed the king, angrily. "I have
trusted thee and loaded thee with riches and honors and thou wouldst
betray me. Is not this thy signature, and is not thy seal appended?"
Ikkor was too much astounded to reply, and Nadan whispered to the king
that this proved his guilt.
"Lead him to the execution," cried the king, "and let his head be
severed from his body and cast one hundred ells away."
Falling on his knees, Ikkor pleaded that at least he should be granted
the privilege of being executed within his own house so that he might
be buried there.
This request was granted, and Nabu Samak, the executioner, led Ikkor a
prisoner to his palace. Nabu Samak was a great friend to Ikkor and it
grieved him to have to carry out the king's order.
"Ikkor," he said, "I am certain that thou art innocent, and I would
save thee. Hearken unto me. In the prison is a wretched highwayman who
has committed murder and who deserves death. His beard and hair are
like thine, and at a little distance he can easily be mistaken for
thee. Him will I behead and his head will I show to the crowd, whilst
thou canst hide and live in secret."
Ikkor thanked his friend and the plan was carried out. The robber's
head was exhibited to the crowd from the roof of the house and the
people wept because they thought it was the head of the good Ikkor.
Meanwhile, the vizier descended into a cellar deep beneath his palace
and was there fed, while his adopted son, Nadan, was appointed chief
of the king's counselors in his stead.
Now, when Pharaoh, king of Egypt, heard that Ikkor, the wise, had been
executed, he determined to make war upon Assyria. Therefore, he
dispatched a letter to the king, asking him to send an architect to
design and build a palace in the clouds.
"If this thou doest," he wrote, "I, Pharaoh, son of the Sun, will pay
thee tribute; if thou failest, thou must pay me tribute."
The king of Assyria was perplexed when he received this letter which
had to be answered in three months. Nadan could not advise him what to
do, and he bitterly regretted that Ikkor, the man of wisdom, was no
longer by his side to advise him.
"I would give one-fourth of my kingdom to bring Ikkor to life again,"
he exclaimed.
Hearing these words, Nabu Samak, the executioner, fell on his knees
and confessed that Ikkor was alive.
"Bring him hither at once," cried the king.