"Then it was He—it was surely He himself who came and took my babe. No
wonder my darling smiled, and was willing to go."
The mother and the children that very evening received from the
stranger the medal which was worn by all those who returned to their
allegiance. It was a Black Ship, surrounded with rays of glory, and
behind it the towers of a city.
Never were a happier company than the four who gathered round the
cottage table that evening. They were too happy, and had too much
to ask, to sleep. And far into the night the questions and answers
continued, every reply of the old man's only revealing some fresh
endearing excellence in the King and the King's Son, until they longed
for the Black Ship to come and fetch them home.
"If only," said little May, "it would fetch us all at once!"
"That the King will do when He comes with His armies in the day of His
triumph. Till then, my child, this is the one only sorrow connected
with the Black Ship for those who love the King. We go one by one, and
blessed as it is for the one who goes, it must be sad sometimes for
those who are left."
"Why do not those who go to Him ask Him to come quickly?" asked Hope.
"They do," replied the old man. "'Come quickly' is the entreaty of
all who love Him here and beyond the sea; but His time is best. And,
meantime, have we forgotten the multitudes who are still deceived by
the usurper, to whom the Black Ship is still a horrible end of all
things, and the Veiled Form of the King of Terrors?"
Hope rose and stood before the old man.
"Mother," he said, "it is for this we must live. Think of the desolate
hearts in the homes around us. Think of the thousands who know not our
blessed secret in the White Town."
The old man rose and laid his hand on Hope's head.
"My King!" he said. "When wilt Thou come for me? Is not my work done?
Will not this youthful voice speak for Thee here as my quivering tones
no longer can? Wilt Thou not come? I have many dear ones with Thee; but
when Thou wilt is best."
Then he persuaded them all to lie down to rest, and he himself composed
himself quietly to sleep.
But in the night, a wondrous light filled the room—a wondrous light and
fragrance. The mother woke, and the children, and they saw the old man
standing, gazing towards the door, which was open. There stood a Veiled
Form, dark to the mother's eyes as the dreaded form she knew too well;
yet its presence filled the room with the light as of a rosy dawn, and
the fragrance as of spring flowers. The old man's hair was silvery, and
his form tottering as ever, but in his face there was the beauty of
youth, and in his eyes the rapture of joy.
"Farewell, my friends," he said; "your day of joy will come like this
of mine. Thou art come for me at last—Thou thyself. I see Thy face, I
hear Thy voice; I come—it is Thou."
A hand was laid tenderly on his hand, and they walked away together
into the night.
But as the mother and children looked after him from the door, they saw
the Black Ship, only at its prow was a star. And as it passed away, the
mother, and Hope, and May thought it left a track of light upon the sea.
The three had henceforth enough to live and suffer for. To the lonely
fishermen's huts went May and her mother, into the White Town went
Hope, and everywhere they bore their tidings of joy. They had much
to suffer, and many mocked, and against them also the amulet-makers
combined, and would not listen. But some did listen, and believe, and
love, and to such, as to the mother, and Hope, and May, the Black Ship,
instead of a phantom of terror, became a messenger of surpassing joy.
The Ruined Temple.
—————
THE Temple was in ruins, and the Priestess sat, a captive in chains,
among its broken and scattered fragments.
It had been a temple of the most ancient form, open to the sky,
beautiful beyond any temple upon earth, beautiful and sacred, and some
remnants of its beauty hung about it still—fragments of exquisite
carvings and broken shafts of graceful columns. But everything was
shattered and out of place, the window tracery shivered in a thousand
fragments and strewn on the ground, columns prostrate, sacred vessels
lying rusted among the weeds, the pure spring which had gushed from
beneath the altar choked up and dry, and instruments of sacred music
mute and broken on the ground.
On the walls in some places were the traces of violence, but it was
remarkable that they seemed to have been assaulted only from within.
Indeed, the temple had been a fortress, so impregnably situated and
built, that except from within, not one stone could ever have been
displaced.
This was, in fact, the saddest part of its history. The temple had been
desecrated before it had been ruined, and in its ruin it was a temple
still, but, alas! no longer sacred to Him in whose honour it had been
reared.
Many senseless or loathsome idol-images were carved on the walls,
strangely contrasting, in their shapelessness or deformity, with the
symmetry of every fragment of the original structure. On the broken
altar in the centre stood an image of the Priestess herself. This was
the earliest idol which had entered there, and with the entrance of
this, the ruin had begun. The Enemy who had, with subtle flatteries,
introduced this idol, had ever since had access to the temple, and step
by step the Priestess had sunk beneath his power. He had led her into
wild orgies, in which she herself had defaced the delicate tracery and
torn down the walls; and when she awoke from the frenzy and wept, as
sometimes she would, he silenced her tears with blows or with mocking
threats of the vengeance of Him to whom the temple had been consecrated.
Sometimes, however, she woke to a moment's full consciousness of the
desolation around her, and then she would wail and lament until he
seemed to fear some unseen Friend would hear; and at such seasons he
grew more gentle, and renewed the old persuasions and flatteries by
which he had misled her first. He would even encourage her at times,
when all other methods failed, to try and collect the scattered stones,
and repair the breaches in the shattered walls and re-string the broken
harp, for he knew well her puny efforts must fail, and that no hands
but those of the builder could ever restore the ruin she had wrought.
So, after a few faint endeavours, she, as he expected, would give up
in despair, and sit cowering hopelessly on the ground afraid of him,
afraid of Him whose priestess she was, afraid of her own voice.
In such bitter hours, he would again grow bold, and mock her with
the memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance
seemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he
would point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken
altar. He would shew her the beauty still lingering in its marred and
weather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours
and tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the
sweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses;
and she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of
herself.
But with the pure spices which made it sweet, the enemy had mixed a
narcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her
brain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until,
in a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her
miseries. And ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain
which, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year
making her range of action narrower and her movements less free.
Wild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers,
prowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had
ministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls
and sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous
music.
Thus, day by day, the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration
became more complete.
But it happened one spring, that two little singing-birds came back
from the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their
nest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time
which often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen priestess, she
scarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full
of thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of
winter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on
her heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which
no spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a
melancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, and she watched
those two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked.
At last, the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs,
and the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation.
"How desolate this place is," said the mother-bird.
"And it was once so beautiful," replied her mate.
"Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked.
"None can rebuild but the hand that built," was the mysterious reply.
"But would not the architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not
he who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better
done than that."
"That is the difficulty," was the reply. "The priestess does not know
he is so good, and is afraid to utter his name. If she only called him,
he would come."
"Is he near enough?"
"He is always near."
"Are you sure?" said the mother-bird. "What can we do to help her?"
"I do not know," replied the mate, "except it is to sing his praise.
Perhaps she may listen, and understand one day how good he is."
So all the spring, the little happy creatures chirped and sang, until
the nestlings were fledged, and the whole family flew away.
But their songs had penetrated deep into the priestess' heart. And one
night, when the Enemy was absent, and the wild beasts prowling far
away, she threw herself on the earth before her desecrated altar, and
lamented and wept. But for the first time her lamentations, instead of
solitary, hopeless wailings, echoing back from the ruined walls, became
a broken cry for help.
"Thou, if thou art indeed so good—if thou art indeed near, come and
help me," she sobbed; "repair my ruins, and save me."
And for the first time, as she wept and implored, she felt the weight
of her fetters binding hand and foot, and, clasping her chained hands,
she cried more earnestly, "Come and set me free!"