CHAPTER I

Ben-Hur

A Tale of the Christ

by Lew Wallace

to

THE WIFE OF MY YOUTH

who

still abides with me

Contents

BOOK FIRST

I. Into the Desert

II. Meeting of the Wise Men

III. The Athenian Speaks—Faith

IV. Speech of the Hindoo—Love

V. The Egyptian’s Story—Good Works

VI. The Joppa Gate

VII. Typical Characters at the Joppa Gate

VIII. Joseph and Mary Going to Bethlehem

IX. The Cave at Bethlehem

X. The Light in the Sky

XI. Christ is Born

XII. The Wise Men Arrive at Jerusalem

XIII. The Witnesses before Herod

XIV. The Wise Men Find the Child

BOOK SECOND

I. Jerusalem under the Romans

II. Ben-Hur and Messala

III. A Judean Home

IV. The Strange Things Ben-Hur Wants to Know

V. Rome and Israel—A Comparison

VI. The Accident to Gratus

VII. A Galley Slave

BOOK THIRD

I. Quintus Arrius Goes to Sea

II. At the Oar

III. Arrius and Ben-Hur on Deck

IV. “No. 60”

V. The Sea Fight

VI. Arrius Adopts Ben-Hur

BOOK FOURTH

I. Ben-Hur Returns East

II. On the Orontes

III. The Demand on Simonides

IV. Simonides and Esther

V. The Grove of Daphne

VI. The Mulberries of Daphne

VII. The Stadium in the Grove

VIII. The Fountain of Castalia

IX. The Chariot Race Discussed

X. Ben-Hur Hears of Christ

XI. The Wise Servant and his Daughter

XII. A Roman Orgie

XIII. A Driver for Ilderim’s Arabs

XIV. The Dowar in the Orchard or Palms

XV. Balthasar Impresses Ben-Hur

XVI. Christ is Coming—Balthasar

XVII. The Kingdom—Spiritual or Political?

BOOK FIFTH

I. Messala Doffs his Chaplet

II. Ilderim’s Arabs under the Yoke

III. The Arts of Cleopatra

IV. Messala on Guard

V. Ilderim and Ben-Hur Deliberate

VI. Training the Four

VII. Simonides Renders Account

VIII. Spiritual or Political?—Simonides Argues

IX. Esther and Ben-Hur

X. Posted for the Race

XI. Making the Wagers

XII. The Circus

XIII. The Start

XIV. The Race

XV. The Invitation of Iras

XVI. In the Palace of Idernee

BOOK SIXTH

I. The Tower of Antonia—Cell No. VI.

II. The Lepers

III. Jerusalem Again

IV. Ben-Hur at his Father’s Gate

V. The Tomb Above the King’s Garden

VI. A Trick of Pilate’s—The Combat

BOOK SEVENTH

I. Jerusalem Goes out to a Prophet

II. Nooning by the Pool—Iras

III. The Life of a Soul

IV. Ben-Hur Keeps Watch with Iras

V. At Bethabara

BOOK EIGHTH

I. Guests in the House of Hur

II. Ben-Hur Tells of the Nazarene

III. The Lepers Leave their Tomb

IV. The Miracle

V. Pilgrims to the Passover

VI. A Serpent of the Nile

VII. Ben-Hur Returns to Esther

VIII. Gethsemane—“Whom Seek Ye?”

IX. The Going to Calvary

X. The Crucifixion

BOOK FIRST

CHAPTER I

The Jebel es Zubleh is a mountain fifty miles and more in length, and

so narrow that its tracery on the map gives it a likeness to a

caterpillar crawling from the south to the north. Standing on its

red-and-white cliffs, and looking off under the path of the rising sun,

one sees only the Desert of Arabia, where the east winds, so hateful to

vinegrowers of Jericho, have kept their playgrounds since the

beginning. Its feet are well covered by sands tossed from the

Euphrates, there to lie, for the mountain is a wall to the

pasture-lands of Moab and Ammon on the west—lands which else had been

of the desert a part.

The Arab has impressed his language upon everything south and east of

Judea, so, in his tongue, the old Jebel is the parent of numberless

wadies which, intersecting the Roman road—now a dim suggestion of what

once it was, a dusty path for Syrian pilgrims to and from Mecca—run

their furrows, deepening as they go, to pass the torrents of the rainy

season into the Jordan, or their last receptacle, the Dead Sea. Out of

one of these wadies—or, more particularly, out of that one which rises

at the extreme end of the Jebel, and, extending east of north, becomes

at length the bed of the Jabbok River—a traveller passed, going to the

table-lands of the desert. To this person the attention of the reader

is first besought.

Judged by his appearance, he was quite forty-five years old. His beard,

once of the deepest black, flowing broadly over his breast, was

streaked with white. His face was brown as a parched coffee-berry, and

so hidden by a red _kufiyeh_ (as the kerchief of the head is at this

day called by the children of the desert) as to be but in part visible.

Now and then he raised his eyes, and they were large and dark. He was

clad in the flowing garments so universal in the East; but their style

may not be described more particularly, for he sat under a miniature

tent, and rode a great white dromedary.

It may be doubted if the people of the West ever overcome the

impression made upon them by the first view of a camel equipped and

loaded for the desert. Custom, so fatal to other novelties, affects

this feeling but little. At the end of long journeys with caravans,

after years of residence with the Bedawin, the Western-born, wherever

they may be, will stop and wait the passing of the stately brute. The

charm is not in the figure, which not even love can make beautiful; nor

in the movement, the noiseless stepping, or the broad careen. As is the

kindness of the sea to a ship, so that of the desert to its creature.

It clothes him with all its mysteries; in such manner, too, that while

we are looking at him we are thinking of them: therein is the wonder.

The animal which now came out of the wady might well have claimed the

customary homage. Its color and height; its breadth of foot; its bulk

of body, not fat, but overlaid with muscle; its long, slender neck, of

swanlike curvature; the head, wide between the eyes, and tapering to a

muzzle which a lady’s bracelet might have almost clasped; its motion,

step long and elastic, tread sure and soundless—all certified its

Syrian blood, old as the days of Cyrus, and absolutely priceless. There

was the usual bridle, covering the forehead with scarlet fringe, and

garnishing the throat with pendent brazen chains, each ending with a

tinkling silver bell; but to the bridle there was neither rein for the

rider nor strap for a driver. The furniture perched on the back was an

invention which with any other people than of the East would have made

the inventor renowned. It consisted of two wooden boxes, scarce four

feet in length, balanced so that one hung at each side; the inner

space, softly lined and carpeted, was arranged to allow the master to

sit or lie half reclined; over it all was stretched a green awning.

Broad back and breast straps, and girths, secured with countless knots

and ties, held the device in place. In such manner the ingenious sons

of Cush had contrived to make comfortable the sunburnt ways of the

wilderness, along which lay their duty as often as their pleasure.

When the dromedary lifted itself out of the last break of the wady, the

traveller had passed the boundary of El Belka, the ancient Ammon. It

was morning-time. Before him was the sun, half curtained in fleecy

mist; before him also spread the desert; not the realm of drifting

sands, which was farther on, but the region where the herbage began to

dwarf; where the surface is strewn with boulders of granite, and gray

and brown stones, interspersed with languishing acacias and tufts of

camel-grass. The oak, bramble, and arbutus lay behind, as if they had

come to a line, looked over into the well-less waste and crouched with

fear.

And now there was an end of path or road. More than ever the camel

seemed insensibly driven; it lengthened and quickened its pace, its

head pointed straight towards the horizon; through the wide nostrils it

drank the wind in great draughts. The litter swayed, and rose and fell

like a boat in the waves. Dried leaves in occasional beds rustled

underfoot. Sometimes a perfume like absinthe sweetened all the air.

Lark and chat and rock-swallow leaped to wing, and white partridges ran

whistling and clucking out of the way. More rarely a fox or a hyena

quickened his gallop, to study the intruders at a safe distance. Off to

the right rose the hills of the Jebel, the pearl-gray veil resting upon

them changing momentarily into a purple which the sun would make

matchless a little later. Over their highest peaks a vulture sailed on

broad wings into widening circles. But of all these things the tenant

under the green tent saw nothing, or, at least, made no sign of

recognition. His eyes were fixed and dreamy. The going of the man, like

that of the animal, was as one being led.

For two hours the dromedary swung forward, keeping the trot steadily

and the line due east. In that time the traveller never changed his

position, nor looked to the right or left. On the desert, distance is

not measured by miles or leagues, but by the _saat_, or hour, and the

_manzil_, or halt: three and a half leagues fill the former, fifteen or

twenty-five the latter; but they are the rates for the common camel. A

carrier of the genuine Syrian stock can make three leagues easily. At

full speed he overtakes the ordinary winds. As one of the results of

the rapid advance, the face of the landscape underwent a change. The

Jebel stretched along the western horizon, like a pale-blue ribbon. A

_tell_, or hummock of clay and cemented sand, arose here and there. Now

and then basaltic stones lifted their round crowns, outposts of the

mountain against the forces of the plain; all else, however, was sand,

sometimes smooth as the beaten beach, then heaped in rolling ridges;

here chopped waves, there long swells. So, too, the condition of the

atmosphere changed. The sun, high risen, had drunk his fill of dew and

mist, and warmed the breeze that kissed the wanderer under the awning;

far and near he was tinting the earth with faint milk-whiteness, and

shimmering all the sky.

Two hours more passed without rest or deviation from the course.

Vegetation entirely ceased. The sand, so crusted on the surface that it

broke into rattling flakes at every step, held undisputed sway. The

Jebel was out of view, and there was no landmark visible. The shadow

that before followed had now shifted to the north, and was keeping even

race with the objects which cast it; and as there was no sign of

halting, the conduct of the traveller became each moment more strange.

No one, be it remembered, seeks the desert for a pleasure-ground. Life

and business traverse it by paths along which the bones of things dead

are strewn as so many blazons. Such are the roads from well to well,

from pasture to pasture. The heart of the most veteran sheik beats

quicker when he finds himself alone in the pathless tracts. So the man

with whom we are dealing could not have been in search of pleasure;

neither was his manner that of a fugitive; not once did he look behind

him. In such situations fear and curiosity are the most common

sensations; he was not moved by them. When men are lonely, they stoop

to any companionship; the dog becomes a comrade, the horse a friend,

and it is no shame to shower them with caresses and speeches of love.

The camel received no such token, not a touch, not a word.

Exactly at noon the dromedary, of its own will, stopped, and uttered

the cry or moan, peculiarly piteous, by which its kind always protest

against an overload, and sometimes crave attention and rest. The master

thereupon bestirred himself, waking, as it were, from sleep. He threw

the curtains of the _houdah_ up, looked at the sun, surveyed the

country on every side long and carefully, as if to identify an

appointed place. Satisfied with the inspection, he drew a deep breath

and nodded, much as to say, “At last, at last!” A moment after, he

crossed his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and prayed silently.

The pious duty done, he prepared to dismount. From his throat proceeded

the sound heard doubtless by the favorite camels of Job—_Ikh! ikh!_—the

signal to kneel. Slowly the animal obeyed, grunting the while. The

rider then put his foot upon the slender neck, and stepped upon the

sand.

CHAPTER II

The man as now revealed was of admirable proportions, not so tall as

powerful. Loosening the silken rope which held the kufiyeh on his head,

he brushed the fringed folds back until his face was bare—a strong

face, almost negro in color; yet the low, broad forehead, aquiline

nose, the outer corners of the eyes turned slightly upward, the hair

profuse, straight, harsh, of metallic lustre, and falling to the

shoulder in many plaits, were signs of origin impossible to disguise.

So looked the Pharaohs and the later Ptolemies; so looked Mizraim,

father of the Egyptian race. He wore the kamis, a white cotton shirt

tight-sleeved, open in front, extending to the ankles and embroidered

down the collar and breast, over which was thrown a brown woollen

cloak, now, as in all probability it was then, called the aba, an outer

garment with long skirt and short sleeves, lined inside with stuff of

mixed cotton and silk, edged all round with a margin of clouded yellow.

His feet were protected by sandals, attached by thongs of soft leather.

A sash held the kamis to his waist. What was very noticeable,

considering he was alone, and that the desert was the haunt of leopards

and lions, and men quite as wild, he carried no arms, not even the

crooked stick used for guiding camels; wherefore we may at least infer

his errand peaceful, and that he was either uncommonly bold or under

extraordinary protection.

The traveller’s limbs were numb, for the ride had been long and

wearisome; so he rubbed his hands and stamped his feet, and walked

round the faithful servant, whose lustrous eyes were closing in calm

content with the cud he had already found. Often, while making the

circuit, he paused, and, shading his eyes with his hands, examined the

desert to the extremest verge of vision; and always, when the survey

was ended, his face clouded with disappointment, slight, but enough to

advise a shrewd spectator that he was there expecting company, if not

by appointment; at the same time, the spectator would have been

conscious of a sharpening of the curiosity to learn what the business

could be that required transaction in a place so far from civilized

abode.

However disappointed, there could be little doubt of the stranger’s

confidence in the coming of the expected company. In token thereof, he

went first to the litter, and, from the cot or box opposite the one he

had occupied in coming, produced a sponge and a small gurglet of water,

with which he washed the eyes, face, and nostrils of the camel; that

done, from the same depository he drew a circular cloth, red-and

white-striped, a bundle of rods, and a stout cane. The latter, after

some manipulation, proved to be a cunning device of lesser joints, one

within another, which, when united together, formed a centre pole

higher than his head. When the pole was planted, and the rods set

around it, he spread the cloth over them, and was literally at home—a

home much smaller than the habitations of emir and sheik, yet their

counterpart in all other respects. From the litter again he brought a

carpet or square rug, and covered the floor of the tent on the side

from the sun. That done, he went out, and once more, and with greater

care and more eager eyes, swept the encircling country. Except a

distant jackal, galloping across the plain, and an eagle flying towards

the Gulf of Akaba, the waste below, like the blue above it, was

lifeless.

He turned to the camel, saying low, and in a tongue strange to the

desert, “We are far from home, O racer with the swiftest winds—we are

far from home, but God is with us. Let us be patient.”

Then he took some beans from a pocket in the saddle, and put them in a

bag made to hang below the animal’s nose; and when he saw the relish

with which the good servant took to the food, he turned and again

scanned the world of sand, dim with the glow of the vertical sun.

“They will come,” he said, calmly. “He that led me is leading them. I

will make ready.”

From the pouches which lined the interior of the cot, and from a willow

basket which was part of its furniture, he brought forth materials for

a meal: platters close-woven of the fibres of palms; wine in small

gurglets of skin; mutton dried and smoked; stoneless shami, or Syrian

pomegranates; dates of El Shelebi, wondrous rich and grown in the

nakhil, or palm orchards, of Central Arabia; cheese, like David’s

“slices of milk;” and leavened bread from the city bakery—all which he

carried and set upon the carpet under the tent. As the final

preparation, about the provisions he laid three pieces of silk cloth,

used among refined people of the East to cover the knees of guests

while at table—a circumstance significant of the number of persons who

were to partake of his entertainment—the number he was awaiting.

All was now ready. He stepped out: lo! in the east a dark speck on the

face of the desert. He stood as if rooted to the ground; his eyes

dilated; his flesh crept chilly, as if touched by something

supernatural. The speck grew; became large as a hand; at length assumed

defined proportions. A little later, full into view swung a duplication

of his own dromedary, tall and white, and bearing a houdah, the

travelling litter of Hindostan. Then the Egyptian crossed his hands

upon his breast, and looked to heaven.

“God only is great!” he exclaimed, his eyes full of tears, his soul in

awe.

The stranger drew nigh—at last stopped. Then he, too, seemed just

waking. He beheld the kneeling camel, the tent, and the man standing

prayerfully at the door. He crossed his hands, bent his head, and

prayed silently; after which, in a little while, he stepped from his

camel’s neck to the sand, and advanced towards the Egyptian, as did the

Egyptian towards him. A moment they looked at each other; then they

embraced—that is, each threw his right arm over the other’s shoulder,

and the left round the side, placing his chin first upon the left, then

upon the right breast.

“Peace be with thee, O servant of the true God!” the stranger said.

“And to thee, O brother of the true faith!—to thee peace and welcome,”

the Egyptian replied, with fervor.

The new-comer was tall and gaunt, with lean face, sunken eyes, white

hair and beard, and a complexion between the hue of cinnamon and

bronze. He, too, was unarmed. His costume was Hindostani; over the

skull-cap a shawl was wound in great folds, forming a turban; his body

garments were in the style of the Egyptian’s, except that the aba was

shorter, exposing wide flowing breeches gathered at the ankles. In

place of sandals, his feet were clad in half-slippers of red leather,

pointed at the toes. Save the slippers, the costume from head to foot

was of white linen. The air of the man was high, stately, severe.

Visvamitra, the greatest of the ascetic heroes of the Iliad of the

East, had in him a perfect representative. He might have been called a

Life drenched with the wisdom of Brahma—Devotion Incarnate. Only in his

eyes was there proof of humanity; when he lifted his face from the

Egyptian’s breast, they were glistening with tears.

“God only is great!” he exclaimed, when the embrace was finished.

“And blessed are they that serve him!” the Egyptian answered, wondering

at the paraphrase of his own exclamation. “But let us wait,” he added,

“let us wait; for see, the other comes yonder!”

They looked to the north, where, already plain to view, a third camel,

of the whiteness of the others, came careening like a ship. They

waited, standing together—waited until the new-comer arrived,

dismounted, and advanced towards them.

“Peace to you, O my brother!” he said, while embracing the Hindoo.

And the Hindoo answered, “God’s will be done!”

The last comer was all unlike his friends: his frame was slighter; his

complexion white; a mass of waving light hair was a perfect crown for

his small but beautiful head; the warmth of his dark-blue eyes

certified a delicate mind, and a cordial, brave nature. He was

bareheaded and unarmed. Under the folds of the Tyrian blanket which he

wore with unconscious grace appeared a tunic, short-sleeved and

low-necked, gathered to the waist by a band, and reaching nearly to the

knee; leaving the neck, arms, and legs bare. Sandals guarded his feet.

Fifty years, probably more, had spent themselves upon him, with no

other effect, apparently, than to tinge his demeanor with gravity and

temper his words with forethought. The physical organization and the

brightness of soul were untouched. No need to tell the student from

what kindred he was sprung; if he came not himself from the groves of

Athene’, his ancestry did.

When his arms fell from the Egyptian, the latter said, with a tremulous

voice, “The Spirit brought me first; wherefore I know myself chosen to

be the servant of my brethren. The tent is set, and the bread is ready

for the breaking. Let me perform my office.”

Taking each by the hand, he led them within, and removed their sandals

and washed their feet, and he poured water upon their hands, and dried

them with napkins.

Then, when he had laved his own hands, he said, “Let us take care of

ourselves, brethren, as our service requires, and eat, that we may be

strong for what remains of the day’s duty. While we eat, we will each

learn who the others are, and whence they come, and how they are

called.”

He took them to the repast, and seated them so that they faced each

other. Simultaneously their heads bent forward, their hands crossed

upon their breasts, and, speaking together, they said aloud this simple

grace:

“Father of all—God!—what we have here is of thee; take our thanks and

bless us, that we may continue to do thy will.”

With the last word they raised their eyes, and looked at each other in

wonder. Each had spoken in a language never before heard by the others;

yet each understood perfectly what was said. Their souls thrilled with

divine emotion; for by the miracle they recognized the Divine Presence.

CHAPTER III

To speak in the style of the period, the meeting just described took

place in the year of Rome 747. The month was December, and winter

reigned over all the regions east of the Mediterranean. Such as ride

upon the desert in this season go not far until smitten with a keen

appetite. The company under the little tent were not exceptions to the

rule. They were hungry, and ate heartily; and, after the wine, they

talked.

“To a wayfarer in a strange land nothing is so sweet as to hear his

name on the tongue of a friend,” said the Egyptian, who assumed to be

president of the repast. “Before us lie many days of companionship. It

is time we knew each other. So, if it be agreeable, he who came last

shall be first to speak.”

Then, slowly at first, like one watchful of himself, the Greek began:

“What I have to tell, my brethren, is so strange that I hardly know

where to begin or what I may with propriety speak. I do not yet

understand myself. The most I am sure of is that I am doing a Master’s

will, and that the service is a constant ecstasy. When I think of the

purpose I am sent to fulfil, there is in me a joy so inexpressible that

I know the will is God’s.”

The good man paused, unable to proceed, while the others, in sympathy

with his feelings, dropped their gaze.

“Far to the west of this,” he began again, “there is a land which may

never be forgotten; if only because the world is too much its debtor,

and because the indebtedness is for things that bring to men their

purest pleasures. I will say nothing of the arts, nothing of

philosophy, of eloquence, of poetry, of war: O my brethren, hers is the

glory which must shine forever in perfected letters, by which He we go

to find and proclaim will be made known to all the earth. The land I

speak of is Greece. I am Gaspar, son of Cleanthes the Athenian.

“My people,” he continued, “were given wholly to study, and from them I

derived the same passion. It happens that two of our philosophers, the

very greatest of the many, teach, one the doctrine of a Soul in every

man, and its Immortality; the other the doctrine of One God, infinitely

just. From the multitude of subjects about which the schools were

disputing, I separated them, as alone worth the labor of solution; for

I thought there was a relation between God and the soul as yet unknown.

On this theme the mind can reason to a point, a dead, impassable wall;

arrived there, all that remains is to stand and cry aloud for help. So

I did; but no voice came to me over the wall. In despair, I tore myself

from the cities and the schools.”

At these words a grave smile of approval lighted the gaunt face of the

Hindoo.

“In the northern part of my country—in Thessaly,” the Greek proceeded

to say, “there is a mountain famous as the home of the gods, where

Theus, whom my countrymen believe supreme, has his abode; Olympus is

its name. Thither I betook myself. I found a cave in a hill where the

mountain, coming from the west, bends to the southeast; there I dwelt,

giving myself up to meditation—no, I gave myself up to waiting for what

every breath was a prayer—for revelation. Believing in God, invisible

yet supreme, I also believed it possible so to yearn for him with all

my soul that he would take compassion and give me answer.”

“And he did—he did!” exclaimed the Hindoo, lifting his hands from the

silken cloth upon his lap.

“Hear me, brethren,” said the Greek, calming himself with an effort.

“The door of my hermitage looks over an arm of the sea, over the

Thermaic Gulf. One day I saw a man flung overboard from a ship sailing

by. He swam ashore. I received and took care of him. He was a Jew,

learned in the history and laws of his people; and from him I came to

know that the God of my prayers did indeed exist; and had been for ages

their lawmaker, ruler, and king. What was that but the Revelation I

dreamed of? My faith had not been fruitless; God answered me!”

“As he does all who cry to him with such faith,” said the Hindoo.

“But, alas!” the Egyptian added, “how few are there wise enough to know

when he answers them!”

“That was not all,” the Greek continued. “The man so sent to me told me

more. He said the prophets who, in the ages which followed the first

revelation, walked and talked with God, declared he would come again.

He gave me the names of the prophets, and from the sacred books quoted

their very language. He told me, further, that the second coming was at

hand—was looked for momentarily in Jerusalem.”

The Greek paused, and the brightness of his countenance faded.

“It is true,” he said, after a little—“it is true the man told me that

as God and the revelation of which he spoke had been for the Jews

alone, so it would be again. He that was to come should be King of the

Jews. ‘Had he nothing for the rest of the world?’ I asked. ‘No,’ was

the answer, given in a proud voice—‘No, we are his chosen people.’ The

answer did not crush my hope. Why should such a God limit his love and

benefaction to one land, and, as it were, to one family? I set my heart

upon knowing. At last I broke through the man’s pride, and found that

his fathers had been merely chosen servants to keep the Truth alive,

that the world might at last know it and be saved. When the Jew was

gone, and I was alone again, I chastened my soul with a new prayer—that

I might be permitted to see the King when he was come, and worship him.

One night I sat by the door of my cave trying to get nearer the

mysteries of my existence, knowing which is to know God; suddenly, on

the sea below me, or rather in the darkness that covered its face, I

saw a star begin to burn; slowly it arose and drew nigh, and stood over

the hill and above my door, so that its light shone full upon me. I

fell down, and slept, and in my dream I heard a voice say:

“‘O Gaspar! Thy faith hath conquered! Blessed art thou! With two

others, come from the uttermost parts of the earth, thou shalt see Him

that is promised, and be a witness for him, and the occasion of

testimony in his behalf. In the morning arise, and go meet them, and

keep trust in the Spirit that shall guide thee.’

“And in the morning I awoke with the Spirit as a light within me

surpassing that of the sun. I put off my hermit’s garb, and dressed

myself as of old. From a hiding-place I took the treasure which I had

brought from the city. A ship went sailing past. I hailed it, was taken

aboard, and landed at Antioch. There I bought the camel and his

furniture. Through the gardens and orchards that enamel the banks of

the Orontes, I journeyed to Emesa, Damascus, Bostra, and Philadelphia;

thence hither. And so, O brethren, you have my story. Let me now listen

to you.”

CHAPTER IV

The Egyptian and the Hindoo looked at each other; the former waved his

hand; the latter bowed, and began:

“Our brother has spoken well. May my words be as wise.”

He broke off, reflected a moment, then resumed:

“You may know me, brethren, by the name of Melchior. I speak to you in

a language which, if not the oldest in the world, was at least the

soonest to be reduced to letters—I mean the Sanscrit of India. I am a

Hindoo by birth. My people were the first to walk in the fields of

knowledge, first to divide them, first to make them beautiful. Whatever

may hereafter befall, the four Vedas must live, for they are the primal

fountains of religion and useful intelligence. From them were derived

the Upa-Vedas, which, delivered by Brahma, treat of medicine, archery,

architecture, music, and the four-and-sixty mechanical arts; the

Ved-Angas, revealed by inspired saints, and devoted to astronomy,

grammar, prosody, pronunciation, charms and incantations, religious

rites and ceremonies; the Up-Angas, written by the sage Vyasa, and

given to cosmogony, chronology, and geography; therein also are the

Ramayana and the Mahabharata, heroic poems, designed for the

perpetuation of our gods and demi-gods. Such, O brethren, are the Great

Shastras, or books of sacred ordinances. They are dead to me now; yet

through all time they will serve to illustrate the budding genius of my

race. They were promises of quick perfection. Ask you why the promises

failed? Alas! the books themselves closed all the gates of progress.

Under pretext of care for the creature, their authors imposed the fatal

principle that a man must not address himself to discovery or

invention, as Heaven had provided him all things needful. When that

condition became a sacred law, the lamp of Hindoo genius was let down a

well, where ever since it has lighted narrow walls and bitter waters.

“These allusions, brethren, are not from pride, as you will understand

when I tell you that the Shastras teach a Supreme God called Brahm;

also, that the Puranas, or sacred poems of the Up-Angas, tell us of

Virtue and Good Works, and of the Soul. So, if my brother will permit

the saying”—the speaker bowed deferentially to the Greek—“ages before

his people were known, the two great ideas, God and the Soul, had

absorbed all the forces of the Hindoo mind. In further explanation let

me say that Brahm is taught, by the same sacred books, as a

Triad—Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Of these, Brahma is said to have been

the author of our race; which, in course of creation, he divided into

four castes. First, he peopled the worlds below and the heavens above;

next, he made the earth ready for terrestrial spirits; then from his

mouth proceeded the Brahman caste, nearest in likeness to himself,

highest and noblest, sole teachers of the Vedas, which at the same time

flowed from his lips in finished state, perfect in all useful

knowledge. From his arms next issued the Kshatriya, or warriors; from

his breast, the seat of life, came the Vaisya, or producers—shepherds,

farmers, merchants; from his foot, in sign of degradation, sprang the

Sudra, or serviles, doomed to menial duties for the other

classes—serfs, domestics, laborers, artisans. Take notice, further,

that the law, so born with them, forbade a man of one caste becoming a

member of another; the Brahman could not enter a lower order; if he

violated the laws of his own grade, he became an outcast, lost to all

but outcasts like himself.”

At this point, the imagination of the Greek, flashing forward upon all

the consequences of such a degradation, overcame his eager attention,

and he exclaimed, “In such a state, O brethren, what mighty need of a

loving God!”

“Yes,” added the Egyptian, “of a loving God like ours.”

The brows of the Hindoo knit painfully; when the emotion was spent, he

proceeded, in a softened voice.

“I was born a Brahman. My life, consequently, was ordered down to its

least act, its last hour. My first draught of nourishment; the giving

me my compound name; taking me out the first time to see the sun;

investing me with the triple thread by which I became one of the

twice-born; my induction into the first order—were all celebrated with

sacred texts and rigid ceremonies. I might not walk, eat, drink, or

sleep without danger of violating a rule. And the penalty, O brethren,

the penalty was to my soul! According to the degrees of omission, my

soul went to one of the heavens—Indra’s the lowest, Brahma’s the

highest; or it was driven back to become the life of a worm, a fly, a

fish, or a brute. The reward for perfect observance was Beatitude, or

absorption into the being of Brahm, which was not existence as much as

absolute rest.”

The Hindoo gave himself a moment’s thought; proceeding, he said: “The

part of a Brahman’s life called the first order is his student life.

When I was ready to enter the second order—that is to say, when I was

ready to marry and become a householder—I questioned everything, even

Brahm; I was a heretic. From the depths of the well I had discovered a

light above, and yearned to go up and see what all it shone upon. At

last—ah, with what years of toil!—I stood in the perfect day, and

beheld the principle of life, the element of religion, the link between

the soul and God—Love!”

The shrunken face of the good man kindled visibly, and he clasped his

hands with force. A silence ensued, during which the others looked at

him, the Greek through tears. At length he resumed:

“The happiness of love is in action; its test is what one is willing to

do for others. I could not rest. Brahm had filled the world with so

much wretchedness. The Sudra appealed to me, so did the countless

devotees and victims. The island of Ganga Lagor lies where the sacred

waters of the Ganges disappear in the Indian Ocean. Thither I betook

myself. In the shade of the temple built there to the sage Kapila, in a

union of prayers with the disciples whom the sanctified memory of the

holy man keeps around his house, I thought to find rest. But twice

every year came pilgrimages of Hindoos seeking the purification of the

waters. Their misery strengthened my love. Against its impulse to speak

I clenched my jaws; for one word against Brahm or the Triad or the

Shastras would doom me; one act of kindness to the outcast Brahmans who

now and then dragged themselves to die on the burning sands—a blessing

said, a cup of water given—and I became one of them, lost to family,

country, privileges, caste. The love conquered! I spoke to the

disciples in the temple; they drove me out. I spoke to the pilgrims;

they stoned me from the island. On the highways I attempted to preach;

my hearers fled from me, or sought my life. In all India, finally,

there was not a place in which I could find peace or safety—not even

among the outcasts, for, though fallen, they were still believers in

Brahm. In my extremity, I looked for a solitude in which to hide from

all but God. I followed the Ganges to its source, far up in the

Himalayas. When I entered the pass at Hurdwar, where the river, in

unstained purity, leaps to its course through the muddy lowlands, I

prayed for my race, and thought myself lost to them forever. Through

gorges, over cliffs, across glaciers, by peaks that seemed star-high, I

made my way to the Lang Tso, a lake of marvellous beauty, asleep at the

feet of the Tise Gangri, the Gurla, and the Kailas Parbot, giants which

flaunt their crowns of snow everlastingly in the face of the sun.

There, in the centre of the earth, where the Indus, Ganges, and

Brahmapootra rise to run their different courses; where mankind took up

their first abode, and separated to replete the world, leaving Balk,

the mother of cities, to attest the great fact; where Nature, gone back

to its primeval condition, and secure in its immensities, invites the

sage and the exile, with promise of safety to the one and solitude to

the other—there I went to abide alone with God, praying, fasting,

waiting for death.”

Again the voice fell, and the bony hands met in a fervent clasp.

“One night I walked by the shores of the lake, and spoke to the

listening silence, ‘When will God come and claim his own? Is there to

be no redemption?’ Suddenly a light began to glow tremulously out on

the water; soon a star arose, and moved towards me, and stood overhead.

The brightness stunned me. While I lay upon the ground, I heard a voice

of infinite sweetness say, ‘Thy love hath conquered. Blessed art thou,

O son of India! The redemption is at hand. With two others, from far

quarters of the earth, thou shalt see the Redeemer, and be a witness

that he hath come. In the morning arise, and go meet them; and put all

thy trust in the Spirit which shall guide thee.’

“And from that time the light has stayed with me; so I knew it was the

visible presence of the Spirit. In the morning I started to the world

by the way I had come. In a cleft of the mountain I found a stone of

vast worth, which I sold in Hurdwar. By Lahore, and Cabool, and Yezd, I

came to Ispahan. There I bought the camel, and thence was led to

Bagdad, not waiting for caravans. Alone I traveled, fearless, for the

Spirit was with me, and is with me yet. What glory is ours, O brethren!

We are to see the Redeemer—to speak to him—to worship him! I am done.”

CHAPTER V

The vivacious Greek broke forth in expressions of joy and

congratulations; after which the Egyptian said, with characteristic

gravity:

“I salute you, my brother. You have suffered much, and I rejoice in

your triumph. If you are both pleased to hear me, I will now tell you

who I am, and how I came to be called. Wait for me a moment.”

He went out and tended the camels; coming back, he resumed his seat.

“Your words, brethren, were of the Spirit,” he said, in commencement;

“and the Spirit gives me to understand them. You each spoke

particularly of your countries; in that there was a great object, which

I will explain; but to make the interpretation complete, let me first

speak of myself and my people. I am Balthasar the Egyptian.”

The last words were spoken quietly, but with so much dignity that both

listeners bowed to the speaker.

“There are many distinctions I might claim for my race,” he continued;

“but I will content myself with one. History began with us. We were the

first to perpetuate events by records kept. So we have no traditions;

and instead of poetry, we offer you certainty. On the facades of

palaces and temples, on obelisks, on the inner walls of tombs, we wrote

the names of our kings, and what they did; and to the delicate papyri

we intrusted the wisdom of our philosophers and the secrets of our

religion—all the secrets but one, whereof I will presently speak. Older

than the Vedas of Para-Brahm or the Up-Angas of Vyasa, O Melchior;

older than the songs of Homer or the metaphysics of Plato, O my Gaspar;

older than the sacred books or kings of the people of China, or those

of Siddartha, son of the beautiful Maya; older than the Genesis of

Mosche the Hebrew—oldest of human records are the writings of Menes,

our first king.” Pausing an instant, he fixed his large eves kindly

upon the Greek, saying, “In the youth of Hellas, who, O Gaspar, were

the teachers of her teachers?”

The Greek bowed, smiling.

“By those records,” Balthasar continued, “we know that when the fathers

came from the far East, from the region of the birth of the three

sacred rivers, from the centre of the earth—the Old Iran of which you

spoke, O Melchior—came bringing with them the history of the world

before the Flood, and of the Flood itself, as given to the Aryans by

the sons of Noah, they taught God, the Creator and the Beginning, and

the Soul, deathless as God. When the duty which calls us now is happily

done, if you choose to go with me, I will show you the sacred library

of our priesthood; among others, the Book of the Dead, in which is the

ritual to be observed by the soul after Death has despatched it on its

journey to judgment. The ideas—God and the Immortal Soul—were borne to

Mizraim over the desert, and by him to the banks of the Nile. They were

then in their purity, easy of understanding, as what God intends for

our happiness always is; so, also, was the first worship—a song and a

prayer natural to a soul joyous, hopeful, and in love with its Maker.”

Here the Greek threw up his hands, exclaiming, “Oh! the light deepens

within me!”

“And in me!” said the Hindoo, with equal fervor.

The Egyptian regarded them benignantly, then went on, saying, “Religion

is merely the law which binds man to his Creator: in purity it has but

these elements—God, the Soul, and their Mutual Recognition; out of

which, when put in practise, spring Worship, Love, and Reward. This

law, like all others of divine origin—like that, for instance, which

binds the earth to the sun—was perfected in the beginning by its

Author. Such, my brothers, was the religion of the first family; such

was the religion of our father Mizraim, who could not have been blind

to the formula of creation, nowhere so discernible as in the first

faith and the earliest worship. Perfection is God; simplicity is

perfection. The curse of curses is that men will not let truths like

these alone.”

He stopped, as if considering in what manner to continue.

“Many nations have loved the sweet waters of the Nile,” he said next;

“the Ethiopian, the Pali-Putra, the Hebrew, the Assyrian, the Persian,

the Macedonian, the Roman—of whom all, except the Hebrew, have at one

time or another been its masters. So much coming and going of peoples

corrupted the old Mizraimic faith. The Valley of Palms became a Valley

of Gods. The Supreme One was divided into eight, each personating a

creative principle in nature, with Ammon-Re at the head. Then Isis and

Osiris, and their circle, representing water, fire, air, and other

forces, were invented. Still the multiplication went on until we had

another order, suggested by human qualities, such as strength,

knowledge, love, and the like.”

“In all which there was the old folly!” cried the Greek, impulsively.

“Only the things out of reach remain as they came to us.”

The Egyptian bowed, and proceeded:

“Yet a little further, O my brethren, a little further, before I come

to myself. What we go to will seem all the holier of comparison with

what is and has been. The records show that Mizraim found the Nile in

possession of the Ethiopians, who were spread thence through the

African desert; a people of rich, fantastic genius, wholly given to the

worship of nature. The Poetic Persian sacrificed to the sun, as the

completest image of Ormuzd, his God; the devout children of the far

East carved their deities out of wood and ivory; but the Ethiopian,

without writing, without books, without mechanical faculty of any kind,

quieted his soul by the worship of animals, birds, and insects, holding

the cat sacred to Re, the bull to Isis, the beetle to Pthah. A long

struggle against their rude faith ended in its adoption as the religion

of the new empire. Then rose the mighty monuments that cumber the

river-bank and the desert—obelisk, labyrinth, pyramid, and tomb of

king, blent with tomb of crocodile. Into such deep debasement, O

brethren, the sons of the Aryan fell!”

Here, for the first time, the calmness of the Egyptian forsook him:

though his countenance remained impassive, his voice gave way.

“Do not too much despise my countrymen,” he began again. “They did not

all forget God. I said awhile ago, you may remember, that to papyri we

intrusted all the secrets of our religion except one; of that I will

now tell you. We had as king once a certain Pharaoh, who lent himself

to all manner of changes and additions. To establish the new system, he

strove to drive the old entirely out of mind. The Hebrews then dwelt

with us as slaves. They clung to their God; and when the persecution

became intolerable, they were delivered in a manner never to be

forgotten. I speak from the records now. Mosche, himself a Hebrew, came

to the palace, and demanded permission for the slaves, then millions in

number, to leave the country. The demand was in the name of the Lord

God of Israel. Pharaoh refused. Hear what followed. First, all the

water, that in the lakes and rivers, like that in the wells and

vessels, turned to blood. Yet the monarch refused. Then frogs came up

and covered all the land. Still he was firm. Then Mosche threw ashes in

the air, and a plague attacked the Egyptians. Next, all the cattle,

except of the Hebrews, were struck dead. Locusts devoured the green

things of the valley. At noon the day was turned into a darkness so

thick that lamps would not burn. Finally, in the night all the

first-born of the Egyptians died; not even Pharaoh’s escaped. Then he

yielded. But when the Hebrews were gone he followed them with his army.

At the last moment the sea was divided, so that the fugitives passed it

dry-shod. When the pursuers drove in after them, the waves rushed back

and drowned horse, foot, charioteers, and king. You spoke of

revelation, my Gaspar—”

The blue eyes of the Greek sparkled.

“I had the story from the Jew,” he cried. “You confirm it, O

Balthasar!”

“Yes, but through me Egypt speaks, not Mosche. I interpret the marbles.

The priests of that time wrote in their way what they witnessed, and

the revelation has lived. So I come to the one unrecorded secret. In my

country, brethren, we have, from the day of the unfortunate Pharaoh,

always had two religions—one private, the other public; one of many

gods, practised by the people; the other of one God, cherished only by

the priesthood. Rejoice with me, O brothers! All the trampling by the

many nations, all the harrowing by kings, all the inventions of

enemies, all the changes of time, have been in vain. Like a seed under

the mountains waiting its hour, the glorious Truth has lived; and

this—this is its day!”

The wasted frame of the Hindoo trembled with delight, and the Greek

cried aloud,

“It seems to me the very desert is singing.”

From a gurglet of water near-by the Egyptian took a draught, and

proceeded:

“I was born at Alexandria, a prince and a priest, and had the education

usual to my class. But very early I became discontented. Part of the

faith imposed was that after death upon the destruction of the body,

the soul at once began its former progression from the lowest up to

humanity, the highest and last existence; and that without reference to

conduct in the mortal life. When I heard of the Persian’s Realm of

Light, his Paradise across the bridge Chinevat, where only the good go,

the thought haunted me; insomuch that in the day, as in the night, I

brooded over the comparative ideas Eternal Transmigration and Eternal

Life in Heaven. If, as my teacher taught, God was just, why was there

no distinction between the good and the bad? At length it became clear

to me, a certainty, a corollary of the law to which I reduced pure

religion, that death was only the point of separation at which the

wicked are left or lost, and the faithful rise to a higher life; not

the nirvana of Buddha, or the negative rest of Brahma, O Melchior; nor

the better condition in hell, which is all of Heaven allowed by the

Olympic faith, O Gaspar; but life—life active, joyous, everlasting—LIFE

WITH GOD! The discovery led to another inquiry. Why should the Truth be

longer kept a secret for the selfish solace of the priesthood? The

reason for the suppression was gone. Philosophy had at least brought us

toleration. In Egypt we had Rome instead of Rameses. One day, in the

Brucheium, the most splendid and crowded quarter of Alexandria, I arose

and preached. The East and West contributed to my audience. Students

going to the Library, priests from the Serapeion, idlers from the

Museum, patrons of the race-course, countrymen from the Rhacotis—a

multitude—stopped to hear me. I preached God, the Soul, Right and

Wrong, and Heaven, the reward of a virtuous life. You, O Melchior, were

stoned; my auditors first wondered, then laughed. I tried again; they

pelted me with epigrams, covered my God with ridicule, and darkened my

Heaven with mockery. Not to linger needlessly, I fell before them.”

The Hindoo here drew a long sigh, as he said, “The enemy of man is man,

my brother.”

Balthasar lapsed into silence.

“I gave much thought to finding the cause of my failure, and at last

succeeded,” he said, upon beginning again. “Up the river, a day’s

journey from the city, there is a village of herdsmen and gardeners. I

took a boat and went there. In the evening I called the people

together, men and women, the poorest of the poor. I preached to them

exactly as I had preached in the Brucheium. They did not laugh. Next

evening I spoke again, and they believed and rejoiced, and carried the

news abroad. At the third meeting a society was formed for prayer. I

returned to the city then. Drifting down the river, under the stars,

which never seemed so bright and so near, I evolved this lesson: To

begin a reform, go not into the places of the great and rich; go rather

to those whose cups of happiness are empty—to the poor and humble. And

then I laid a plan and devoted my life. As a first step, I secured my

vast property, so that the income would be certain, and always at call

for the relief of the suffering. From that day, O brethren, I travelled

up and down the Nile, in the villages, and to all the tribes, preaching

One God, a righteous life, and reward in Heaven. I have done good—it

does not become me to say how much. I also know that part of the world

to be ripe for the reception of Him we go to find.”

A flush suffused the swarthy cheek of the speaker; but he overcame the

feeling, and continued:

“The years so given, O my brothers, were troubled by one thought—When I

was gone, what would become of the cause I had started? Was it to end

with me? I had dreamed many times of organization as a fitting crown

for my work. To hide nothing from you, I had tried to effect it, and

failed. Brethren, the world is now in the condition that, to restore

the old Mizraimic faith, the reformer must have a more than human

sanction; he must not merely come in God’s name, he must have the

proofs subject to his word; he must demonstrate all he says, even God.

So preoccupied is the mind with myths and systems; so much do false

deities crowd every place—earth, air, sky; so have they become of

everything a part, that return to the first religion can only be along

bloody paths, through fields of persecution; that is to say, the

converts must be willing to die rather than recant. And who in this age

can carry the faith of men to such a point but God himself? To redeem

the race—I do not mean to destroy it—to REDEEM the race, he must make

himself once more manifest; HE MUST COME IN PERSON.”

Intense emotion seized the three.

“Are we not going to find him?” exclaimed the Greek.

“You understand why I failed in the attempt to organize,” said the

Egyptian, when the spell was past. “I had not the sanction. To know

that my work must be lost made me intolerably wretched. I believed in

prayer, and to make my appeals pure and strong, like you, my brethren,

I went out of the beaten ways, I went where man had not been, where

only God was. Above the fifth cataract, above the meeting of rivers in

Sennar, up the Bahr el Abiad, into the far unknown of Africa, I went.

There, in the morning, a mountain blue as the sky flings a cooling

shadow wide over the western desert, and, with its cascades of melted

snow, feeds a broad lake nestling at its base on the east. The lake is

the mother of the great river. For a year and more the mountain gave me

a home. The fruit of the palm fed my body, prayer my spirit. One night

I walked in the orchard close by the little sea. ‘The world is dying.

When wilt thou come? Why may I not see the redemption, O God?’ So I

prayed. The glassy water was sparkling with stars. One of them seemed

to leave its place, and rise to the surface, where it became a

brilliancy burning to the eyes. Then it moved towards me, and stood

over my head, apparently in hand’s reach. I fell down and hid my face.

A voice, not of the earth, said, ‘Thy good works have conquered.

Blessed art thou, O son of Mizraim! The redemption cometh. With two

others, from the remotenesses of the world, thou shalt see the Saviour,

and testify for him. In the morning arise, and go meet them. And when

ye have all come to the holy city of Jerusalem, ask of the people,

Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in

the East and are sent to worship him. Put all thy trust in the Spirit

which will guide thee.’

“And the light became an inward illumination not to be doubted, and has

stayed with me, a governor and a guide. It led me down the river to

Memphis, where I made ready for the desert. I bought my camel, and came

hither without rest, by way of Suez and Kufileh, and up through the

lands of Moab and Ammon. God is with us, O my brethren!”

He paused, and thereupon, with a prompting not their own, they all

arose, and looked at each other.

“I said there was a purpose in the particularity with which we

described our people and their histories,” so the Egyptian proceeded.

“He we go to find was called ‘King of the Jews;’ by that name we are

bidden to ask for him. But, now that we have met, and heard from each

other, we may know him to be the Redeemer, not of the Jews alone, but

of all the nations of the earth. The patriarch who survived the Flood

had with him three sons, and their families, by whom the world was

repeopled. From the old Aryana-Vaejo, the well-remembered Region of

Delight in the heart of Asia, they parted. India and the far East

received the children of the first; the descendant of the youngest,

through the North, streamed into Europe; those of the second overflowed

the deserts about the Red Sea, passing into Africa; and though most of

the latter are yet dwellers in shifting tents, some of them became

builders along the Nile.”

By a simultaneous impulse the three joined hands.

“Could anything be more divinely ordered?” Balthasar continued. “When

we have found the Lord, the brothers, and all the generations that have

succeeded them, will kneel to him in homage with us. And when we part

to go our separate ways, the world will have learned a new lesson—that

Heaven may be won, not by the sword, not by human wisdom, but by Faith,

Love, and Good Works.”

There was silence, broken by sighs and sanctified with tears; for the

joy that filled them might not be stayed. It was the unspeakable joy of

souls on the shores of the River of Life, resting with the Redeemed in

God’s presence.

Presently their hands fell apart, and together they went out of the

tent. The desert was still as the sky. The sun was sinking fast. The

camels slept.

A little while after, the tent was struck, and, with the remains of the

repast, restored to the cot; then the friends mounted, and set out

single file, led by the Egyptian. Their course was due west, into the

chilly night. The camels swung forward in steady trot, keeping the line

and the intervals so exactly that those following seemed to tread in

the tracks of the leader. The riders spoke not once.

By-and-by the moon came up. And as the three tall white figures sped,

with soundless tread, through the opalescent light, they appeared like

specters flying from hateful shadows. Suddenly, in the air before them,

not farther up than a low hill-top flared a lambent flame; as they

looked at it, the apparition contracted into a focus of dazzling

lustre. Their hearts beat fast; their souls thrilled; and they shouted

as with one voice, “The Star! the Star! God is with us!”

CHAPTER VI

In an aperture of the western wall of Jerusalem hang the “oaken valves”

called the Bethlehem or Joppa Gate. The area outside of them is one of

the notable places of the city. Long before David coveted Zion there

was a citadel there. When at last the son of Jesse ousted the Jebusite,

and began to build, the site of the citadel became the northwest corner

of the new wall, defended by a tower much more imposing than the old

one. The location of the gate, however, was not disturbed, for the

reasons, most likely, that the roads which met and merged in front of

it could not well be transferred to any other point, while the area

outside had become a recognized market-place. In Solomon’s day there

was great traffic at the locality, shared in by traders from Egypt and

the rich dealers from Tyre and Sidon. Nearly three thousand years have

passed, and yet a kind of commerce clings to the spot. A pilgrim

wanting a pin or a pistol, a cucumber or a camel, a house or a horse, a

loan or a lentil, a date or a dragoman, a melon or a man, a dove or a

donkey, has only to inquire for the article at the Joppa Gate.

Sometimes the scene is quite animated, and then it suggests, What a

place the old market must have been in the days of Herod the Builder!

And to that period and that market the reader is now to be transferred.

Following the Hebrew system, the meeting of the wise men described in

the preceding chapters took place in the afternoon of the twenty-fifth

day of the third month of the year; that is to say, on the twenty-fifth

day of December. The year was the second of the 193d Olympiad, or the

747th of Rome; the sixty-seventh of Herod the Great, and the

thirty-fifth of his reign; the fourth before the beginning of the

Christian era. The hours of the day, by Judean custom, begin with the

sun, the first hour being the first after sunrise; so, to be precise;

the market at the Joppa Gate during the first hour of the day stated

was in full session, and very lively. The massive valves had been wide

open since dawn. Business, always aggressive, had pushed through the

arched entrance into a narrow lane and court, which, passing by the

walls of the great tower, conducted on into the city. As Jerusalem is

in the hill country, the morning air on this occasion was not a little

crisp. The rays of the sun, with their promise of warmth, lingered

provokingly far up on the battlements and turrets of the great piles

about, down from which fell the crooning of pigeons and the whir of the

flocks coming and going.

As a passing acquaintance with the people of the Holy City, strangers

as well as residents, will be necessary to an understanding of some of

the pages which follow, it will be well to stop at the gate and pass

the scene in review. Better opportunity will not offer to get sight of

the populace who will afterwhile go forward in a mood very different

from that which now possesses them.

The scene is at first one of utter confusion—confusion of action,

sounds, colors, and things. It is especially so in the lane and court.

The ground there is paved with broad unshaped flags, from which each

cry and jar and hoof-stamp arises to swell the medley that rings and

roars up between the solid impending walls. A little mixing with the

throng, however, a little familiarity with the business going on, will

make analysis possible.

Here stands a donkey, dozing under panniers full of lentils, beans,

onions, and cucumbers, brought fresh from the gardens and terraces of

Galilee. When not engaged in serving customers, the master, in a voice

which only the initiated can understand, cries his stock. Nothing can

be simpler than his costume—sandals, and an unbleached, undyed blanket,

crossed over one shoulder and girt round the waist. Near-by, and far

more imposing and grotesque, though scarcely as patient as the donkey,

kneels a camel, raw-boned, rough, and gray, with long shaggy tufts of

fox-colored hair under its throat, neck, and body, and a load of boxes

and baskets curiously arranged upon an enormous saddle. The owner is an

Egyptian, small, lithe, and of a complexion which has borrowed a good

deal from the dust of the roads and the sands of the desert. He wears a

faded tarbooshe, a loose gown, sleeveless, unbelted, and dropping from

the neck to the knee. His feet are bare. The camel, restless under the

load, groans and occasionally shows his teeth; but the man paces

indifferently to and fro, holding the driving-strap, and all the time

advertising his fruits fresh from the orchards of the Kedron—grapes,

dates, figs, apples, and pomegranates.

At the corner where the lane opens out into the court, some women sit

with their backs against the gray stones of the wall. Their dress is

that common to the humbler classes of the country—a linen frock

extending the full length of the person, loosely gathered at the waist,

and a veil or wimple broad enough, after covering the head, to wrap the

shoulders. Their merchandise is contained in a number of earthen jars,

such as are still used in the East for bringing water from the wells,

and some leathern bottles. Among the jars and bottles, rolling upon the

stony floor, regardless of the crowd and cold, often in danger but

never hurt, play half a dozen half-naked children, their brown bodies,

jetty eyes, and thick black hair attesting the blood of Israel.

Sometimes, from under the wimples, the mothers look up, and in the

vernacular modestly bespeak their trade: in the bottles “honey of

grapes,” in the jars “strong drink.” Their entreaties are usually lost

in the general uproar, and they fare illy against the many competitors:

brawny fellows with bare legs, dirty tunics, and long beards, going

about with bottles lashed to their backs, and shouting “Honey of wine!

Grapes of En-Gedi!” When a customer halts one of them, round comes the

bottle, and, upon lifting the thumb from the nozzle, out into the ready

cup gushes the deep-red blood of the luscious berry.

Scarcely less blatant are the dealers in birds—doves, ducks, and

frequently the singing bulbul, or nightingale, most frequently pigeons;

and buyers, receiving them from the nets, seldom fail to think of the

perilous life of the catchers, bold climbers of the cliffs; now hanging

with hand and foot to the face of the crag, now swinging in a basket

far down the mountain fissure.

Blent with peddlers of jewelry—sharp men cloaked in scarlet and blue,

top-heavy under prodigious white turbans, and fully conscious of the

power there is in the lustre of a ribbon and the incisive gleam of

gold, whether in bracelet or necklace, or in rings for the finger or

the nose—and with peddlers of household utensils, and with dealers in

wearing-apparel, and with retailers of unguents for anointing the

person, and with hucksters of all articles, fanciful as well as of

need, hither and thither, tugging at halters and ropes, now screaming,

now coaxing, toil the venders of animals—donkeys, horses, calves,

sheep, bleating kids, and awkward camels; animals of every kind except

the outlawed swine. All these are there; not singly, as described, but

many times repeated; not in one place, but everywhere in the market.

Turning from this scene in the lane and court, this glance at the

sellers and their commodities, the reader has need to give attention,

in the next place, to visitors and buyers, for which the best studies

will be found outside the gates, where the spectacle is quite as varied

and animated; indeed, it may be more so, for there are superadded the

effects of tent, booth, and sook, greater space, larger crowd, more

unqualified freedom, and the glory of the Eastern sunshine.

CHAPTER VII

Let us take our stand by the gate, just out of the edge of the

currents—one flowing in, the other out—and use our eyes and ears

awhile.

In good time! Here come two men of a most noteworthy class.

“Gods! How cold it is!” says one of them, a powerful figure in armor;

on his head a brazen helmet, on his body a shining breastplate and

skirts of mail. “How cold it is! Dost thou remember, my Caius, that

vault in the Comitium at home which the flamens say is the entrance to

the lower world? By Pluto! I could stand there this morning, long

enough at least to get warm again!”

The party addressed drops the hood of his military cloak, leaving bare

his head and face, and replies, with an ironic smile, “The helmets of

the legions which conquered Mark Antony were full of Gallic snow; but

thou—ah, my poor friend!—thou hast just come from Egypt, bringing its

summer in thy blood.”

And with the last word they disappear through the entrance. Though they

had been silent, the armor and the sturdy step would have published

them Roman soldiers.

From the throng a Jew comes next, meager of frame, round-shouldered,

and wearing a coarse brown robe; over his eyes and face, and down his

back, hangs a mat of long, uncombed hair. He is alone. Those who meet

him laugh, if they do not worse; for he is a Nazarite, one of a

despised sect which rejects the books of Moses, devotes itself to

abhorred vows, and goes unshorn while the vows endure.

As we watch his retiring figure, suddenly there is a commotion in the

crowd, a parting quickly to the right and left, with exclamations sharp

and decisive. Then the cause comes—a man, Hebrew in feature and dress.

The mantle of snow-white linen, held to his head by cords of yellow

silk, flows free over his shoulders; his robe is richly embroidered, a

red sash with fringes of gold wraps his waist several times. His

demeanor is calm; he even smiles upon those who, with such rude haste,

make room for him. A leper? No, he is only a Samaritan. The shrinking

crowd, if asked, would say he is a mongrel—an Assyrian—whose touch of

the robe is pollution; from whom, consequently, an Israelite, though

dying, might not accept life. In fact, the feud is not of blood. When

David set his throne here on Mount Zion, with only Judah to support

him, the ten tribes betook themselves to Shechem, a city much older,

and, at that date, infinitely richer in holy memories. The final union

of the tribes did not settle the dispute thus begun. The Samaritans

clung to their tabernacle on Gerizim, and, while maintaining its

superior sanctity, laughed at the irate doctors in Jerusalem. Time

brought no assuagement of the hate. Under Herod, conversion to the

faith was open to all the world except the Samaritans; they alone were

absolutely and forever shut out from communion with Jews.

As the Samaritan goes in under the arch of the gate, out come three men

so unlike all whom we have yet seen that they fix our gaze, whether we

will or not. They are of unusual stature and immense brawn; their eyes

are blue, and so fair is their complexion that the blood shines through

the skin like blue pencilling; their hair is light and short; their

heads, small and round, rest squarely upon necks columnar as the trunks

of trees. Woollen tunics, open at the breast, sleeveless and loosely

girt, drape their bodies, leaving bare arms and legs of such

development that they at once suggest the arena; and when thereto we

add their careless, confident, insolent manner, we cease to wonder that

the people give them way, and stop after they have passed to look at

them again. They are gladiators—wrestlers, runners, boxers, swordsmen;

professionals unknown in Judea before the coming of the Roman; fellows

who, what time they are not in training, may be seen strolling through

the king’s gardens or sitting with the guards at the palace gates; or

possibly they are visitors from Cæsarea, Sebaste, or Jericho; in which

Herod, more Greek than Jew, and with all a Roman’s love of games and

bloody spectacles, has built vast theaters, and now keeps schools of

fighting-men, drawn, as is the custom, from the Gallic provinces or the

Slavic tribes on the Danube.

“By Bacchus!” says one of them, drawing his clenched hand to his

shoulder, “their skulls are not thicker than eggshells.”

The brutal look which goes with the gesture disgusts us, and we turn

happily to something more pleasant.

Opposite us is a fruit-stand. The proprietor has a bald head, a long

face, and a nose like the beak of a hawk. He sits upon a carpet spread

upon the dust; the wall is at his back; overhead hangs a scant curtain,

around him, within hand’s reach and arranged upon little stools, lie

osier boxes full of almonds, grapes, figs, and pomegranates. To him now

comes one at whom we cannot help looking, though for another reason

than that which fixed our eyes upon the gladiators; he is really

beautiful—a beautiful Greek. Around his temples, holding the waving

hair, is a crown of myrtle, to which still cling the pale flowers and

half ripe berries. His tunic, scarlet in color, is of the softest

woollen fabric; below the girdle of buff leather, which is clasped in

front by a fantastic device of shining gold, the skirt drops to the

knee in folds heavy with embroidery of the same royal metal; a scarf,

also woollen, and of mixed white and yellow, crosses his throat and

falls trailing at his back; his arms and legs, where exposed, are white

as ivory, and of the polish impossible except by perfect treatment with

bath, oil, brushes, and pincers.

The dealer, keeping his seat, bends forward, and throws his hands up

until they meet in front of him, palm downwards and fingers extended.

“What hast thou, this morning, O son of Paphos?” says the young Greek,

looking at the boxes rather than at the Cypriote. “I am hungry. What

hast thou for breakfast?”

“Fruits from the Pedius—genuine—such as the singers of Antioch take of

mornings to restore the waste of their voices,” the dealer answers, in

a querulous nasal tone.

“A fig, but not one of thy best, for the singers of Antioch!” says the

Greek. “Thou art a worshiper of Aphrodite, and so am I, as the myrtle I

wear proves; therefore I tell thee their voices have the chill of a

Caspian wind. Seest thou this girdle?—a gift of the mighty Salome—”

“The king’s sister!” exclaims the Cypriote, with another salaam.

“And of royal taste and divine judgment. And why not? She is more Greek

than the king. But—my breakfast! Here is thy money—red coppers of

Cyprus. Give me grapes, and—”

“Wilt thou not take the dates also?”

“No, I am not an Arab.”

“Nor figs?”

“That would be to make me a Jew. No, nothing but the grapes. Never

waters mixed so sweetly as the blood of the Greek and the blood of the

grape.”

The singer in the grimed and seething market, with all his airs of the

court, is a vision not easily shut out of mind by such as see him; as

if for the purpose, however, a person follows him challenging all our

wonder. He comes up the road slowly, his face towards the ground; at

intervals he stops, crosses his hands upon his breast, lengthens his

countenance, and turns his eyes towards heaven, as if about to break

into prayer. Nowhere, except in Jerusalem, can such a character be

found. On his forehead, attached to the band which keeps the mantle in

place, projects a leathern case, square in form; another similar case

is tied by a thong to the left arm; the borders of his robe are

decorated with deep fringe; and by such signs—the phylacteries, the

enlarged borders of the garment, and the savor of intense holiness

pervading the whole man—we know him to be a Pharisee, one of an

organization (in religion a sect, in politics a party) whose bigotry

and power will shortly bring the world to grief.

The densest of the throng outside the gate covers the road leading off

to Joppa. Turning from the Pharisee, we are attracted by some parties

who, as subjects of study, opportunely separate themselves from the

motley crowd. First among them a man of very noble appearance—clear,

healthful complexion; bright black eyes; beard long and flowing, and

rich with unguents; apparel well-fitting, costly, and suitable for the

season. He carries a staff, and wears, suspended by a cord from his

neck, a large golden seal. Several servants attend him, some of them

with short swords stuck through their sashes; when they address him, it

is with the utmost deference. The rest of the party consists of two

Arabs of the pure desert stock; thin, wiry men, deeply bronzed, and

with hollow cheeks, and eyes of almost evil brightness; on their heads

red tarbooshes; over their abas, and wrapping the left shoulder and the

body so as to leave the right arm free, brown woollen haicks, or

blankets. There is loud chaffering, for the Arabs are leading horses

and trying to sell them; and, in their eagerness, they speak in high,

shrill voices. The courtly person leaves the talking mostly to his

servants; occasionally he answers with much dignity; directly, seeing

the Cypriote, he stops and buys some figs. And when the whole party has

passed the portal, close after the Pharisee, if we betake ourselves to

the dealer in fruits, he will tell, with a wonderful salaam, that the

stranger is a Jew, one of the princes of the city, who has travelled,

and learned the difference between the common grapes of Syria and those

of Cyprus, so surpassingly rich with the dews of the sea.

And so, till towards noon, sometimes later, the steady currents of

business habitually flow in and out of the Joppa Gate, carrying with

them every variety of character; including representatives of all the

tribes of Israel, all the sects among whom the ancient faith has been

parcelled and refined away, all the religious and social divisions, all

the adventurous rabble who, as children of art and ministers of

pleasure, riot in the prodigalities of Herod, and all the peoples of

note at any time compassed by the Cæsars and their predecessors,

especially those dwelling within the circuit of the Mediterranean.

In other words, Jerusalem, rich in sacred history, richer in connection

with sacred prophecies—the Jerusalem of Solomon, in which silver was as

stones, and cedars as the sycamores of the vale—had come to be but a

copy of Rome, a center of unholy practises, a seat of pagan power. A

Jewish king one day put on priestly garments, and went into the Holy of

Holies of the first temple to offer incense, and he came out a leper;

but in the time of which we are reading, Pompey entered Herod’s temple

and the same Holy of Holies, and came out without harm, finding but an

empty chamber, and of God not a sign.

CHAPTER VIII

The reader is now besought to return to the court described as part of

the market at the Joppa Gate. It was the third hour of the day, and

many of the people had gone away; yet the press continued without

apparent abatement. Of the new-comers, there was a group over by the

south wall, consisting of a man, a woman, and a donkey, which requires

extended notice.

The man stood by the animal’s head, holding a leading-strap, and

leaning upon a stick which seemed to have been chosen for the double

purpose of goad and staff. His dress was like that of the ordinary Jews

around him, except that it had an appearance of newness. The mantle

dropping from his head, and the robe or frock which clothed his person

from neck to heel, were probably the garments he was accustomed to wear

to the synagogue on Sabbath days. His features were exposed, and they

told of fifty years of life, a surmise confirmed by the gray that

streaked his otherwise black beard. He looked around him with the

half-curious, half-vacant stare of a stranger and provincial.

The donkey ate leisurely from an armful of green grass, of which there

was an abundance in the market. In its sleepy content, the brute did

not admit of disturbance from the bustle and clamor about; no more was

it mindful of the woman sitting upon its back in a cushioned pillion.

An outer robe of dull woollen stuff completely covered her person,

while a white wimple veiled her head and neck. Once in a while,

impelled by curiosity to see or hear something passing, she drew the

wimple aside, but so slightly that the face remained invisible.

At length the man was accosted.

“Are you not Joseph of Nazareth?”

The speaker was standing close by.

“I am so called,” answered Joseph, turning gravely around; “And you—ah,

peace be unto you! my friend, Rabbi Samuel!”

“The same give I back to you.” The Rabbi paused, looking at the woman,

then added, “To you, and unto your house and all your helpers, be

peace.”

With the last word, he placed one hand upon his breast, and inclined

his head to the woman, who, to see him, had by this time withdrawn the

wimple enough to show the face of one but a short time out of girlhood.

Thereupon the acquaintances grasped right hands, as if to carry them to

their lips; at the last moment, however, the clasp was let go, and each

kissed his own hand, then put its palm upon his forehead.

“There is so little dust upon your garments,” the Rabbi said,

familiarly, “that I infer you passed the night in this city of our

fathers.”

“No,” Joseph replied, “as we could only make Bethany before the night

came, we stayed in the khan there, and took the road again at

daybreak.”

“The journey before you is long, then—not to Joppa, I hope.”

“Only to Bethlehem.”

The countenance of the Rabbi, theretofore open and friendly, became

lowering and sinister, and he cleared his throat with a growl instead

of a cough.

“Yes, yes—I see,” he said. “You were born in Bethlehem, and wend

thither now, with your daughter, to be counted for taxation, as ordered

by Cæsar. The children of Jacob are as the tribes in Egypt were—only

they have neither a Moses nor a Joshua. How are the mighty fallen!”

Joseph answered, without change of posture or countenance,

“The woman is not my daughter.”

But the Rabbi clung to the political idea; and he went on, without

noticing the explanation, “What are the Zealots doing down in Galilee?”

“I am a carpenter, and Nazareth is a village,” said Joseph, cautiously.

“The street on which my bench stands is not a road leading to any city.

Hewing wood and sawing plank leave me no time to take part in the

disputes of parties.”

“But you are a Jew,” said the Rabbi, earnestly. “You are a Jew, and of

the line of David. It is not possible you can find pleasure in the

payment of any tax except the shekel given by ancient custom to

Jehovah.”

Joseph held his peace.

“I do not complain,” his friend continued, “of the amount of the tax—a

denarius is a trifle. Oh no! The imposition of the tax is the offense.

And, besides, what is paying it but submission to tyranny? Tell me, is

it true that Judas claims to be the Messiah? You live in the midst of

his followers.”

“I have heard his followers say he was the Messiah,” Joseph replied.

At this point the wimple was drawn aside, and for an instant the whole

face of the woman was exposed. The eyes of the Rabbi wandered that way,

and he had time to see a countenance of rare beauty, kindled by a look

of intense interest; then a blush overspread her cheeks and brow, and

the veil was returned to its place.

The politician forgot his subject.

“Your daughter is comely,” he said, speaking lower.

“She is not my daughter,” Joseph repeated.

The curiosity of the Rabbi was aroused; seeing which, the Nazarene

hastened to say further, “She is the child of Joachim and Anna of

Bethlehem, of whom you have at least heard, for they were of great

repute—”

“Yes,” remarked the Rabbi, deferentially, “I know them. They were

lineally descended from David. I knew them well.”

“Well, they are dead now,” the Nazarene proceeded. “They died in

Nazareth. Joachim was not rich, yet he left a house and garden to be

divided between his daughters Marian and Mary. This is one of them; and

to save her portion of the property, the law required her to marry her

next of kin. She is now my wife.”

“And you were—”

“Her uncle.”

“Yes, yes! And as you were both born in Bethlehem, the Roman compels

you to take her there with you to be also counted.”

The Rabbi clasped his hands, and looked indignantly to heaven,

exclaiming, “The God of Israel still lives! The vengeance is his!”

With that he turned and abruptly departed. A stranger near by,

observing Joseph’s amazement, said, quietly, “Rabbi Samuel is a zealot.

Judas himself is not more fierce.”

Joseph, not wishing to talk with the man, appeared not to hear, and

busied himself gathering in a little heap the grass which the donkey

had tossed abroad; after which he leaned upon his staff again, and

waited.

In another hour the party passed out the gate, and, turning to the

left, took the road into Bethlehem. The descent into the valley of

Hinnom was quite broken, garnished here and there with straggling wild

olive-trees. Carefully, tenderly, the Nazarene walked by the woman’s

side, leading-strap in hand. On their left, reaching to the south and

east round Mount Zion, rose the city wall, and on their right the steep

prominences which form the western boundary of the valley.

Slowly they passed the Lower Pool of Gihon, out of which the sun was

fast driving the lessening shadow of the royal hill; slowly they

proceeded, keeping parallel with the aqueduct from the Pools of

Solomon, until near the site of the country-house on what is now called

the Hill of Evil Counsel; there they began to ascend to the plain of

Rephaim. The sun streamed garishly over the stony face of the famous

locality, and under its influence Mary, the daughter of Joachim,

dropped the wimple entirely, and bared her head. Joseph told the story

of the Philistines surprised in their camp there by David. He was

tedious in the narrative, speaking with the solemn countenance and

lifeless manner of a dull man. She did not always hear him.

Wherever on the land men go, and on the sea ships, the face and figure

of the Jew are familiar. The physical type of the race has always been

the same; yet there have been some individual variations. “Now he was

ruddy, and withal of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to.”

Such was the son of Jesse when brought before Samuel. The fancies of

men have been ever since ruled by the description. Poetic license has

extended the peculiarities of the ancestor to his notable descendants.

So all our ideal Solomons have fair faces, and hair and beard chestnut

in the shade, and of the tint of gold in the sun. Such, we are also

made believe, were the locks of Absalom the beloved. And, in the

absence of authentic history, tradition has dealt no less lovingly by

her whom we are now following down to the native city of the ruddy

king.

She was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice, and manner belonged to

the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval,

her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips,

slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth

warmth, tenderness, and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded

by drooping lids and long lashes; and, in harmony with all, a flood of

golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined

down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had

the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt

whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature

and person were added others more indefinable—an air of purity which

only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think

much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her

eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her

hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her

head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then,

midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching

the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and

with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.

So they skirted the great plain, and at length reached the elevation

Mar Elias; from which, across a valley, they beheld Bethlehem, the old,

old House of Bread, its white walls crowning a ridge, and shining above

the brown scumbling of leafless orchards. They paused there, and

rested, while Joseph pointed out the places of sacred renown; then they

went down into the valley to the well which was the scene of one of the

marvellous exploits of David’s strong men. The narrow space was crowded

with people and animals. A fear came upon Joseph—a fear lest, if the

town were so thronged, there might not be house-room for the gentle

Mary. Without delay, he hurried on, past the pillar of stone marking

the tomb of Rachel, up the gardened slope, saluting none of the many

persons he met on the way, until he stopped before the portal of the

khan that then stood outside the village gates, near a junction of

roads.

CHAPTER IX

To understand thoroughly what happened to the Nazarene at the khan, the

reader must be reminded that Eastern inns were different from the inns

of the Western world. They were called khans, from the Persian, and, in

simplest form, were fenced enclosures, without house or shed, often

without a gate or entrance. Their sites were chosen with reference to

shade, defence, or water. Such were the inns that sheltered Jacob when

he went to seek a wife in Padan-Aram. Their like may been seen at this

day in the stopping-places of the desert. On the other hand, some of

them, especially those on the roads between great cities, like

Jerusalem and Alexandria, were princely establishments, monuments to

the piety of the kings who built them. In ordinary, however, they were

no more than the house or possession of a sheik, in which, as in

headquarters, he swayed his tribe. Lodging the traveller was the least

of their uses; they were markets, factories, forts; places of

assemblage and residence for merchants and artisans quite as much as

places of shelter for belated and wandering wayfarers. Within their

walls, all the year round, occurred the multiplied daily transactions

of a town.

The singular management of these hostelries was the feature likely to

strike a Western mind with most force. There was no host or hostess; no

clerk, cook, or kitchen; a steward at the gate was all the assertion of

government or proprietorship anywhere visible. Strangers arriving

stayed at will without rendering account. A consequence of the system

was that whoever came had to bring his food and culinary outfit with

him, or buy them of dealers in the khan. The same rule held good as to

his bed and bedding, and forage for his beasts. Water, rest, shelter,

and protection were all he looked for from the proprietor, and they

were gratuities. The peace of synagogues was sometimes broken by

brawling disputants, but that of the khans never. The houses and all

their appurtenances were sacred: a well was not more so.

The khan at Bethlehem, before which Joseph and his wife stopped, was a

good specimen of its class, being neither very primitive nor very

princely. The building was purely Oriental; that is to say, a

quadrangular block of rough stones, one story high, flat-roofed,

externally unbroken by a window, and with but one principal entrance—a

doorway, which was also a gateway, on the eastern side, or front. The

road ran by the door so near that the chalk dust half covered the

lintel. A fence of flat rocks, beginning at the northeastern corner of

the pile, extended many yards down the slope to a point from whence it

swept westwardly to a limestone bluff; making what was in the highest

degree essential to a respectable khan—a safe enclosure for animals.

In a village like Bethlehem, as there was but one sheik, there could

not well be more than one khan; and, though born in the place, the

Nazarene, from long residence elsewhere, had no claim to hospitality in

the town. Moreover, the enumeration for which he was coming might be

the work of weeks or months; Roman deputies in the provinces were

proverbially slow; and to impose himself and wife for a period so

uncertain upon acquaintances or relations was out of the question. So,

before he drew nigh the great house, while he was yet climbing the

slope, in the steep places toiling to hasten the donkey, the fear that

he might not find accommodations in the khan became a painful anxiety;

for he found the road thronged with men and boys who, with great ado,

were taking their cattle, horses, and camels to and from the valley,

some to water, some to the neighboring caves. And when he was come

close by, his alarm was not allayed by the discovery of a crowd

investing the door of the establishment, while the enclosure adjoining,

broad as it was, seemed already full.

“We cannot reach the door,” Joseph said, in his slow way. “Let us stop

here, and learn, if we can, what has happened.”

The wife, without answering, quietly drew the wimple aside. The look of

fatigue at first upon her face changed to one of interest. She found

herself at the edge of an assemblage that could not be other than a

matter of curiosity to her, although it was common enough at the khans

on any of the highways which the great caravans were accustomed to

traverse. There were men on foot, running hither and thither, talking

shrilly and in all the tongues of Syria; men on horseback screaming to

men on camels; men struggling doubtfully with fractious cows and

frightened sheep; men peddling bread and wine; and among the mass a

herd of boys apparently in chase of a herd of dogs. Everybody and

everything seemed to be in motion at the same time. Possibly the fair

spectator was too weary to be long attracted by the scene; in a little

while she sighed, and settled down on the pillion, and, as if in search

of peace and rest, or in expectation of some one, looked off to the

south, and up to the tall cliffs of the Mount of Paradise, then faintly

reddening under the setting sun.

While she was thus looking, a man pushed his way out of the press, and,

stopping close by the donkey, faced about with an angry brow. The

Nazarene spoke to him.

“As I am what I take you to be, good friend—a son of Judah—may I ask

the cause of this multitude?”

The stranger turned fiercely; but, seeing the solemn countenance of

Joseph, so in keeping with his deep, slow voice and speech, he raised

his hand in half-salutation, and replied,

“Peace be to you, Rabbi! I am a son of Judah, and will answer you. I

dwell in Beth-Dagon, which, you know, is in what used to be the land of

the tribe of Dan.”

“On the road to Joppa from Modin,” said Joseph.

“Ah, you have been in Beth-Dagon,” the man said, his face softening yet

more. “What wanderers we of Judah are! I have been away from the

ridge—old Ephrath, as our father Jacob called it—for many years. When

the proclamation went abroad requiring all Hebrews to be numbered at

the cities of their birth— That is my business here, Rabbi.”

Joseph’s face remained stolid as a mask, while he remarked, “I have

come for that also—I and my wife.”

The stranger glanced at Mary and kept silence. She was looking up at

the bald top of Gedor. The sun touched her upturned face, and filled

the violet depths of her eyes, and upon her parted lips trembled an

aspiration which could not have been to a mortal. For the moment, all

the humanity of her beauty seemed refined away: she was as we fancy

they are who sit close by the gate in the transfiguring light of

Heaven. The Beth-Dagonite saw the original of what, centuries after,

came as a vision of genius to Sanzio the divine, and left him immortal.

“Of what was I speaking? Ah! I remember. I was about to say that when I

heard of the order to come here, I was angry. Then I thought of the old

hill, and the town, and the valley falling away into the depths of

Cedron; of the vines and orchards, and fields of grain, unfailing since

the days of Boaz and Ruth, of the familiar mountains—Gedor here, Gibeah

yonder, Mar Elias there—which, when I was a boy, were the walls of the

world to me; and I forgave the tyrants and came—I, and Rachel, my wife,

and Deborah and Michal, our roses of Sharon.”

The man paused again, looking abruptly at Mary, who was now looking at

him and listening. Then he said, “Rabbi, will not your wife go to mine?

You may see her yonder with the children, under the leaning olive-tree

at the bend of the road. I tell you”—he turned to Joseph and spoke

positively—“I tell you the khan is full. It is useless to ask at the

gate.”

Joseph’s will was slow, like his mind; he hesitated, but at length

replied, “The offer is kind. Whether there be room for us or not in the

house, we will go see your people. Let me speak to the gate-keeper

myself. I will return quickly.”

And, putting the leading-strap in the stranger’s hand, he pushed into

the stirring crowd.

The keeper sat on a great cedar block outside the gate. Against the

wall behind him leaned a javelin. A dog squatted on the block by his

side.

“The peace of Jehovah be with you,” said Joseph, at last confronting

the keeper.

“What you give, may you find again; and, when found, be it many times

multiplied to you and yours,” returned the watchman, gravely, though

without moving.

“I am a Bethlehemite,” said Joseph, in his most deliberate way. “Is

there not room for—”

“There is not.”

“You may have heard of me—Joseph of Nazareth. This is the house of my

fathers. I am of the line of David.”

These words held the Nazarene’s hope. If they failed him, further

appeal was idle, even that of the offer of many shekels. To be a son of

Judah was one thing—in the tribal opinion a great thing; to be of the

house of David was yet another; on the tongue of a Hebrew there could

be no higher boast. A thousand years and more had passed since the

boyish shepherd became the successor of Saul and founded a royal

family. Wars, calamities, other kings, and the countless obscuring

processes of time had, as respects fortune, lowered his descendants to

the common Jewish level; the bread they ate came to them of toil never

more humble; yet they had the benefit of history sacredly kept, of

which genealogy was the first chapter and the last; they could not

become unknown, while, wherever they went In Israel, acquaintance drew

after it a respect amounting to reverence.

If this were so in Jerusalem and elsewhere, certainly one of the sacred

line might reasonably rely upon it at the door of the khan of

Bethlehem. To say, as Joseph said, “This is the house of my fathers,”

was to say the truth most simply and literally; for it was the very

house Ruth ruled as the wife of Boaz, the very house in which Jesse and

his ten sons, David the youngest, were born, the very house in which

Samuel came seeking a king, and found him; the very house which David

gave to the son of Barzillai, the friendly Gileadite; the very house in

which Jeremiah, by prayer, rescued the remnant of his race flying

before the Babylonians.

The appeal was not without effect. The keeper of the gate slid down

from the cedar block, and, laying his hand upon his beard, said,

respectfully, “Rabbi, I cannot tell you when this door first opened in

welcome to the traveller, but it was more than a thousand years ago;

and in all that time there is no known instance of a good man turned

away, save when there was no room to rest him in. If it has been so

with the stranger, just cause must the steward have who says no to one

of the line of David. Wherefore, I salute you again; and, if you care

to go with me, I will show you that there is not a lodging-place left

in the house; neither in the chambers, nor in the lewens, nor in the

court—not even on the roof. May I ask when you came?”

“But now.”

The keeper smiled.

“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born among you,

and thou shalt love him as thyself.’ Is not that the law, Rabbi?”

Joseph was silent.

“If it be the law, can I say to one a long time come, ‘Go thy way;

another is here to take thy place?’”

Yet Joseph held his peace.

“And, if I said so, to whom would the place belong? See the many that

have been waiting, some of them since noon.”

“Who are all these people?” asked Joseph, turning to the crowd. “And

why are they here at this time?”

“That which doubtless brought you, Rabbi—the decree of the Cæsar”—the

keeper threw an interrogative glance at the Nazarene, then

continued—“brought most of those who have lodging in the house. And

yesterday the caravan passing from Damascus to Arabia and Lower Egypt

arrived. These you see here belong to it—men and camels.”

Still Joseph persisted.

“The court is large,” he said.

“Yes, but it is heaped with cargoes—with bales of silk, and pockets of

spices, and goods of every kind.”

Then for a moment the face of the applicant lost its stolidity; the

lustreless, staring eyes dropped. With some warmth he next said, “I do

not care for myself, but I have with me my wife, and the night is

cold—colder on these heights than in Nazareth. She cannot live in the

open air. Is there not room in the town?”

“These people”—the keeper waved his hand to the throng before the

door—“have all besought the town, and they report its accommodations

all engaged.”

Again Joseph studied the ground, saying, half to himself, “She is so

young! if I make her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her.”

Then he spoke to the keeper again.

“It may be you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem,

and, like myself, of the line of David.”

“Yes, I knew them. They were good people. That was in my youth.”

This time the keeper’s eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly he

raised his head.

“If I cannot make room for you,” he said, “I cannot turn you away.

Rabbi, I will do the best I can for you. How many are of your party?”

Joseph reflected, then replied, “My wife and a friend with his family,

from Beth-Dagon, a little town over by Joppa; in all, six of us.”

“Very well. You shall not lie out on the ridge. Bring your people, and

hasten; for, when the sun goes down behind the mountain, you know the

night comes quickly, and it is nearly there now.”

“I give you the blessing of the houseless traveller; that of the

sojourner will follow.”

So saying, the Nazarene went back joyfully to Mary and the

Beth-Dagonite. In a little while the latter brought up his family, the

women mounted on donkeys. The wife was matronly, the daughters were

images of what she must have been in youth; and as they drew nigh the

door, the keeper knew them to be of the humble class.

“This is she of whom I spoke,” said the Nazarene; “and these are our

friends.”

Mary’s veil was raised.

“Blue eyes and hair of gold,” muttered the steward to himself, seeing

but her. “So looked the young king when he went to sing before Saul.”

Then he took the leading-strap from Joseph, and said to Mary, “Peace to

you, O daughter of David!” Then to the others, “Peace to you all!” Then

to Joseph, “Rabbi, follow me.”

The party were conducted into a wide passage paved with stone, from

which they entered the court of the khan. To a stranger the scene would

have been curious; but they noticed the lewens that yawned darkly upon

them from all sides, and the court itself, only to remark how crowded

they were. By a lane reserved in the stowage of the cargoes, and thence

by a passage similar to the one at the entrance, they emerged into the

enclosure adjoining the house, and came upon camels, horses, and

donkeys, tethered and dozing in close groups; among them were the

keepers, men of many lands; and they, too, slept or kept silent watch.

They went down the slope of the crowded yard slowly, for the dull

carriers of the women had wills of their own. At length they turned

into a path running towards the gray limestone bluff overlooking the

khan on the west.

“We are going to the cave,” said Joseph, laconically.

The guide lingered till Mary came to his side.

“The cave to which we are going,” he said to her, “must have been a

resort of your ancestor David. From the field below us, and from the

well down in the valley, he used to drive his flocks to it for safety;

and afterwards, when he was king, he came back to the old house here

for rest and health, bringing great trains of animals. The mangers yet

remain as they were in his day. Better a bed on the floor where he has

slept than one in the court-yard or out by the roadside. Ah, here is

the house before the cave!”

This speech must not be taken as an apology for the lodging offered.

There was no need of apology. The place was the best then at disposal.

The guests were simple folks, by habits of life easily satisfied. To

the Jew of that period, moreover, abode in caverns was a familiar idea,

made so by every-day occurrences, and by what he heard of Sabbaths in

the synagogues. How much of Jewish history, how many of the many

exciting incidents in that history, had transpired in caves! Yet

further, these people were Jews of Bethlehem, with whom the idea was

especially commonplace; for their locality abounded with caves great

and small, some of which had been dwelling-places from the time of the

Emim and Horites. No more was there offence to them in the fact that

the cavern to which they were being taken had been, or was, a stable.

They were the descendants of a race of herdsmen, whose flocks

habitually shared both their habitations and wanderings. In keeping

with a custom derived from Abraham, the tent of the Bedawin yet

shelters his horses and children alike. So they obeyed the keeper

cheerfully, and gazed at the house, feeling only a natural curiosity.

Everything associated with the history of David was interesting to

them.

The building was low and narrow, projecting but a little from the rock

to which it was joined at the rear, and wholly without a window. In its

blank front there was a door, swung on enormous hinges, and thickly

daubed with ochreous clay. While the wooden bolt of the lock was being

pushed back, the women were assisted from their pillions. Upon the

opening of the door, the keeper called out,

“Come in!”

The guests entered, and stared about them. It became apparent

immediately that the house was but a mask or covering for the mouth of

a natural cave or grotto, probably forty feet long, nine or ten high,

and twelve or fifteen in width. The light streamed through the doorway,

over an uneven floor, falling upon piles of grain and fodder, and

earthenware and household property, occupying the centre of the

chamber. Along the sides were mangers, low enough for sheep, and built

of stones laid in cement. There were no stalls or partitions of any

kind. Dust and chaff yellowed the floor, filled all the crevices and

hollows, and thickened the spider-webs, which dropped from the ceiling

like bits of dirty linen; otherwise the place was cleanly, and, to

appearance, as comfortable as any of the arched lewens of the khan

proper. In fact, a cave was the model and first suggestion of the

lewen.

“Come in!” said the guide. “These piles upon the floor are for

travellers like yourselves. Take what of them you need.”

Then he spoke to Mary.

“Can you rest here?”

“The place is sanctified,” she answered.

“I leave you then. Peace be with you all!”

When he was gone, they busied themselves making the cave habitable.

CHAPTER X.

At a certain hour in the evening the shouting and stir of the people in

and about the khan ceased; at the same time, every Israelite, if not

already upon his feet, arose, solemnized his face, looked towards

Jerusalem, crossed his hands upon his breast, and prayed; for it was

the sacred ninth hour, when sacrifices were offered in the temple on

Moriah, and God was supposed to be there. When the hands of the

worshippers fell down, the commotion broke forth again; everybody

hastened to bread, or to make his pallet. A little later, the lights

were put out, and there was silence, and then sleep.

About midnight some one on the roof cried out, “What light is that in

the sky? Awake, brethren, awake and see!”

The people, half asleep, sat up and looked; then they became

wide-awake, though wonder-struck. And the stir spread to the court

below, and into the lewens; soon the entire tenantry of the house and

court and enclosure were out gazing at the sky.

And this was what they saw. A ray of light, beginning at a height

immeasurably beyond the nearest stars, and dropping obliquely to the

earth; at its top, a diminishing point; at its base, many furlongs in

width; its sides blending softly with the darkness of the night, its

core a roseate electrical splendor. The apparition seemed to rest on

the nearest mountain southeast of the town, making a pale corona along

the line of the summit. The khan was touched luminously, so that those

upon the roof saw each other’s faces, all filled with wonder.

Steadily, through minutes, the ray lingered, and then the wonder

changed to awe and fear; the timid trembled; the boldest spoke in

whispers.

“Saw you ever the like?” asked one.

“It seems just over the mountain there. I cannot tell what it is, nor

did I ever see anything like it,” was the answer.

“Can it be that a star has burst and fallen?” asked another, his tongue

faltering.

“When a star falls, its light goes out.”

“I have it!” cried one, confidently. “The shepherds have seen a lion,

and made fires to keep him from the flocks.”

The men next the speaker drew a breath of relief, and said, “Yes, that

is it! The flocks were grazing in the valley over there to-day.”

A bystander dispelled the comfort.

“No, no! Though all the wood in all the valleys of Judah was brought

together in one pile and fired, the blaze would not throw a light so

strong and high.”

After that there was silence on the house-top, broken but once again

while the mystery continued.

“Brethren!” exclaimed a Jew of venerable mien, “what we see is the

ladder our father Jacob saw in his dream. Blessed be the Lord God of

our fathers!”

CHAPTER XI

A mile and a half, it may be two miles, southeast of Bethlehem, there

is a plain separated from the town by an intervening swell of the

mountain. Besides being well sheltered from the north winds, the vale

was covered with a growth of sycamore, dwarf-oak, and pine trees, while

in the glens and ravines adjoining there were thickets of olive and

mulberry; all at this season of the year invaluable for the support of

sheep, goats, and cattle, of which the wandering flocks consisted.

At the side farthest from the town, close under a bluff, there was an

extensive marah, or sheepcot, ages old. In some long-forgotten foray,

the building had been unroofed and almost demolished. The enclosure

attached to it remained intact, however, and that was of more

importance to the shepherds who drove their charges thither than the

house itself. The stone wall around the lot was high as a man’s head,

yet not so high but that sometimes a panther or a lion, hungering from

the wilderness, leaped boldly in. On the inner side of the wall, and as

an additional security against the constant danger, a hedge of the

rhamnus had been planted, an invention so successful that now a sparrow

could hardly penetrate the overtopping branches, armed as they were

with great clusters of thorns hard as spikes.

The day of the occurrences which occupy the preceding chapters, a

number of shepherds, seeking fresh walks for their flocks, led them up

to this plain; and from early morning the groves had been made ring

with calls, and the blows of axes, the bleating of sheep and goats, the

tinkling of bells, the lowing of cattle, and the barking of dogs. When

the sun went down, they led the way to the marah, and by nightfall had

everything safe in the field; then they kindled a fire down by the

gate, partook of their humble supper, and sat down to rest and talk,

leaving one on watch.

There were six of these men, omitting the watchman; and afterwhile they

assembled in a group near the fire, some sitting, some lying prone. As

they went bareheaded habitually, their hair stood out in thick, coarse,

sunburnt shocks; their beard covered their throats, and fell in mats

down the breast; mantles of the skin of kids and lambs, with the fleece

on, wrapped them from neck to knee, leaving the arms exposed; broad

belts girthed the rude garments to their waists; their sandals were of

the coarsest quality; from their right shoulders hung scrips containing

food and selected stones for slings, with which they were armed; on the

ground near each one lay his crook, a symbol of his calling and a

weapon of offence.

Such were the shepherds of Judea! In appearance, rough and savage as

the gaunt dogs sitting with them around the blaze; in fact,

simple-minded, tender-hearted; effects due, in part, to the primitive

life they led, but chiefly to their constant care of things lovable and

helpless.

They rested and talked, and their talk was all about their flocks, a

dull theme to the world, yet a theme which was all the world to them.

If in narrative they dwelt long upon affairs of trifling moment; if one

of them omitted nothing of detail in recounting the loss of a lamb, the

relation between him and the unfortunate should be remembered: at birth

it became his charge, his to keep all its days, to help over the

floods, to carry down the hollows, to name and train; it was to be his

companion, his object of thought and interest, the subject of his will;

it was to enliven and share his wanderings; in its defense he might be

called on to face the lion or robber—to die.

The great events, such as blotted out nations and changed the mastery

of the world, were trifles to them, if perchance they came to their

knowledge. Of what Herod was doing in this city or that, building

palaces and gymnasia, and indulging forbidden practises, they

occasionally heard. As was her habit in those days, Rome did not wait

for people slow to inquire about her; she came to them. Over the hills

along which he was leading his lagging herd, or in the fastnesses in

which he was hiding them, not unfrequently the shepherd was startled by

the blare of trumpets, and, peering out, beheld a cohort, sometimes a

legion, in march; and when the glittering crests were gone, and the

excitement incident to the intrusion over, he bent himself to evolve

the meaning of the eagles and gilded globes of the soldiery, and the

charm of a life so the opposite of his own.

Yet these men, rude and simple as they were, had a knowledge and a

wisdom of their own. On Sabbaths they were accustomed to purify

themselves, and go up into the synagogues, and sit on the benches

farthest from the ark. When the chazzan bore the Torah round, none

kissed it with greater zest; when the sheliach read the text, none

listened to the interpreter with more absolute faith; and none took

away with them more of the elder’s sermon, or gave it more thought

afterwards. In a verse of the Shema they found all the learning and all

the law of their simple lives—that their Lord was One God, and that

they must love him with all their souls. And they loved him, and such

was their wisdom, surpassing that of kings.

While they talked, and before the first watch was over, one by one the

shepherds went to sleep, each lying where he had sat.

The night, like most nights of the winter season in the hill country,

was clear, crisp, and sparkling with stars. There was no wind. The

atmosphere seemed never so pure, and the stillness was more than

silence; it was a holy hush, a warning that heaven was stooping low to

whisper some good thing to the listening earth.

By the gate, hugging his mantle close, the watchman walked; at times he

stopped, attracted by a stir among the sleeping herds, or by a jackal’s

cry off on the mountain-side. The midnight was slow coming to him; but

at last it came. His task was done; now for the dreamless sleep with

which labor blesses its wearied children! He moved towards the fire,

but paused; a light was breaking around him, soft and white, like the

moon’s. He waited breathlessly. The light deepened; things before

invisible came to view; he saw the whole field, and all it sheltered. A

chill sharper than that of the frosty air—a chill of fear—smote him. He

looked up; the stars were gone; the light was dropping as from a window

in the sky; as he looked, it became a splendor; then, in terror, he

cried,

“Awake, awake!”

Up sprang the dogs, and, howling, ran away.

The herds rushed together bewildered.

The men clambered to their feet, weapons in hand.

“What is it?” they asked, in one voice.

“See!” cried the watchman, “the sky is on fire!”

Suddenly the light became intolerably bright, and they covered their

eyes, and dropped upon their knees; then, as their souls shrank with

fear, they fell upon their faces blind and fainting, and would have

died had not a voice said to them,

“Fear not!”

And they listened.

“Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which

shall be to all people.”

The voice, in sweetness and soothing more than human, and low and

clear, penetrated all their being, and filled them with assurance. They

rose upon their knees, and, looking worshipfully, beheld in the centre

of a great glory the appearance of a man, clad in a robe intensely

white; above its shoulders towered the tops of wings shining and

folded; a star over its forehead glowed with steady lustre, brilliant

as Hesperus; its hands were stretched towards them in blessing; its

face was serene and divinely beautiful.

They had often heard, and, in their simple way, talked, of angels; and

they doubted not now, but said, in their hearts, The glory of God is

about us, and this is he who of old came to the prophet by the river of

Ulai.

Directly the angel continued:

“For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which

is Christ the Lord!”

Again there was a rest, while the words sank into their minds.

“And this shall be a sign unto you,” the annunciator said next. “Ye

shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger.”

The herald spoke not again; his good tidings were told; yet he stayed

awhile. Suddenly the light, of which he seemed the centre, turned

roseate and began to tremble; then up, far as the men could see, there

was flashing of white wings, and coming and going of radiant forms, and

voices as of a multitude chanting in unison,

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards

men!”

Not once the praise, but many times.

Then the herald raised his eyes as seeking approval of one far off; his

wings stirred, and spread slowly and majestically, on their upper side

white as snow, in the shadow vari-tinted, like mother-of-pearl; when

they were expanded many cubits beyond his stature, he arose lightly,

and, without effort, floated out of view, taking the light up with him.

Long after he was gone, down from the sky fell the refrain in measure

mellowed by distance, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace,

good-will towards men.”

When the shepherds came fully to their senses, they stared at each

other stupidly, until one of them said, “It was Gabriel, the Lord’s

messenger unto men.”

None answered.

“Christ the Lord is born; said he not so?”

Then another recovered his voice, and replied, “That is what he said.”

“And did he not also say, in the city of David, which is our Bethlehem

yonder. And that we should find him a babe in swaddling-clothes?”

“And lying in a manger.”

The first speaker gazed into the fire thoughtfully, but at length said,

like one possessed of a sudden resolve, “There is but one place in

Bethlehem where there are mangers; but one, and that is in the cave

near the old khan. Brethren, let us go see this thing which has come to

pass. The priests and doctors have been a long time looking for the

Christ. Now he is born, and the Lord has given us a sign by which to

know him. Let us go up and worship him.”

“But the flocks!”

“The Lord will take care of them. Let us make haste.”

Then they all arose and left the marah.

Around the mountain and through the town they passed, and came to the

gate of the khan, where there was a man on watch.

“What would you have?” he asked.

“We have seen and heard great things to-night,” they replied.

“Well, we, too, have seen great things, but heard nothing. What did you

hear?”

“Let us go down to the cave in the enclosure, that we may be sure; then

we will tell you all. Come with us, and see for yourself.”

“It is a fool’s errand.”

“No, the Christ is born.”

“The Christ! How do you know?”

“Let us go and see first.”

The man laughed scornfully.

“The Christ indeed! How are you to know him?”

“He was born this night, and is now lying in a manger, so we were told;

and there is but one place in Bethlehem with mangers.”

“The cave?”

“Yes. Come with us.”

They went through the court-yard without notice, although there were

some up even then talking about the wonderful light. The door of the

cavern was open. A lantern was burning within, and they entered

unceremoniously.

“I give you peace,” the watchman said to Joseph and the Beth Dagonite.

“Here are people looking for a child born this night, whom they are to

know by finding him in swaddling-clothes and lying in a manger.”

For a moment the face of the stolid Nazarene was moved; turning away,

he said, “The child is here.”

They were led to one of the mangers, and there the child was. The

lantern was brought, and the shepherds stood by mute. The little one

made no sign; it was as others just born.

“Where is the mother?” asked the watchman.

One of the women took the baby, and went to Mary, lying near, and put

it in her arms. Then the bystanders collected about the two.

“It is the Christ!” said a shepherd, at last.

“The Christ!” they all repeated, falling upon their knees in worship.

One of them repeated several times over,

“It is the Lord, and his glory is above the earth and heaven.”

And the simple men, never doubting, kissed the hem of the mother’s

robe, and with joyful faces departed. In the khan, to all the people

aroused and pressing about them, they told their story; and through the

town, and all the way back to the marah, they chanted the refrain of

the angels, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will

towards men!”

The story went abroad, confirmed by the light so generally seen; and

the next day, and for days thereafter, the cave was visited by curious

crowds, of whom some believed, though the greater part laughed and

mocked.

CHAPTER XII

The eleventh day after the birth of the child in the cave, about

mid-afternoon, the three wise men approached Jerusalem by the road from

Shechem. After crossing Brook Cedron, they met many people, of whom

none failed to stop and look after them curiously.

Judea was of necessity an international thoroughfare; a narrow ridge,

raised, apparently, by the pressure of the desert on the east, and the

sea on the west, was all she could claim to be; over the ridge,

however, nature had stretched the line of trade between the east and

the south; and that was her wealth. In other words, the riches of

Jerusalem were the tolls she levied on passing commerce. Nowhere else,

consequently, unless in Rome, was there such constant assemblage of so

many people of so many different nations; in no other city was a

stranger less strange to the residents than within her walls and

purlieus. And yet these three men excited the wonder of all whom they

met on the way to the gates.

A child belonging to some women sitting by the roadside opposite the

Tombs of the Kings saw the party coming; immediately it clapped its

hands, and cried, “Look, look! What pretty bells! What big camels!”

The bells were silver; the camels, as we have seen, were of unusual

size and whiteness, and moved with singular stateliness; the trappings

told of the desert and of long journeys thereon, and also of ample

means in possession of the owners, who sat under the little canopies

exactly as they appeared at the rendezvous beyond the Jebel. Yet it was

not the bells or the camels, or their furniture, or the demeanor of the

riders, that were so wonderful; it was the question put by the man who

rode foremost of the three.

The approach to Jerusalem from the north is across a plain which dips

southward, leaving the Damascus Gate in a vale or hollow. The road is

narrow, but deeply cut by long use, and in places difficult on account

of the cobbles left loose and dry by the washing of the rains. On

either side, however, there stretched, in the old time, rich fields and

handsome olive-groves, which must, in luxurious growth, have been

beautiful, especially to travellers fresh from the wastes of the

desert. In this road, the three stopped before the party in front of

the Tombs.

“Good people,” said Balthasar, stroking his plaited beard, and bending

from his cot, “is not Jerusalem close by?”

“Yes,” answered the woman into whose arms the child had shrunk. “If the

trees on yon swell were a little lower you could see the towers on the

market-place.”

Balthasar gave the Greek and the Hindoo a look, then asked,

“Where is he that is born King of the Jews?”

The women gazed at each other without reply.

“You have not heard of him?”

“No.”

“Well, tell everybody that we have seen his star in the east, and are

come to worship him.”

Thereupon the friends rode on. Of others they asked the same question,

with like result. A large company whom they met going to the Grotto of

Jeremiah were so astonished by the inquiry and the appearance of the

travellers that they turned about and followed them into the city.

So much were the three occupied with the idea of their mission that

they did not care for the view which presently rose before them in the

utmost magnificence: for the village first to receive them on Bezetha;

for Mizpah and Olivet, over on their left; for the wall behind the

village, with its forty tall and solid towers, superadded partly for

strength, partly to gratify the critical taste of the kingly builder;

for the same towered wall bending off to the right, with many an angle,

and here and there an embattled gate, up to the three great white piles

Phasaelus, Mariamne, and Hippicus; for Zion, tallest of the hills,

crowned with marble palaces, and never so beautiful; for the glittering

terraces of the temple on Moriah, admittedly one of the wonders of the

earth; for the regal mountains rimming the sacred city round about

until it seemed in the hollow of a mighty bowl.

They came, at length, to a tower of great height and strength,

overlooking the gate which, at that time, answered to the present

Damascus Gate, and marked the meeting-place of the three roads from

Shechem, Jericho, and Gibeon. A Roman guard kept the passage-way. By

this time the people following the camels formed a train sufficient to

draw the idlers hanging about the portal; so that when Balthasar

stopped to speak to the sentinel, the three became instantly the centre

of a close circle eager to hear all that passed.

“I give you peace,” the Egyptian said, in a clear voice.

The sentinel made no reply.

“We have come great distances in search of one who is born King of the

Jews. Can you tell us where he is?”

The soldier raised the visor of his helmet, and called loudly. From an

apartment at the right of the passage an officer appeared.

“Give way,” he cried, to the crowd which now pressed closer in; and as

they seemed slow to obey, he advanced twirling his javelin vigorously,

now right, now left; and so he gained room.

“What would you?” he asked of Balthasar, speaking in the idiom of the

city.

And Balthasar answered in the same,

“Where is he that is born King of the Jews?”

“Herod?” asked the officer, confounded.

“Herod’s kingship is from Cæsar; not Herod.”

“There is no other King of the Jews.”

“But we have seen the star of him we seek, and come to worship him.”

The Roman was perplexed.

“Go farther,” he said, at last. “Go farther. I am not a Jew. Carry the

question to the doctors in the Temple, or to Hannas the priest, or,

better still, to Herod himself. If there be another King of the Jews,

he will find him.”

Thereupon he made way for the strangers, and they passed the gate. But,

before entering the narrow street, Balthasar lingered to say to his

friends, “We are sufficiently proclaimed. By midnight the whole city

will have heard of us and of our mission. Let us to the khan now.”

CHAPTER XIII

That evening, before sunset, some women were washing clothes on the

upper step of the flight that led down into the basin of the Pool of

Siloam. They knelt each before a broad bowl of earthenware. A girl at

the foot of the steps kept them supplied with water, and sang while she

filled the jar. The song was cheerful, and no doubt lightened their

labor. Occasionally they would sit upon their heels, and look up the

slope of Ophel, and round to the summit of what is now the Mount of

Offence, then faintly glorified by the dying sun.

While they plied their hands, rubbing and wringing the clothes in the

bowls, two other women came to them, each with an empty jar upon her

shoulder.

“Peace to you,” one of the new-comers said.

The laborers paused, sat up, wrung the water from their hands, and

returned the salutation.

“It is nearly night—time to quit.”

“There is no end to work,” was the reply.

“But there is a time to rest, and—”

“To hear what may be passing,” interposed another.

“What news have you?”

“Then you have not heard?”

“No.”

“They say the Christ is born,” said the newsmonger, plunging into her

story.

It was curious to see the faces of the laborers brighten with interest;

on the other side down came the jars, which, in a moment, were turned

into seats for their owners.

“The Christ!” the listeners cried.

“So they say.”

“Who?”

“Everybody; it is common talk.”

“Does anybody believe it?”

“This afternoon three men came across Brook Cedron on the road from

Shechem,” the speaker replied, circumstantially, intending to smother

doubt. “Each one of them rode a camel spotless white, and larger than

any ever before seen in Jerusalem.”

The eyes and mouths of the auditors opened wide.

“To prove how great and rich the men were,” the narrator continued,

“they sat under awnings of silk; the buckles of their saddles were of

gold, as was the fringe of their bridles; the bells were of silver, and

made real music. Nobody knew them; they looked as if they had come from

the ends of the world. Only one of them spoke, and of everybody on the

road, even the women and children, he asked this question—‘Where is he

that is born King of the Jews?’ No one gave them answer—no one

understood what they meant; so they passed on, leaving behind them this

saying: ‘For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship

him.’ They put the question to the Roman at the gate; and he, no wiser

than the simple people on the road, sent them up to Herod.”

“Where are they now?”

“At the khan. Hundreds have been to look at them already, and hundreds

more are going.”

“Who are they?”

“Nobody knows. They are said to be Persians—wise men who talk with the

stars—prophets, it may be, like Elijah and Jeremiah.”

“What do they mean by King of the Jews?”

“The Christ, and that he is just born.”

One of the women laughed, and resumed her work, saying, “Well, when I

see him I will believe.”

Another followed her example: “And I—well, when I see him raise the

dead, I will believe.”

A third said, quietly, “He has been a long time promised. It will be

enough for me to see him heal one leper.”

And the party sat talking until the night came, and, with the help of

the frosty air, drove them home.

Later in the evening, about the beginning of the first watch, there was

an assemblage in the palace on Mount Zion, of probably fifty persons,

who never came together except by order of Herod, and then only when he

had demanded to know some one or more of the deeper mysteries of the

Jewish law and history. It was, in short, a meeting of the teachers of

the colleges, of the chief priests, and of the doctors most noted in

the city for learning—the leaders of opinion, expounders of the

different creeds; princes of the Sadducees; Pharisaic debaters; calm,

soft-spoken, stoical philosophers of the Essene socialists.

The chamber in which the session was held belonged to one of the

interior court-yards of the palace, and was quite large and Romanesque.

The floor was tessellated with marble blocks; the walls, unbroken by a

window, were frescoed in panels of saffron yellow; a divan occupied the

centre of the apartment, covered with cushions of bright-yellow cloth,

and fashioned in form of the letter U, the opening towards the doorway;

in the arch of the divan, or, as it were, in the bend of the letter,

there was an immense bronze tripod, curiously inlaid with gold and

silver, over which a chandelier dropped from the ceiling, having seven

arms, each holding a lighted lamp. The divan and the lamp were purely

Jewish.

The company sat upon the divan after the style of Orientals, in costume

singularly uniform, except as to color. They were mostly men advanced

in years; immense beards covered their faces; to their large noses were

added the effects of large black eyes, deeply shaded by bold brows;

their demeanor was grave, dignified, even patriarchal. In brief, their

session was that of the Sanhedrim.

He who sat before the tripod, however, in the place which may be called

the head of the divan, having all the rest of his associates on his

right and left, and, at the same time, before him, evidently president

of the meeting, would have instantly absorbed the attention of a

spectator. He had been cast in large mould, but was now shrunken and

stooped to ghastliness; his white robe dropped from his shoulders in

folds that gave no hint of muscle or anything but an angular skeleton.

His hands, half concealed by sleeves of silk, white and crimson

striped, were clasped upon his knees. When he spoke, sometimes the

first finger of the right hand extended tremulously; he seemed

incapable of other gesture. But his head was a splendid dome. A few

hairs, whiter than fine-drawn silver, fringed the base; over a broad,

full-sphered skull the skin was drawn close, and shone in the light

with positive brilliance; the temples were deep hollows, from which the

forehead beetled like a wrinkled crag; the eyes were wan and dim; the

nose was pinched; and all the lower face was muffed in a beard flowing

and venerable as Aaron’s. Such was Hillel the Babylonian! The line of

prophets, long extinct in Israel, was now succeeded by a line of

scholars, of whom he was first in learning—a prophet in all but the

divine inspiration! At the age of one hundred and six, he was still

Rector of the Great College.

On the table before him lay outspread a roll or volume of parchment

inscribed with Hebrew characters; behind him, in waiting, stood a page

richly habited.

There had been discussion, but at this moment of introduction the

company had reached a conclusion; each one was in an attitude of rest,

and the venerable Hillel, without moving, called the page.

“Hist!”

The youth advanced respectfully.

“Go tell the king we are ready to give him answer.”

The boy hurried away.

After a time two officers entered and stopped, one on each side the

door; after them slowly followed a most striking personage—an old man

clad in a purple robe bordered with scarlet, and girt to his waist by a

band of gold linked so fine that it was pliable as leather; the

latchets of his shoes sparkled with precious stones; a narrow crown

wrought in filigree shone outside a tarbooshe of softest crimson plush,

which, encasing his head, fell down the neck and shoulders, leaving the

throat and neck exposed. Instead of a seal, a dagger dangled from his

belt. He walked with a halting step, leaning heavily upon a staff. Not

until he reached the opening of the divan, did he pause or look up from

the floor; then, as for the first time conscious of the company, and

roused by their presence, he raised himself, and looked haughtily

round, like one startled and searching for an enemy—so dark,

suspicious, and threatening was the glance. Such was Herod the Great—a

body broken by diseases, a conscience seared with crimes, a mind

magnificently capable, a soul fit for brotherhood with the Cæsars; now

seven-and-sixty years old, but guarding his throne with a jealousy

never so vigilant, a power never so despotic, and a cruelty never so

inexorable.

There was a general movement on the part of the assemblage—a bending

forward in salaam by the more aged, a rising-up by the more courtierly,

followed by low genuflections, hands upon the beard or breast.

His observations taken, Herod moved on until at the tripod opposite the

venerable Hillel, who met his cold glance with an inclination of the

head, and a slight lifting of the hands.

“The answer!” said the king, with imperious simplicity, addressing

Hillel, and planting his staff before him with both hands. “The

answer!”

The eyes of the patriarch glowed mildly, and, raising his head, and

looking the inquisitor full in the face, he answered, his associates

giving him closest attention,

“With thee, O king, be the peace of God, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob!”

His manner was that of invocation; changing it, he resumed:

“Thou hast demanded of us where the Christ should be born.”

The king bowed, though the evil eyes remained fixed upon the sage’s

face.

“That is the question.”

“Then, O king, speaking for myself, and all my brethren here, not one

dissenting, I say, in Bethlehem of Judea.”

Hillel glanced at the parchment on the tripod; and, pointing with his

tremulous finger, continued, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for thus it is

written by the prophet, ‘And thou, Bethlehem, in the land of Judea, art

not the least among the princes of Judah; for out of thee shall come a

governor that shall rule my people Israel.’”

Herod’s face was troubled, and his eyes fell upon the parchment while

he thought. Those beholding him scarcely breathed; they spoke not, nor

did he. At length he turned about and left the chamber.

“Brethren,” said Hillel, “we are dismissed.”

The company then arose, and in groups departed.

“Simeon,” said Hillel again.

A man, quite fifty years old, but in the hearty prime of life, answered

and came to him.

“Take up the sacred parchment, my son; roll it tenderly.”

The order was obeyed.

“Now lend me thy arm; I will to the litter.”

The strong man stooped; with his withered hands the old one took the

offered support, and, rising, moved feebly to the door.

So departed the famous Rector, and Simeon, his son, who was to be his

successor in wisdom, learning, and office.

Yet later in the evening the wise men were lying in a lewen of the khan

awake. The stones which served them as pillows raised their heads so

they could look out of the open arch into the depths of the sky; and as

they watched the twinkling of the stars, they thought of the next

manifestation. How would it come? What would it be? They were in

Jerusalem at last; they had asked at the gate for Him they sought; they

had borne witness of his birth; it remained only to find him; and as to

that, they placed all trust in the Spirit. Men listening for the voice

of God, or waiting a sign from Heaven, cannot sleep.

While they were in this condition, a man stepped in under the arch,

darkening the lewen.

“Awake!” he said to them; “I bring you a message which will not be put

off.”

They all sat up.

“From whom?” asked the Egyptian.

“Herod the king.”

Each one felt his spirit thrill.

“Are you not the steward of the khan?” Balthasar asked next.

“I am.”

“What would the king with us?”

“His messenger is without; let him answer.”

“Tell him, then, to abide our coming.”

“You were right, O my brother!” said the Greek, when the steward was

gone. “The question put to the people on the road, and to the guard at

the gate, has given us quick notoriety. I am impatient; let us up

quickly.”

They arose, put on their sandals, girt their mantles about them, and

went out.

“I salute you, and give you peace, and pray your pardon; but my master,

the king, has sent me to invite you to the palace, where he would have

speech with you privately.”

Thus the messenger discharged his duty.

A lamp hung in the entrance, and by its light they looked at each

other, and knew the Spirit was upon them. Then the Egyptian stepped to

the steward, and said, so as not to be heard by the others, “You know

where our goods are stored in the court, and where our camels are

resting. While we are gone, make all things ready for our departure, if

it should be needful.”

“Go your way assured; trust me,” the steward replied.

“The king’s will is our will,” said Balthasar to the messenger. “We

will follow you.”

The streets of the Holy City were narrow then as now, but not so rough

and foul; for the great builder, not content with beauty, enforced

cleanliness and convenience also. Following their guide, the brethren

proceeded without a word. Through the dim starlight, made dimmer by the

walls on both sides, sometimes almost lost under bridges connecting the

house-tops, out of a low ground they ascended a hill. At last they came

to a portal reared across the way. In the light of fires blazing before

it in two great braziers, they caught a glimpse of the structure, and

also of some guards leaning motionlessly upon their arms. They passed

into a building unchallenged. Then by passages and arched halls;

through courts, and under colonnades not always lighted; up long

flights of stairs, past innumerable cloisters and chambers, they were

conducted into a tower of great height. Suddenly the guide halted, and,

pointing through an open door, said to them,

“Enter. The king is there.”

The air of the chamber was heavy with the perfume of sandal-wood, and

all the appointments within were effeminately rich. Upon the floor,

covering the central space, a tufted rug was spread, and upon that a

throne was set. The visitors had but time, however, to catch a confused

idea of the place—of carved and gilt ottomans and couches; of fans and

jars and musical instruments; of golden candlesticks glittering in

their own lights; of walls painted in the style of the voluptuous

Grecian school, one look at which had made a Pharisee hide his head

with holy horror. Herod, sitting upon the throne to receive them, clad

as when at the conference with the doctors and lawyers, claimed all

their minds.

At the edge of the rug, to which they advanced uninvited, they

prostrated themselves. The king touched a bell. An attendant came in,

and placed three stools before the throne.

“Seat yourselves,” said the monarch, graciously.

“From the North Gate,” he continued, when they were at rest, “I had

this afternoon report of the arrival of three strangers, curiously

mounted, and appearing as if from far countries. Are you the men?”

The Egyptian took the sign from the Greek and the Hindoo, and answered,

with the profoundest salaam, “Were we other than we are, the mighty

Herod, whose fame is as incense to the whole world, would not have sent

for us. We may not doubt that we are the strangers.”

Herod acknowledged the speech with a wave of the hand.

“Who are you? Whence do you come?” he asked, adding significantly, “Let

each speak for himself.”

In turn they gave him account, referring simply to the cities and lands

of their birth, and the routes by which they came to Jerusalem.

Somewhat disappointed, Herod plied them more directly.

“What was the question you put to the officer at the gate?”

“We asked him, Where is he that is born King of the Jews.”

“I see now why the people were so curious. You excite me no less. Is

there another King of the Jews?”

The Egyptian did not blanch.

“There is one newly born.”

An expression of pain knit the dark face of the monarch, as if his mind

were swept by a harrowing recollection.

“Not to me, not to me!” he exclaimed.

Possibly the accusing images of his murdered children flitted before

him; recovering from the emotion, whatever it was, he asked, steadily,

“Where is the new king?”

“That, O king, is what we would ask.”

“You bring me a wonder—a riddle surpassing any of Solomon’s,” the

inquisitor said next. “As you see, I am in the time of life when

curiosity is as ungovernable as it was in childhood, when to trifle

with it is cruelty. Tell me further, and I will honor you as kings

honor each other. Give me all you know about the newly born, and I will

join you in the search for him; and when we have found him, I will do

what you wish; I will bring him to Jerusalem, and train him in

kingcraft; I will use my grace with Cæsar for his promotion and glory.

Jealousy shall not come between us, so I swear. But tell me first how,

so widely separated by seas and deserts, you all came to hear of him.”

“I will tell you truly, O king.”

“Speak on,” said Herod.

Balthasar raised himself erect, and said, solemnly,

“There is an Almighty God.”

Herod was visibly startled.

“He bade us come hither, promising that we should find the Redeemer of

the World; that we should see and worship him, and bear witness that he

was come; and, as a sign, we were each given to see a star. His Spirit

stayed with us. O king, his Spirit is with us now!”

An overpowering feeling seized the three. The Greek with difficulty

restrained an outcry. Herod’s gaze darted quickly from one to the

other; he was more suspicious and dissatisfied than before.

“You are mocking me,” he said. “If not, tell me more. What is to follow

the coming of the new king?”

“The salvation of men.”

“From what?”

“Their wickedness.”

“How?”

“By the divine agencies—Faith, Love, and Good Works.”

“Then”—Herod paused, and from his look no man could have said with what

feeling he continued—“you are the heralds of the Christ. Is that all?”

Balthasar bowed low.

“We are your servants, O king.”

The monarch touched a bell, and the attendant appeared.

“Bring the gifts,” the master said.

The attendant went out, but in a little while returned, and, kneeling

before the guests, gave to each one an outer robe or mantle of scarlet

and blue, and a girdle of gold. They acknowledged the honors with

Eastern prostrations.

“A word further,” said Herod, when the ceremony was ended. “To the

officer of the gate, and but now to me, you spoke of seeing a star in

the east.”

“Yes,” said Balthasar, “his star, the star of the newly born.”

“What time did it appear?”

“When we were bidden come hither.”

Herod arose, signifying the audience was over. Stepping from the throne

towards them, he said, with all graciousness,

“If, as I believe, O illustrious men, you are indeed the heralds of the

Christ just born, know that I have this night consulted those wisest in

things Jewish, and they say with one voice he should be born in

Bethlehem of Judea. I say to you, go thither; go and search diligently

for the young child; and when you have found him bring me word again,

that I may come and worship him. To your going there shall be no let or

hindrance. Peace be with you!”

And, folding his robe about him, he left the chamber.

Directly the guide came, and led them back to the street, and thence to

the khan, at the portal of which the Greek said, impulsively, “Let us

to Bethlehem, O brethren, as the king has advised.”

“Yes,” cried the Hindoo. “The Spirit burns within me.”

“Be it so,” said Balthasar, with equal warmth. “The camels are ready.”

They gave gifts to the steward, mounted into their saddles, received

directions to the Joppa Gate, and departed. At their approach the great

valves were unbarred, and they passed out into the open country, taking

the road so lately travelled by Joseph and Mary. As they came up out of

Hinnom, on the plain of Rephaim, a light appeared, at first wide-spread

and faint. Their pulses fluttered fast. The light intensified rapidly;

they closed their eyes against its burning brilliance: when they dared

look again, lo! the star, perfect as any in the heavens, but low down

and moving slowly before them. And they folded their hands, and

shouted, and rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

“God is with us! God is with us!” they repeated, in frequent cheer, all

the way, until the star, rising out of the valley beyond Mar Elias,

stood still over a house up on the slope of the hill near the town.

CHAPTER XIV

It was now the beginning of the third watch, and at Bethlehem the

morning was breaking over the mountains in the east, but so feebly that

it was yet night in the valley. The watchman on the roof of the old

khan, shivering in the chilly air, was listening for the first

distinguishable sounds with which life, awakening, greets the dawn,

when a light came moving up the hill towards the house. He thought it a

torch in some one’s hand; next moment he thought it a meteor; the

brilliance grew, however, until it became a star. Sore afraid, he cried

out, and brought everybody within the walls to the roof. The

phenomenon, in eccentric motion, continued to approach; the rocks,

trees, and roadway under it shone as in a glare of lightning; directly

its brightness became blinding. The more timid of the beholders fell

upon their knees, and prayed, with their faces hidden; the boldest,

covering their eyes, crouched, and now and then snatched glances

fearfully. Afterwhile the khan and everything thereabout lay under the

intolerable radiance. Such as dared look beheld the star standing still

directly over the house in front of the cave where the Child had been

born.

In the height of this scene, the wise men came up, and at the gate

dismounted from their camels, and shouted for admission. When the

steward so far mastered his terror as to give them heed, he drew the

bars and opened to them. The camels looked spectral in the unnatural

light, and, besides their outlandishness, there were in the faces and

manner of the three visitors an eagerness and exaltation which still

further excited the keeper’s fears and fancy; he fell back, and for a

time could not answer the question they put to him.

“Is not this Bethlehem of Judea?”

But others came, and by their presence gave him assurance.

“No, this is but the khan; the town lies farther on.”

“Is there not here a child newly born?”

The bystanders turned to each other marvelling, though some of them

answered, “Yes, yes.”

“Show us to him!” said the Greek, impatiently.

“Show us to him!” cried Balthasar, breaking through his gravity; “for

we have seen his star, even that which ye behold over the house, and

are come to worship him.”

The Hindoo clasped his hands, exclaiming, “God indeed lives! Make

haste, make haste! The Savior is found. Blessed, blessed are we above

men!”

The people from the roof came down and followed the strangers as they

were taken through the court and out into the enclosure; at sight of

the star yet above the cave, though less candescent than before, some

turned back afraid; the greater part went on. As the strangers neared

the house, the orb arose; when they were at the door, it was high up

overhead vanishing; when they entered, it went out lost to sight. And

to the witnesses of what then took place came a conviction that there

was a divine relation between the star and the strangers, which

extended also to at least some of the occupants of the cave. When the

door was opened, they crowded in.

The apartment was lighted by a lantern enough to enable the strangers

to find the mother, and the child awake in her lap.

“Is the child thine?” asked Balthasar of Mary.

And she who had kept all the things in the least affecting the little

one, and pondered them in her heart, held it up in the light, saying,

“He is my son!”

And they fell down and worshipped him.

They saw the child was as other children: about its head was neither

nimbus nor material crown; its lips opened not in speech; if it heard

their expressions of joy, their invocations, their prayers, it made no

sign whatever, but, baby-like, looked longer at the flame in the

lantern than at them.

In a little while they arose, and, returning to the camels, brought

gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and laid them before the child,

abating nothing of their worshipful speeches; of which no part is

given, for the thoughtful know that the pure worship of the pure heart

was then what it is now, and has always been, an inspired song.

And this was the Savior they had come so far to find!

Yet they worshipped without a doubt.

Why?

Their faith rested upon the signs sent them by him whom we have since

come to know as the Father; and they were of the kind to whom his

promises were so all-sufficient that they asked nothing about his ways.

Few there were who had seen the signs and heard the promises—the Mother

and Joseph, the shepherds, and the Three—yet they all believed alike;

that is to say, in this period of the plan of salvation, God was all

and the Child nothing. But look forward, O reader! A time will come

when the signs will all proceed from the Son. Happy they who then

believe in him!

Let us wait that period.

BOOK SECOND

“There is a fire

And motion of the soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire

Of aught but rest.”

Childe Harold.

CHAPTER I

It is necessary now to carry the reader forward twenty-one years, to

the beginning of the administration of Valerius Gratus, the fourth

imperial governor of Judea—a period which will be remembered as rent by

political agitations in Jerusalem, if, indeed, it be not the precise

time of the opening of the final quarrel between the Jew and the Roman.

In the interval Judea had been subjected to changes affecting her in

many ways, but in nothing so much as her political status. Herod the

Great died within one year after the birth of the Child—died so

miserably that the Christian world had reason to believe him overtaken

by the Divine wrath. Like all great rulers who spend their lives in

perfecting the power they create, he dreamed of transmitting his throne

and crown—of being the founder of a dynasty. With that intent, he left

a will dividing his territories between his three sons, Antipas,

Philip, and Archelaus, of whom the last was appointed to succeed to the

title. The testament was necessarily referred to Augustus, the emperor,

who ratified all its provisions with one exception: he withheld from

Archelaus the title of king until he proved his capacity and loyalty;

in lieu thereof, he created him ethnarch, and as such permitted him to

govern nine years, when, for misconduct and inability to stay the

turbulent elements that grew and strengthened around him, he was sent

into Gaul as an exile.

Cæsar was not content with deposing Archelaus; he struck the people of

Jerusalem in a manner that touched their pride, and keenly wounded the

sensibilities of the haughty habitues of the Temple. He reduced Judea

to a Roman province, and annexed it to the prefecture of Syria. So,

instead of a king ruling royally from the palace left by Herod on Mount

Zion, the city fell into the hands of an officer of the second grade,

an appointee called procurator, who communicated with the court in Rome

through the Legate of Syria, residing in Antioch. To make the hurt more

painful, the procurator was not permitted to establish himself in

Jerusalem; Cæsarea was his seat of government. Most humiliating,

however, most exasperating, most studied, Samaria, of all the world the

most despised—Samaria was joined to Judea as a part of the same

province! What ineffable misery the bigoted Separatists or Pharisees

endured at finding themselves elbowed and laughed at in the

procurator’s presence in Cæsarea by the devotees of Gerizim!

In this rain of sorrows, one consolation, and one only, remained to the

fallen people: the high-priest occupied the Herodian palace in the

market-place, and kept the semblance of a court there. What his

authority really was is a matter of easy estimate. Judgment of life and

death was retained by the procurator. Justice was administered in the

name and according to the decretals of Rome. Yet more significant, the

royal house was jointly occupied by the imperial exciseman, and all his

corps of assistants, registrars, collectors, publicans, informers, and

spies. Still, to the dreamers of liberty to come, there was a certain

satisfaction in the fact that the chief ruler in the palace was a Jew.

His mere presence there day after day kept them reminded of the

covenants and promises of the prophets, and the ages when Jehovah

governed the tribes through the sons of Aaron; it was to them a certain

sign that he had not abandoned them: so their hopes lived, and served

their patience, and helped them wait grimly the son of Judah who was to

rule Israel.

Judea had been a Roman province eighty years and more—ample time for

the Cæsars to study the idiosyncrasies of the people—time enough, at

least, to learn that the Jew, with all his pride, could be quietly

governed if his religion were respected. Proceeding upon that policy,

the predecessors of Gratus had carefully abstained from interfering

with any of the sacred observances of their subjects. But he chose a

different course: almost his first official act was to expel Hannas

from the high-priesthood, and give the place to Ishmael, son of Fabus.

Whether the act was directed by Augustus, or proceeded from Gratus

himself, its impolicy became speedily apparent. The reader shall be

spared a chapter on Jewish politics; a few words upon the subject,

however, are essential to such as may follow the succeeding narration

critically. At this time, leaving origin out of view, there were in

Judea the party of the nobles and the Separatist or popular party. Upon

Herod’s death, the two united against Archelaus; from temple to palace,

from Jerusalem to Rome, they fought him; sometimes with intrigue,

sometimes with the actual weapons of war. More than once the holy

cloisters on Moriah resounded with the cries of fighting-men. Finally,

they drove him into exile. Meantime throughout this struggle the allies

had their diverse objects in view. The nobles hated Joazar, the

high-priest; the Separatists, on the other hand, were his zealous

adherents. When Herod’s settlement went down with Archelaus, Joazar

shared the fall. Hannas, the son of Seth, was selected by the nobles to

fill the great office; thereupon the allies divided. The induction of

the Sethian brought them face to face in fierce hostility.

In the course of the struggle with the unfortunate ethnarch, the nobles

had found it expedient to attach themselves to Rome. Discerning that

when the existing settlement was broken up some form of government must

needs follow, they suggested the conversion of Judea into a province.

The fact furnished the Separatists an additional cause for attack; and,

when Samaria was made part of the province, the nobles sank into a

minority, with nothing to support them but the imperial court and the

prestige of their rank and wealth; yet for fifteen years—down, indeed,

to the coming of Valerius Gratus—they managed to maintain themselves in

both palace and Temple.

Hannas, the idol of his party, had used his power faithfully in the

interest of his imperial patron. A Roman garrison held the Tower of

Antonia; a Roman guard kept the gates of the palace; a Roman judge

dispensed justice civil and criminal; a Roman system of taxation,

mercilessly executed, crushed both city and country; daily, hourly, and

in a thousand ways, the people were bruised and galled, and taught the

difference between a life of independence and a life of subjection; yet

Hannas kept them in comparative quiet. Rome had no truer friend; and he

made his loss instantly felt. Delivering his vestments to Ishmael, the

new appointee, he walked from the courts of the Temple into the

councils of the Separatists, and became the head of a new combination,

Bethusian and Sethian.

Gratus, the procurator, left thus without a party, saw the fires which,

in the fifteen years, had sunk into sodden smoke begin to glow with

returning life. A month after Ishmael took the office, the Roman found

it necessary to visit him in Jerusalem. When from the walls, hooting

and hissing him, the Jews beheld his guard enter the north gate of the

city and march to the Tower of Antonia, they understood the real

purpose of the visit—a full cohort of legionaries was added to the

former garrison, and the keys of their yoke could now be tightened with

impunity. If the procurator deemed it important to make an example,

alas for the first offender!

CHAPTER II

With the foregoing explanation in mind, the reader is invited to look

into one of the gardens of the palace on Mount Zion. The time was

noonday in the middle of July, when the heat of summer was at its

highest.

The garden was bounded on every side by buildings, which in places

arose two stories, with verandas shading the doors and windows of the

lower story, while retreating galleries, guarded by strong balustrades,

adorned and protected the upper. Here and there, moreover, the

structures fell into what appeared low colonnades, permitting the

passage of such winds as chanced to blow, and allowing other parts of

the house to be seen, the better to realize its magnitude and beauty.

The arrangement of the ground was equally pleasant to the eye. There

were walks, and patches of grass and shrubbery, and a few large trees,

rare specimens of the palm, grouped with the carob, apricot, and

walnut. In all directions the grade sloped gently from the centre,

where there was a reservoir, or deep marble basin, broken at intervals

by little gates which, when raised, emptied the water into sluices

bordering the walks—a cunning device for the rescue of the place from

the aridity too prevalent elsewhere in the region.

Not far from the fountain, there was a small pool of clear water

nourishing a clump of cane and oleander, such as grow on the Jordan and

down by the Dead Sea. Between the clump and the pool, unmindful of the

sun shining full upon them in the breathless air, two boys, one about

nineteen, the other seventeen, sat engaged in earnest conversation.

They were both handsome, and, at first glance, would have been

pronounced brothers. Both had hair and eyes black; their faces were

deeply browned; and, sitting, they seemed of a size proper for the

difference in their ages.

The elder was bareheaded. A loose tunic, dropping to the knees, was his

attire complete, except sandals and a light-blue mantle spread under

him on the seat. The costume left his arms and legs exposed, and they

were brown as the face; nevertheless, a certain grace of manner,

refinement of features, and culture of voice decided his rank. The

tunic, of softest woollen, gray-tinted, at the neck, sleeves, and edge

of the skirt bordered with red, and bound to the waist by a tasselled

silken cord, certified him the Roman he was. And if in speech he now

and then gazed haughtily at his companion and addressed him as an

inferior, he might almost be excused, for he was of a family noble even

in Rome—a circumstance which in that age justified any assumption. In

the terrible wars between the first Cæsar and his great enemies, a

Messala had been the friend of Brutus. After Philippi, without

sacrifice of his honor, he and the conqueror became reconciled. Yet

later, when Octavius disputed for the empire, Messala supported him.

Octavius, as the Emperor Augustus, remembered the service, and showered

the family with honors. Among other things, Judea being reduced to a

province, he sent the son of his old client or retainer to Jerusalem,

charged with the receipt and management of the taxes levied in that

region; and in that service the son had since remained, sharing the

palace with the high-priest. The youth just described was his son,

whose habit it was to carry about with him all too faithfully a

remembrance of the relation between his grandfather and the great

Romans of his day.

The associate of the Messala was slighter in form, and his garments

were of fine white linen and of the prevalent style in Jerusalem; a

cloth covered his head, held by a yellow cord, and arranged so as to

fall away from the forehead down low over the back of the neck. An

observer skilled in the distinctions of race, and studying his features

more than his costume, would have soon discovered him to be of Jewish

descent. The forehead of the Roman was high and narrow, his nose sharp

and aquiline, while his lips were thin and straight, and his eyes cold

and close under the brows. The front of the Israelite, on the other

hand, was low and broad; his nose long, with expanded nostrils; his

upper lip, slightly shading the lower one, short and curving to the

dimpled corners, like a Cupid’s bow; points which, in connection with

the round chin, full eyes, and oval cheeks reddened with a wine-like

glow, gave his face the softness, strength, and beauty peculiar to his

race. The comeliness of the Roman was severe and chaste, that of the

Jew rich and voluptuous.

“Did you not say the new procurator is to arrive to-morrow?”

The question proceeded from the younger of the friends, and was couched

in Greek, at the time, singularly enough, the language everywhere

prevalent in the politer circles of Judea; having passed from the

palace into the camp and college; thence, nobody knew exactly when or

how, into the Temple itself, and, for that matter, into precincts of

the Temple far beyond the gates and cloisters—precincts of a sanctity

intolerable for a Gentile.

“Yes, to-morrow,” Messala answered.

“Who told you?”

“I heard Ishmael, the new governor in the palace—you call him high

priest—tell my father so last night. The news had been more credible, I

grant you, coming from an Egyptian, who is of a race that has forgotten

what truth is, or even from an Idumaean, whose people never knew what

truth was; but, to make quite certain, I saw a centurion from the Tower

this morning, and he told me preparations were going on for the

reception; that the armorers were furbishing the helmets and shields,

and regilding the eagles and globes; and that apartments long unused

were being cleansed and aired as if for an addition to the garrison—the

body-guard, probably, of the great man.”

A perfect idea of the manner in which the answer was given cannot be

conveyed, as its fine points continually escape the power behind the

pen. The reader’s fancy must come to his aid; and for that he must be

reminded that reverence as a quality of the Roman mind was fast

breaking down, or, rather, it was becoming unfashionable. The old

religion had nearly ceased to be a faith; at most it was a mere habit

of thought and expression, cherished principally by the priests who

found service in the Temple profitable, and the poets who, in the turn

of their verses, could not dispense with the familiar deities: there

are singers of this age who are similarly given. As philosophy was

taking the place of religion, satire was fast substituting reverence;

insomuch that in Latin opinion it was to every speech, even to the

little diatribes of conversation, as salt to viands, and aroma to wine.

The young Messala, educated in Rome, but lately returned, had caught

the habit and manner; the scarce perceptible movement of the outer

corner of the lower eyelid, the decided curl of the corresponding

nostril, and a languid utterance affected as the best vehicle to convey

the idea of general indifference, but more particularly because of the

opportunities it afforded for certain rhetorical pauses thought to be

of prime importance to enable the listener to take the happy conceit or

receive the virus of the stinging epigram. Such a stop occurred in the

answer just given, at the end of the allusion to the Egyptian and

Idumaean. The color in the Jewish lad’s cheeks deepened, and he may not

have heard the rest of the speech, for he remained silent, looking

absently into the depths of the pool.

“Our farewell took place in this garden. ‘The peace of the Lord go with

you!’—your last words. ‘The gods keep you!’ I said. Do you remember?

How many years have passed since then?”

“Five,” answered the Jew, gazing into the water.

“Well, you have reason to be thankful to—whom shall I say? The gods? No

matter. You have grown handsome; the Greeks would call you

beautiful—happy achievement of the years! If Jupiter would stay content

with one Ganymede, what a cup-bearer you would make for the emperor!

Tell me, my Judah, how the coming of the procurator is of such interest

to you.”

Judah bent his large eyes upon the questioner; the gaze was grave and

thoughtful, and caught the Roman’s, and held it while he replied, “Yes,

five years. I remember the parting; you went to Rome; I saw you start,

and cried, for I love you. The years are gone, and you have come back

to me accomplished and princely—I do not jest; and yet—yet—I do wish

you were the Messala you went away.”

The fine nostril of the satirist stirred, and he put on a longer drawl

as he said, “No, no; not a Ganymede—an oracle, my Judah. A few lessons

from my teacher of rhetoric hard by the Forum—I will give you a letter

to him when you become wise enough to accept a suggestion which I am

reminded to make you—a little practise of the art of mystery, and

Delphi will receive you as Apollo himself. At the sound of your solemn

voice, the Pythia will come down to you with her crown. Seriously, O my

friend, in what am I not the Messala I went away? I once heard the

greatest logician in the world. His subject was Disputation. One saying

I remember—‘Understand your antagonist before you answer him.’ Let me

understand you.”

The lad reddened under the cynical look to which he was subjected; yet

he replied, firmly, “You have availed yourself, I see, of your

opportunities; from your teachers you have brought away much knowledge

and many graces. You talk with the ease of a master, yet your speech

carries a sting. My Messala, when he went away, had no poison in his

nature; not for the world would he have hurt the feelings of a friend.”

The Roman smiled as if complimented, and raised his patrician head a

toss higher.

“O my solemn Judah, we are not at Dodona or Pytho. Drop the oracular,

and be plain. Wherein have I hurt you?”

The other drew a long breath, and said, pulling at the cord about his

waist, “In the five years, I, too, have learned somewhat. Hillel may

not be the equal of the logician you heard, and Simeon and Shammai are,

no doubt, inferior to your master hard by the Forum. Their learning

goes not out into forbidden paths; those who sit at their feet arise

enriched simply with knowledge of God, the law, and Israel; and the

effect is love and reverence for everything that pertains to them.

Attendance at the Great College, and study of what I heard there, have

taught me that Judea is not as she used to be. I know the space that

lies between an independent kingdom and the petty province Judea is. I

were meaner, viler, than a Samaritan not to resent the degradation of

my country. Ishmael is not lawfully high-priest, and he cannot be while

the noble Hannas lives; yet he is a Levite; one of the devoted who for

thousands of years have acceptably served the Lord God of our faith and

worship. His—”

Messala broke in upon him with a biting laugh.

“Oh, I understand you now. Ishmael, you say, is a usurper, yet to

believe an Idumaean sooner than Ishmael is to sting like an adder. By

the drunken son of Semele, what it is to be a Jew! All men and things,

even heaven and earth, change; but a Jew never. To him there is no

backward, no forward; he is what his ancestor was in the beginning. In

this sand I draw you a circle—there! Now tell me what more a Jew’s life

is? Round and round, Abraham here, Isaac and Jacob yonder, God in the

middle. And the circle—by the master of all thunders! the circle is too

large. I draw it again—” He stopped, put his thumb upon the ground, and

swept the fingers about it. “See, the thumb spot is the Temple, the

finger-lines Judea. Outside the little space is there nothing of value?

The arts! Herod was a builder; therefore he is accursed. Painting,

sculpture! to look upon them is sin. Poetry you make fast to your

altars. Except in the synagogue, who of you attempts eloquence? In war

all you conquer in the six days you lose on the seventh. Such your life

and limit; who shall say no if I laugh at you? Satisfied with the

worship of such a people, what is your God to our Roman Jove, who lends

us his eagles that we may compass the universe with our arms? Hillel,

Simeon, Shammai, Abtalion—what are they to the masters who teach that

everything is worth knowing that can be known?”

The Jew arose, his face much flushed.

“No, no; keep your place, my Judah, keep your place,” Messala cried,

extending his hand.

“You mock me.”

“Listen a little further. Directly”—the Roman smiled

derisively—“directly Jupiter and his whole family, Greek and Latin,

will come to me, as is their habit, and make an end of serious speech.

I am mindful of your goodness in walking from the old house of your

fathers to welcome me back and renew the love of our childhood—if we

can. ‘Go,’ said my teacher, in his last lecture—‘Go, and, to make your

lives great, remember Mars reigns and Eros has found his eyes.’ He

meant love is nothing, war everything. It is so in Rome. Marriage is

the first step to divorce. Virtue is a tradesman’s jewel. Cleopatra,

dying, bequeathed her arts, and is avenged; she has a successor in

every Roman’s house. The world is going the same way; so, as to our

future, down Eros, up Mars! I am to be a soldier; and you, O my Judah,

I pity you; what can you be?”

The Jew moved nearer the pool; Messala’s drawl deepened.

“Yes, I pity you, my fine Judah. From the college to the synagogue;

then to the Temple; then—oh, a crowning glory!—the seat in the

Sanhedrim. A life without opportunities; the gods help you! But I—”

Judah looked at him in time to see the flush of pride that kindled in

his haughty face as he went on.

“But I—ah, the world is not all conquered. The sea has islands unseen.

In the north there are nations yet unvisited. The glory of completing

Alexander’s march to the Far East remains to some one. See what

possibilities lie before a Roman.”

Next instant he resumed his drawl.

“A campaign into Africa; another after the Scythian; then—a legion!

Most careers end there; but not mine. I—by Jupiter! what a

conception!—I will give up my legion for a prefecture. Think of life in

Rome with money—money, wine, women, games—poets at the banquet,

intrigues in the court, dice all the year round. Such a rounding of

life may be—a fat prefecture, and it is mine. O my Judah, here is

Syria! Judea is rich; Antioch a capital for the gods. I will succeed

Cyrenius, and you—shall share my fortune.”

The sophists and rhetoricians who thronged the public resorts of Rome,

almost monopolizing the business of teaching her patrician youth, might

have approved these sayings of Messala, for they were all in the

popular vein; to the young Jew, however, they were new, and unlike the

solemn style of discourse and conversation to which he was accustomed.

He belonged, moreover, to a race whose laws, modes, and habits of

thought forbade satire and humor; very naturally, therefore, he

listened to his friend with varying feelings; one moment indignant,

then uncertain how to take him. The superior airs assumed had been

offensive to him in the beginning; soon they became irritating, and at

last an acute smart. Anger lies close by this point in all of us; and

that the satirist evoked in another way. To the Jew of the Herodian

period patriotism was a savage passion scarcely hidden under his common

humor, and so related to his history, religion, and God that it

responded instantly to derision of them. Wherefore it is not speaking

too strongly to say that Messala’s progress down to the last pause was

exquisite torture to his hearer; at that point the latter said, with a

forced smile,

“There are a few, I have heard, who can afford to make a jest of their

future; you convince me, O my Messala, that I am not one of them.”

The Roman studied him; then replied, “Why not the truth in a jest as

well as a parable? The great Fulvia went fishing the other day; she

caught more than all the company besides. They said it was because the

barb of her hook was covered with gold.”

“Then you were not merely jesting?”

“My Judah, I see I did not offer you enough,” the Roman answered,

quickly, his eyes sparkling. “When I am prefect, with Judea to enrich

me, I—will make you high-priest.”

The Jew turned off angrily.

“Do not leave me,” said Messala.

The other stopped irresolute.

“Gods, Judah, how hot the sun shines!” cried the patrician, observing

his perplexity. “Let us seek a shade.”

Judah answered, coldly,

“We had better part. I wish I had not come. I sought a friend and find

a—”

“Roman,” said Messala, quickly.

The hands of the Jew clenched, but controlling himself again, he

started off. Messala arose, and, taking the mantle from the bench,

flung it over his shoulder, and followed after; when he gained his

side, he put his hand upon his shoulder and walked with him.

“This is the way—my hand thus—we used to walk when we were children.

Let us keep it as far as the gate.”

Apparently Messala was trying to be serious and kind, though he could

not rid his countenance of the habitual satirical expression. Judah

permitted the familiarity.

“You are a boy; I am a man; let me talk like one.”

The complacency of the Roman was superb. Mentor lecturing the young

Telemachus could not have been more at ease.

“Do you believe in the Parcae? Ah, I forgot, you are a Sadducee: the

Essenes are your sensible people; they believe in the sisters. So do I.

How everlastingly the three are in the way of our doing what we please!

I sit down scheming. I run paths here and there. Perpol! Just when I am

reaching to take the world in hand, I hear behind me the grinding of

scissors. I look, and there she is, the accursed Atropos! But, my

Judah, why did you get mad when I spoke of succeeding old Cyrenius? You

thought I meant to enrich myself plundering your Judea. Suppose so; it

is what some Roman will do. Why not I?”

Judah shortened his step.

“There have been strangers in mastery of Judea before the Roman,” he

said, with lifted hand. “Where are they, Messala? She has outlived them

all. What has been will be again.”

Messala put on his drawl.

“The Parcae have believers outside the Essenes. Welcome, Judah, welcome

to the faith!”

“No, Messala, count me not with them. My faith rests on the rock which

was the foundation of the faith of my fathers back further than

Abraham; on the covenants of the Lord God of Israel.”

“Too much passion, my Judah. How my master would have been shocked had

I been guilty of so much heat in his presence! There were other things

I had to tell you, but I fear to now.”

When they had gone a few yards, the Roman spoke again.

“I think you can hear me now, especially as what I have to say concerns

yourself. I would serve you, O handsome as Ganymede; I would serve you

with real good-will. I love you—all I can. I told you I meant to be a

soldier. Why not you also? Why not you step out of the narrow circle

which, as I have shown, is all of noble life your laws and customs

allow?”

Judah made no reply.

“Who are the wise men of our day?” Messala continued. “Not they who

exhaust their years quarrelling about dead things; about Baals, Joves,

and Jehovahs; about philosophies and religions. Give me one great name,

O Judah; I care not where you go to find it—to Rome, Egypt, the East,

or here in Jerusalem—Pluto take me if it belong not to a man who

wrought his fame out of the material furnished him by the present;

holding nothing sacred that did not contribute to the end, scorning

nothing that did! How was it with Herod? How with the Maccabees? How

with the first and second Cæsars? Imitate them. Begin now. At hand

see—Rome, as ready to help you as she was the Idumaean Antipater.”

The Jewish lad trembled with rage; and, as the garden gate was close

by, he quickened his steps, eager to escape.

“O Rome, Rome!” he muttered.

“Be wise,” continued Messala. “Give up the follies of Moses and the

traditions; see the situation as it is. Dare look the Parcae in the

face, and they will tell you, Rome is the world. Ask them of Judea, and

they will answer, She is what Rome wills.”

They were now at the gate. Judah stopped, and took the hand gently from

his shoulder, and confronted Messala, tears trembling in his eyes.

“I understand you, because you are a Roman; you cannot understand me—I

am an Israelite. You have given me suffering to-day by convincing me

that we can never be the friends we have been—never! Here we part. The

peace of the God of my fathers abide with you!”

Messala offered him his hand; the Jew walked on through the gateway.

When he was gone, the Roman was silent awhile; then he, too, passed

through, saying to himself, with a toss of the head,

“Be it so. Eros is dead, Mars reigns!”

CHAPTER III

From the entrance to the Holy City, equivalent to what is now called

St. Stephen’s Gate, a street extended westwardly, on a line parallel

with the northern front of the Tower of Antonia, though a square from

that famous castle. Keeping the course as far as the Tyropoeon Valley,

which it followed a little way south, it turned and again ran west

until a short distance beyond what tradition tells us was the Judgment

Gate, from whence it broke abruptly south. The traveller or the student

familiar with the sacred locality will recognize the thoroughfare

described as part of the Via Dolorosa—with Christians of more interest,

though of a melancholy kind, than any street in the world. As the

purpose in view does not at present require dealing with the whole

street, it will be sufficient to point out a house standing in the

angle last mentioned as marking the change of direction south, and

which, as an important centre of interest, needs somewhat particular

description.

The building fronted north and west, probably four hundred feet each

way, and, like most pretentious Eastern structures, was two stories in

height, and perfectly quadrangular. The street on the west side was

about twelve feet wide, that on the north not more than ten; so that

one walking close to the walls, and looking up at them, would have been

struck by the rude, unfinished, uninviting, but strong and imposing,

appearance they presented; for they were of stone laid in large blocks,

undressed—on the outer side, in fact, just as they were taken from the

quarry. A critic of this age would have pronounced the house

fortelesque in style, except for the windows, with which it was

unusually garnished, and the ornate finish of the doorways or gates.

The western windows were four in number, the northern only two, all set

on the line of the second story in such manner as to overhang the

thoroughfares below. The gates were the only breaks of wall externally

visible in the first story; and, besides being so thickly riven with

iron bolts as to suggest resistance to battering-rams, they were

protected by cornices of marble, handsomely executed, and of such bold

projection as to assure visitors well informed of the people that the

rich man who resided there was a Sadducee in politics and creed.

Not long after the young Jew parted from the Roman at the palace up on

the Market-place, he stopped before the western gate of the house

described, and knocked. The wicket (a door hung in one of the valves of

the gate) was opened to admit him. He stepped in hastily, and failed to

acknowledge the low salaam of the porter.

To get an idea of the interior arrangement of the structure, as well as

to see what more befell the youth, we will follow him.

The passage into which he was admitted appeared not unlike a narrow

tunnel with panelled walls and pitted ceiling. There were benches of

stone on both sides, stained and polished by long use. Twelve or

fifteen steps carried him into a court-yard, oblong north and south,

and in every quarter, except the east, bounded by what seemed the

fronts of two-story houses; of which the lower floor was divided into

lewens, while the upper was terraced and defended by strong

balustrading. The servants coming and going along the terraces; the

noise of millstones grinding; the garments fluttering from ropes

stretched from point to point; the chickens and pigeons in full

enjoyment of the place; the goats, cows, donkeys, and horses stabled in

the lewens; a massive trough of water, apparently for the common use,

declared this court appurtenant to the domestic management of the

owner. Eastwardly there was a division wall broken by another

passage-way in all respects like the first one.

Clearing the second passage, the young man entered a second court,

spacious, square, and set with shrubbery and vines, kept fresh and

beautiful by water from a basin erected near a porch on the north side.

The lewens here were high, airy, and shaded by curtains striped

alternate white and red. The arches of the lewens rested on clustered

columns. A flight of steps on the south ascended to the terraces of the

upper story, over which great awnings were stretched as a defence

against the sun. Another stairway reached from the terraces to the

roof, the edge of which, all around the square, was defined by a

sculptured cornice, and a parapet of burned-clay tiling, sexangular and

bright red. In this quarter, moreover, there was everywhere observable

a scrupulous neatness, which, allowing no dust in the angles, not even

a yellow leaf upon a shrub, contributed quite as much as anything else

to the delightful general effect; insomuch that a visitor, breathing

the sweet air, knew, in advance of introduction, the refinement of the

family he was about calling upon.

A few steps within the second court, the lad turned to the right, and,

choosing a walk through the shrubbery, part of which was in flower,

passed to the stairway, and ascended to the terrace—a broad pavement of

white and brown flags closely laid, and much worn. Making way under the

awning to a doorway on the north side, he entered an apartment which

the dropping of the screen behind him returned to darkness.

Nevertheless, he proceeded, moving over a tiled floor to a divan, upon

which he flung himself, face downwards, and lay at rest, his forehead

upon his crossed arms.

About nightfall a woman came to the door and called; he answered, and

she went in.

“Supper is over, and it is night. Is not my son hungry?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Are you sick?”

“I am sleepy.”

“Your mother has asked for you.”

“Where is she?”

“In the summer-house on the roof.”

He stirred himself, and sat up.

“Very well. Bring me something to eat.”

“What do you want?”

“What you please, Amrah. I am not sick, but indifferent. Life does not

seem as pleasant as it did this morning. A new ailment, O my Amrah; and

you who know me so well, who never failed me, may think of the things

now that answer for food and medicine. Bring me what you choose.”

Amrah’s questions, and the voice in which she put them—low,

sympathetic, and solicitous—were significant of an endeared relation

between the two. She laid her hand upon his forehead; then, as

satisfied, went out, saying, “I will see.”

After a while she returned, bearing on a wooden platter a bowl of milk,

some thin cakes of white bread broken, a delicate paste of brayed

wheat, a bird broiled, and honey and salt. On one end of the platter

there was a silver goblet full of wine, on the other a brazen hand-lamp

lighted.

The room was then revealed: its walls smoothly plastered; the ceiling

broken by great oaken rafters, brown with rain stains and time; the

floor of small diamond-shaped white and blue tiles, very firm and

enduring; a few stools with legs carved in imitation of the legs of

lions; a divan raised a little above the floor, trimmed with blue

cloth, and partially covered by an immense striped woollen blanket or

shawl—in brief, a Hebrew bedroom.

The same light also gave the woman to view. Drawing a stool to the

divan, she placed the platter upon it, then knelt close by ready to

serve him. Her face was that of a woman of fifty, dark-skinned,

dark-eyed, and at the moment softened by a look of tenderness almost

maternal. A white turban covered her head, leaving the lobes of the ear

exposed, and in them the sign that settled her condition—an orifice

bored by a thick awl. She was a slave, of Egyptian origin, to whom not

even the sacred fiftieth year could have brought freedom; nor would she

have accepted it, for the boy she was attending was her life. She had

nursed him through babyhood, tended him as a child, and could not break

the service. To her love he could never be a man.

He spoke but once during the meal.

“You remember, O my Amrah,” he said, “the Messala who used to visit me

here days at a time.”

“I remember him.”

“He went to Rome some years ago, and is now back. I called upon him

to-day.”

A shudder of disgust seized the lad.

“I knew something had happened,” she said, deeply interested. “I never

liked the Messala. Tell me all.”

But he fell into musing, and to her repeated inquiries only said, “He

is much changed, and I shall have nothing more to do with him.”

When Amrah took the platter away, he also went out, and up from the

terrace to the roof.

The reader is presumed to know somewhat of the uses of the house-top in

the East. In the matter of customs, climate is a lawgiver everywhere.

The Syrian summer day drives the seeker of comfort into the darkened

lewen; night, however, calls him forth early, and the shadows deepening

over the mountain-sides seem veils dimly covering Circean singers; but

they are far off, while the roof is close by, and raised above the

level of the shimmering plain enough for the visitation of cool airs,

and sufficiently above the trees to allure the stars down closer, down

at least into brighter shining. So the roof became a resort—became

playground, sleeping-chamber, boudoir, rendezvous for the family, place

of music, dance, conversation, reverie, and prayer.

The motive that prompts the decoration, at whatever cost, of interiors

in colder climes suggested to the Oriental the embellishment of his

house-top. The parapet ordered by Moses became a potter’s triumph;

above that, later, arose towers, plain and fantastic; still later,

kings and princes crowned their roofs with summer-houses of marble and

gold. When the Babylonian hung gardens in the air, extravagance could

push the idea no further.

The lad whom we are following walked slowly across the house-top to a

tower built over the northwest corner of the palace. Had he been a

stranger, he might have bestowed a glance upon the structure as he drew

nigh it, and seen all the dimness permitted—a darkened mass, low,

latticed, pillared, and domed. He entered, passing under a half-raised

curtain. The interior was all darkness, except that on four sides there

were arched openings like doorways, through which the sky, lighted with

stars, was visible. In one of the openings, reclining against a cushion

from a divan, he saw the figure of a woman, indistinct even in white

floating drapery. At the sound of his steps upon the floor, the fan in

her hand stopped, glistening where the starlight struck the jewels with

which it was sprinkled, and she sat up, and called his name.

“Judah, my son!”

“It is I, mother,” he answered, quickening his approach.

Going to her, he knelt, and she put her arms around him, and with

kisses pressed him to her bosom.

CHAPTER IV

The mother resumed her easy position against the cushion, while the son

took place on the divan, his head in her lap. Both of them, looking out

of the opening, could see a stretch of lower house-tops in the

vicinity, a bank of blue-blackness over in the west which they knew to

be mountains, and the sky, its shadowy depths brilliant with stars. The

city was still. Only the winds stirred.

“Amrah tells me something has happened to you,” she said, caressing his

cheek. “When my Judah was a child, I allowed small things to trouble

him, but he is now a man. He must not forget”—her voice became very

soft—“that one day he is to be my hero.”

She spoke in the language almost lost in the land, but which a few—and

they were always as rich in blood as in possessions—cherished in its

purity, that they might be more certainly distinguished from Gentile

peoples—the language in which the loved Rebekah and Rachel sang to

Benjamin.

The words appeared to set him thinking anew; after a while, however, he

caught the hand with which she fanned him, and said, “Today, O my

mother, I have been made to think of many things that never had place

in my mind before. Tell me, first, what am I to be?”

“Have I not told you? You are to be my hero.”

He could not see her face, yet he knew she was in play. He became more

serious.

“You are very good, very kind, O my mother. No one will ever love me as

you do.”

He kissed the hand over and over again.

“I think I understand why you would have me put off the question,” he

continued. “Thus far my life has belonged to you. How gentle, how sweet

your control has been! I wish it could last forever. But that may not

be. It is the Lord’s will that I shall one day become owner of myself—a

day of separation, and therefore a dreadful day to you. Let us be brave

and serious. I will be your hero, but you must put me in the way. You

know the law—every son of Israel must have some occupation. I am not

exempt, and ask now, shall I tend the herds? or till the soil? or drive

the saw? or be a clerk or lawyer? What shall I be? Dear, good mother,

help me to an answer.”

“Gamaliel has been lecturing today,” she said, thoughtfully.

“If so, I did not hear him.”

“Then you have been walking with Simeon, who, they tell me, inherits

the genius of his family.”

“No, I have not seen him. I have been up on the Market-place, not to

the Temple. I visited the young Messala.”

A certain change in his voice attracted the mother’s attention. A

presentiment quickened the beating of her heart; the fan became

motionless again.

“The Messala!” she said. “What could he say to so trouble you?”

“He is very much changed.”

“You mean he has come back a Roman.”

“Yes.”

“Roman!” she continued, half to herself. “To all the world the word

means master. How long has he been away?”

“Five years.”

She raised her head, and looked off into the night.

“The airs of the Via Sacra are well enough in the streets of the

Egyptian and in Babylon; but in Jerusalem—our Jerusalem—the covenant

abides.”

And, full of the thought, she settled back into her easy place. He was

first to speak.

“What Messala said, my mother, was sharp enough in itself; but, taken

with the manner, some of the sayings were intolerable.”

“I think I understand you. Rome, her poets, orators, senators,

courtiers, are mad with affectation of what they call satire.”

“I suppose all great peoples are proud,” he went on, scarcely noticing

the interruption; “but the pride of that people is unlike all others;

in these latter days it is so grown the gods barely escape it.”

“The gods escape!” said the mother, quickly. “More than one Roman has

accepted worship as his divine right.”

“Well, Messala always had his share of the disagreeable quality. When

he was a child, I have seen him mock strangers whom even Herod

condescended to receive with honors; yet he always spared Judea. For

the first time, in conversation with me to-day, he trifled with our

customs and God. As you would have had me do, I parted with him

finally. And now, O my dear mother, I would know with more certainty if

there be just ground for the Roman’s contempt. In what am I his

inferior? Is ours a lower order of people? Why should I, even in

Cæsar’s presence; feel the shrinking of a slave? Tell me especially

why, if I have the soul, and so choose, I may not hunt the honors of

the world in all its fields? Why may not I take sword and indulge the

passion of war? As a poet, why may not I sing of all themes? I can be a

worker in metals, a keeper of flocks, a merchant, why not an artist

like the Greek? Tell me, O my mother—and this is the sum of my

trouble—why may not a son of Israel do all a Roman may?”

The reader will refer these questions back to the conversation in the

Market-place; the mother, listening with all her faculties awake, from

something which would have been lost upon one less interested in

him—from the connections of the subject, the pointing of the questions,

possibly his accent and tone—was not less swift in making the same

reference. She sat up, and in a voice quick and sharp as his own,

replied, “I see, I see! From association Messala, in boyhood, was

almost a Jew; had he remained here, he might have become a proselyte,

so much do we all borrow from the influences that ripen our lives; but

the years in Rome have been too much for him. I do not wonder at the

change; yet”—her voice fell—“he might have dealt tenderly at least with

you. It is a hard, cruel nature which in youth can forget its first

loves.”

Her hand dropped lightly upon his forehead, and the fingers caught in

his hair and lingered there lovingly, while her eyes sought the highest

stars in view. Her pride responded to his, not merely in echo, but in

the unison of perfect sympathy. She would answer him; at the same time,

not for the world would she have had the answer unsatisfactory: an

admission of inferiority might weaken his spirit for life. She faltered

with misgivings of her own powers.

“What you propose, O my Judah, is not a subject for treatment by a

woman. Let me put its consideration off till to-morrow, and I will have

the wise Simeon—”

“Do not send me to the Rector,” he said, abruptly.

“I will have him come to us.”

“No, I seek more than information; while he might give me that better

than you, O my mother, you can do better by giving me what he

cannot—the resolution which is the soul of a man’s soul.”

She swept the heavens with a rapid glance, trying to compass all the

meaning of his questions.

“While craving justice for ourselves, it is never wise to be unjust to

others. To deny valor in the enemy we have conquered is to underrate

our victory; and if the enemy be strong enough to hold us at bay, much

more to conquer us”—she hesitated—“self-respect bids us seek some other

explanation of our misfortunes than accusing him of qualities inferior

to our own.”

Thus, speaking to herself rather than to him, she began:

“Take heart, O my son. The Messala is nobly descended; his family has

been illustrious through many generations. In the days of Republican

Rome—how far back I cannot tell—they were famous, some as soldiers,

some as civilians. I can recall but one consul of the name; their rank

was senatorial, and their patronage always sought because they were

always rich. Yet if to-day your friend boasted of his ancestry, you

might have shamed him by recounting yours. If he referred to the ages

through which the line is traceable, or to deeds, rank, or wealth—such

allusions, except when great occasion demands them, are tokens of small

minds—if he mentioned them in proof of his superiority, then without

dread, and standing on each particular, you might have challenged him

to a comparison of records.”

Taking a moment’s thought, the mother proceeded:

“One of the ideas of fast hold now is that time has much to do with the

nobility of races and families. A Roman boasting his superiority on

that account over a son of Israel will always fail when put to the

proof. The founding of Rome was his beginning; the very best of them

cannot trace their descent beyond that period; few of them pretend to

do so; and of such as do, I say not one could make good his claim

except by resort to tradition. Messala certainly could not. Let us look

now to ourselves. Could we better?”

A little more light would have enabled him to see the pride that

diffused itself over her face.

“Let us imagine the Roman putting us to the challenge. I would answer

him, neither doubting nor boastful.”

Her voice faltered; a tender thought changed the form of the argument.

“Your father, O my Judah, is at rest with his fathers; yet I remember,

as though it were this evening, the day he and I, with many rejoicing

friends, went up into the Temple to present you to the Lord. We

sacrificed the doves, and to the priest I gave your name, which he

wrote in my presence—‘Judah, son of Ithamar, of the House of Hur.’ The

name was then carried away, and written in a book of the division of

records devoted to the saintly family.

“I cannot tell you when the custom of registration in this mode began.

We know it prevailed before the flight from Egypt. I have heard Hillel

say Abraham caused the record to be first opened with his own name, and

the names of his sons, moved by the promises of the Lord which

separated him and them from all other races, and made them the highest

and noblest, the very chosen of the earth. The covenant with Jacob was

of like effect. ‘In thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be

blessed’—so said the angel to Abraham in the place Jehovah-jireh. ‘And

the land whereon thou liest, to thee will I give it, and to thy

seed’—so the Lord himself said to Jacob asleep at Bethel on the way to

Haran. Afterwards the wise men looked forward to a just division of the

land of promise; and, that it might be known in the day of partition

who were entitled to portions, the Book of Generations was begun. But

not for that alone. The promise of a blessing to all the earth through

the patriarch reached far into the future. One name was mentioned in

connection with the blessing—the benefactor might be the humblest of

the chosen family, for the Lord our God knows no distinctions of rank

or riches. So, to make the performance clear to men of the generation

who were to witness it, and that they might give the glory to whom it

belonged, the record was required to be kept with absolute certainty.

Has it been so kept?”

The fan played to and fro, until, becoming impatient, he repeated the

question, “Is the record absolutely true?”

“Hillel said it was, and of all who have lived no one was so

well-informed upon the subject. Our people have at times been heedless

of some parts of the law, but never of this part. The good rector

himself has followed the Books of Generations through three

periods—from the promises to the opening of the Temple; thence to the

Captivity; thence, again, to the present. Once only were the records

disturbed, and that was at the end of the second period; but when the

nation returned from the long exile, as a first duty to God, Zerubbabel

restored the Books, enabling us once more to carry the lines of Jewish

descent back unbroken fully two thousand years. And now—”

She paused as if to allow the hearer to measure the time comprehended

in the statement.

“And now,” she continued, “what becomes of the Roman boast of blood

enriched by ages? By that test, the sons of Israel watching the herds

on old Rephaim yonder are nobler than the noblest of the Marcii.”

“And I, mother—by the Books, who am I?”

“What I have said thus far, my son, had reference to your question. I

will answer you. If Messala were here, he might say, as others have

said, that the exact trace of your lineage stopped when the Assyrian

took Jerusalem, and razed the Temple, with all its precious stores; but

you might plead the pious action of Zerubbabel, and retort that all

verity in Roman genealogy ended when the barbarians from the West took

Rome, and camped six months upon her desolated site. Did the government

keep family histories? If so, what became of them in those dreadful

days? No, no; there is verity in our Books of Generations; and,

following them back to the Captivity, back to the foundation of the

first Temple, back to the march from Egypt, we have absolute assurance

that you are lineally sprung from Hur, the associate of Joshua. In the

matter of descent sanctified by time, is not the honor perfect? Do you

care to pursue further? if so, take the Torah, and search the Book of

Numbers, and of the seventy-two generations after Adam, you can find

the very progenitor of your house.”

There was silence for a time in the chamber on the roof.

“I thank you, O my mother,” Judah next said, clasping both her hands in

his; “I thank you with all my heart. I was right in not having the good

rector called in; he could not have satisfied me more than you have.

Yet to make a family truly noble, is time alone sufficient?”

“Ah, you forget, you forget; our claim rests not merely upon time; the

Lord’s preference is our especial glory.”

“You are speaking of the race, and I, mother, of the family—our family.

In the years since Father Abraham, what have they achieved? What have

they done? What great things to lift them above the level of their

fellows?”

She hesitated, thinking she might all this time have mistaken his

object. The information he sought might have been for more than

satisfaction of wounded vanity. Youth is but the painted shell within

which, continually growing, lives that wondrous thing the spirit of

man, biding its moment of apparition, earlier in some than in others.

She trembled under a perception that this might be the supreme moment

come to him; that as children at birth reach out their untried hands

grasping for shadows, and crying the while, so his spirit might, in

temporary blindness, be struggling to take hold of its impalpable

future. They to whom a boy comes asking, Who am I, and what am I to be?

have need of ever so much care. Each word in answer may prove to the

after-life what each finger-touch of the artist is to the clay he is

modelling.

“I have a feeling, O my Judah,” she said, patting his cheek with the

hand he had been caressing—“I have the feeling that all I have said has

been in strife with an antagonist more real than imaginary. If Messala

is the enemy, do not leave me to fight him in the dark. Tell me all he

said.”

CHAPTER V

The young Israelite proceeded then, and rehearsed his conversation with

Messala, dwelling with particularity upon the latter’s speeches in

contempt of the Jews, their customs, and much pent round of life.

Afraid to speak the while, the mother listened, discerning the matter

plainly. Judah had gone to the palace on the Market-place, allured by

love of a playmate whom he thought to find exactly as he had been at

the parting years before; a man met him, and, in place of laughter and

references to the sports of the past, the man had been full of the

future, and talked of glory to be won, and of riches and power.

Unconscious of the effect, the visitor had come away hurt in pride, yet

touched with a natural ambition; but she, the jealous mother, saw it,

and, not knowing the turn the aspiration might take, became at once

Jewish in her fear. What if it lured him away from the patriarchal

faith? In her view, that consequence was more dreadful than any or all

others. She could discover but one way to avert it, and she set about

the task, her native power reinforced by love to such degree that her

speech took a masculine strength and at times a poet’s fervor.

“There never has been a people,” she began, “who did not think

themselves at least equal to any other; never a great nation, my son,

that did not believe itself the very superior. When the Roman looks

down upon Israel and laughs, he merely repeats the folly of the

Egyptian, the Assyrian, and the Macedonian; and as the laugh is against

God, the result will be the same.”

Her voice became firmer.

“There is no law by which to determine the superiority of nations;

hence the vanity of the claim, and the idleness of disputes about it. A

people risen, run their race, and die either of themselves or at the

hands of another, who, succeeding to their power, take possession of

their place, and upon their monuments write new names; such is history.

If I were called upon to symbolize God and man in the simplest form, I

would draw a straight line and a circle, and of the line I would say,

‘This is God, for he alone moves forever straightforward,’ and of the

circle, ‘This is man—such is his progress.’ I do not mean that there is

no difference between the careers of nations; no two are alike. The

difference, however, is not, as some say, in the extent of the circle

they describe or the space of earth they cover, but in the sphere of

their movement, the highest being nearest God.

“To stop here, my son, would be to leave the subject where we began.

Let us go on. There are signs by which to measure the height of the

circle each nation runs while in its course. By them let us compare the

Hebrew and the Roman.

“The simplest of all the signs is the daily life of the people. Of this

I will only say, Israel has at times forgotten God, while the Roman

never knew him; consequently comparison is not possible.

“Your friend—or your former friend—charged, if I understood you

rightly, that we have had no poets, artists, or warriors; by which he

meant, I suppose, to deny that we have had great men, the next most

certain of the signs. A just consideration of this charge requires a

definition at the commencement. A great man, O my boy, is one whose

life proves him to have been recognized, if not called, by God. A

Persian was used to punish our recreant fathers, and he carried them

into captivity; another Persian was selected to restore their children

to the Holy Land; greater than either of them, however, was the

Macedonian through whom the desolation of Judea and the Temple was

avenged. The special distinction of the men was that they were chosen

by the Lord, each for a divine purpose; and that they were Gentiles

does not lessen their glory. Do not lose sight of this definition while

I proceed.

“There is an idea that war is the most noble occupation of men, and

that the most exalted greatness is the growth of battle-fields. Because

the world has adopted the idea, be not you deceived. That we must

worship something is a law which will continue as long as there is

anything we cannot understand. The prayer of the barbarian is a wail of

fear addressed to Strength, the only divine quality he can clearly

conceive; hence his faith in heroes. What is Jove but a Roman hero? The

Greeks have their great glory because they were the first to set Mind

above Strength. In Athens the orator and philosopher were more revered

than the warrior. The charioteer and the swiftest runner are still

idols of the arena; yet the immortelles are reserved for the sweetest

singer. The birthplace of one poet was contested by seven cities. But

was the Hellene the first to deny the old barbaric faith? No. My son,

that glory is ours; against brutalism our fathers erected God; in our

worship, the wail of fear gave place to the Hosanna and the Psalm. So

the Hebrew and the Greek would have carried all humanity forward and

upward. But, alas! the government of the world presumes war as an

eternal condition; wherefore, over Mind and above God, the Roman has

enthroned his Cæsar, the absorbent of all attainable power, the

prohibition of any other greatness.

“The sway of the Greek was a flowering time for genius. In return for

the liberty it then enjoyed, what a company of thinkers the Mind led

forth? There was a glory for every excellence, and a perfection so

absolute that in everything but war even the Roman has stooped to

imitation. A Greek is now the model of the orators in the Forum;

listen, and in every Roman song you will hear the rhythm of the Greek;

if a Roman opens his mouth speaking wisely of moralities, or

abstractions, or of the mysteries of nature, he is either a plagiarist

or the disciple of some school which had a Greek for its founder. In

nothing but war, I say again, has Rome a claim to originality. Her

games and spectacles are Greek inventions, dashed with blood to gratify

the ferocity of her rabble; her religion, if such it may be called, is

made up of contributions from the faiths of all other peoples; her most

venerated gods are from Olympus—even her Mars, and, for that matter,

the Jove she much magnifies. So it happens, O my son, that of the whole

world our Israel alone can dispute the superiority of the Greek, and

with him contest the palm of original genius.

“To the excellences of other peoples the egotism of a Roman is a

blindfold, impenetrable as his breastplate. Oh, the ruthless robbers!

Under their trampling the earth trembles like a floor beaten with

flails. Along with the rest we are fallen—alas that I should say it to

you, my son! They have our highest places, and the holiest, and the end

no man can tell; but this I know—they may reduce Judea as an almond

broken with hammers, and devour Jerusalem, which is the oil and

sweetness thereof; yet the glory of the men of Israel will remain a

light in the heavens overhead out of reach: for their history is the

history of God, who wrote with their hands, spake with their tongues,

and was himself in all the good they did, even the least; who dwelt

with them, a Lawgiver on Sinai, a Guide in the wilderness, in war a

Captain, in government a King; who once and again pushed back the

curtains of the pavilion which is his resting-place, intolerably

bright, and, as a man speaking to men, showed them the right, and the

way to happiness, and how they should live, and made them promises

binding the strength of his Almightiness with covenants sworn to

everlastingly. O my son, could it be that they with whom Jehovah thus

dwelt, an awful familiar, derived nothing from him?—that in their lives

and deeds the common human qualities should not in some degree have

been mixed and colored with the divine? that their genius should not

have in it, even after the lapse of ages, some little of heaven?”

For a time the rustling of the fan was all the sound heard in the

chamber.

“In the sense which limits art to sculpture and painting, it is true,”

she next said, “Israel has had no artists.”

The admission was made regretfully, for it must be remembered she was a

Sadducee, whose faith, unlike that of the Pharisees, permitted a love

of the beautiful in every form, and without reference to its origin.

“Still he who would do justice,” she proceeded, “will not forget that

the cunning of our hands was bound by the prohibition, ‘Thou shalt not

make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything;’ which

the Sopherim wickedly extended beyond its purpose and time. Nor should

it be forgotten that long before Dædalus appeared in Attica and with

his wooden statues so transformed sculpture as to make possible the

schools of Corinth and Ægina, and their ultimate triumphs the Poecile

and Capitolium—long before the age of Dædalus, I say, two Israelites,

Bezaleel and Aholiab, the master-builders of the first tabernacle, said

to have been skilled ‘in all manner of workmanship,’ wrought the

cherubim of the mercy-seat above the ark. Of gold beaten, not chiseled,

were they; and they were statues in form both human and divine. ‘And

they shall stretch forth their wings on high, .... and their faces

shall look one to another.’ Who will say they were not beautiful? or

that they were not the first statues?”

“Oh, I see now why the Greek outstripped us,” said Judah, intensely

interested. “And the ark; accursed be the Babylonians who destroyed

it!”

“Nay, Judah, be of faith. It was not destroyed, only lost, hidden away

too safely in some cavern of the mountains. One day—Hillel and Shammai

both say so—one day, in the Lord’s good time, it will be found and

brought forth, and Israel dance before it, singing as of old. And they

who look upon the faces of the cherubim then, though they have seen the

face of the ivory Minerva, will be ready to kiss the hand of the Jew

from love of his genius, asleep through all the thousands of years.”

The mother, in her eagerness, had risen into something like the

rapidity and vehemence of a speech-maker; but now, to recover herself,

or to pick up the thread of her thought, she rested awhile.

“You are so good, my mother,” he said, in a grateful way. “And I will

never be done saying so. Shammai could not have talked better, nor

Hillel. I am a true son of Israel again.”

“Flatterer!” she said. “You do not know that I am but repeating what I

heard Hillel say in an argument he had one day in my presence with a

sophist from Rome.”

“Well, the hearty words are yours.”

Directly all her earnestness returned.

“Where was I? Oh yes, I was claiming for our Hebrew fathers the first

statues. The trick of the sculptor, Judah, is not all there is of art,

any more than art is all there is of greatness. I always think of great

men marching down the centuries in groups and goodly companies,

separable according to nationalities; here the Indian, there the

Egyptian, yonder the Assyrian; above them the music of trumpets and the

beauty of banners; and on their right hand and left, as reverent

spectators, the generations from the beginning, numberless. As they go,

I think of the Greek, saying, ‘Lo! The Hellene leads the way.’ Then the

Roman replies, ‘Silence! what was your place is ours now; we have left

you behind as dust trodden on.’ And all the time, from the far front

back over the line of march, as well as forward into the farthest

future, streams a light of which the wranglers know nothing, except

that it is forever leading them on—the Light of Revelation! Who are

they that carry it? Ah, the old Judean blood! How it leaps at the

thought! By the light we know them. Thrice blessed, O our fathers,

servants of God, keepers of the covenants! Ye are the leaders of men,

the living and the dead. The front is thine; and though every Roman

were a Cæsar, ye shall not lose it!”

Judah was deeply stirred.

“Do not stop, I pray you,” he cried. “You give me to hear the sound of

timbrels. I wait for Miriam and the women who went after her dancing

and singing.”

She caught his feeling, and, with ready wit, wove it into her speech.

“Very well, my son. If you can hear the timbrel of the prophetess, you

can do what I was about to ask; you can use your fancy, and stand with

me, as if by the wayside, while the chosen of Israel pass us at the

head of the procession. Now they come—the patriarchs first; next the

fathers of the tribes. I almost hear the bells of their camels and the

lowing of their herds. Who is he that walks alone between the

companies? An old man, yet his eye is not dim, nor his natural force

abated. He knew the Lord face to face! Warrior, poet, orator, lawgiver,

prophet, his greatness is as the sun at morning, its flood of splendor

quenching all other lights, even that of the first and noblest of the

Cæsars. After him the judges. And then the kings—the son of Jesse, a

hero in war, and a singer of songs eternal as that of the sea; and his

son, who, passing all other kings in riches and wisdom, and while

making the Desert habitable, and in its waste places planting cities,

forgot not Jerusalem which the Lord had chosen for his seat on earth.

Bend lower, my son! These that come next are the first of their kind,

and the last. Their faces are raised, as if they heard a voice in the

sky and were listening. Their lives were full of sorrows. Their

garments smell of tombs and caverns. Hearken to a woman among

them—‘Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously!’ Nay, put

your forehead in the dust before them! They were tongues of God, his

servants, who looked through heaven, and, seeing all the future, wrote

what they saw, and left the writing to be proven by time. Kings turned

pale as they approached them, and nations trembled at the sound of

their voices. The elements waited upon them. In their hands they

carried every bounty and every plague. See the Tishbite and his servant

Elisha! See the sad son of Hilkiah, and him, the seer of visions, by

the river of Chebar! And of the three children of Judah who refused the

image of the Babylonian, lo! that one who, in the feast to the thousand

lords, so confounded the astrologers. And yonder—O my son, kiss the

dust again!—yonder the gentle son of Amoz, from whom the world has its

promise of the Messiah to come!”

In this passage the fan had been kept in rapid play; it stopped now,

and her voice sank low.

“You are tired,” she said.

“No,” he replied, “I was listening to a new song of Israel.”

The mother was still intent upon her purpose, and passed the pleasant

speech.

“In such light as I could, my Judah, I have set our great men before

you—patriarchs, legislators, warriors, singers, prophets. Turn we to

the best of Rome. Against Moses place Cæsar, and Tarquin against

David; Sylla against either of the Maccabees; the best of the consuls

against the judges; Augustus against Solomon, and you are done:

comparison ends there. But think then of the prophets—greatest of the

great.”

She laughed scornfully.

“Pardon me. I was thinking of the soothsayer who warned Caius Julius

against the Ides of March, and fancied him looking for the omens of

evil which his master despised in the entrails of a chicken. From that

picture turn to Elijah sitting on the hill-top on the way to Samaria,

amid the smoking bodies of the captains and their fifties, warning the

son of Ahab of the wrath of our God. Finally, O my Judah—if such speech

be reverent—how shall we judge Jehovah and Jupiter unless it be by what

their servants have done in their names? And as for what you shall do—”

She spoke the latter words slowly, and with a tremulous utterance.

“As for what you shall do, my boy—serve the Lord, the Lord God of

Israel, not Rome. For a child of Abraham there is no glory except in

the Lord’s ways, and in them there is much glory.”

“I may be a soldier then?” Judah asked.

“Why not? Did not Moses call God a man of war?”

There was then a long silence in the summer chamber.

“You have my permission,” she said, finally; “if only you serve the

Lord instead of Cæsar.”

He was content with the condition, and by-and-by fell asleep. She arose

then, and put the cushion under his head, and, throwing a shawl over

him and kissing him tenderly, went away.

CHAPTER VI

The good man, like the bad, must die; but, remembering the lesson of

our faith, we say of him and the event, “No matter, he will open his

eyes in heaven.” Nearest this in life is the waking from healthful

sleep to a quick consciousness of happy sights and sounds.

When Judah awoke, the sun was up over the mountains; the pigeons were

abroad in flocks, filling the air with the gleams of their white wings;

and off southeast he beheld the Temple, an apparition of gold in the

blue of the sky. These, however, were familiar objects, and they

received but a glance; upon the edge of the divan, close by him, a girl

scarcely fifteen sat singing to the accompaniment of a nebel, which she

rested upon her knee, and touched gracefully. To her he turned

listening; and this was what she sang:

THE SONG.

“Wake not, but hear me, love!

Adrift, adrift on slumber’s sea,

Thy spirit call to list to me.

Wake not, but hear me, love!

A gift from Sleep, the restful king,

All happy, happy dreams I bring.

“Wake not, but hear me, love!

Of all the world of dreams ’tis thine

This once to choose the most divine.

So choose, and sleep, my love!

But ne’er again in choice be free,

Unless, unless—thou dream’st of me.”

She put the instrument down, and, resting her hands in her lap, waited

for him to speak. And as it has become necessary to tell somewhat of

her, we will avail ourselves of the chance, and add such particulars of

the family into whose privacy we are brought as the reader may wish to

know.

The favors of Herod had left surviving him many persons of vast estate.

Where this fortune was joined to undoubted lineal descent from some

famous son of one of the tribes, especially Judah, the happy individual

was accounted a Prince of Jerusalem—a distinction which sufficed to

bring him the homage of his less favored countrymen, and the respect,

if nothing more, of the Gentiles with whom business and social

circumstance brought him into dealing. Of this class none had won in

private or public life a higher regard than the father of the lad whom

we have been following. With a remembrance of his nationality which

never failed him, he had yet been true to the king, and served him

faithfully at home and abroad. Some offices had taken him to Rome,

where his conduct attracted the notice of Augustus, who strove without

reserve to engage his friendship. In his house, accordingly, were many

presents, such as had gratified the vanity of kings—purple togas, ivory

chairs, golden pateroe—chiefly valuable on account of the imperial hand

which had honorably conferred them. Such a man could not fail to be

rich; yet his wealth was not altogether the largess of royal patrons.

He had welcomed the law that bound him to some pursuit; and, instead of

one, he entered into many. Of the herdsmen watching flocks on the

plains and hill-sides, far as old Lebanon, numbers reported to him as

their employer; in the cities by the sea, and in those inland, he

founded houses of traffic; his ships brought him silver from Spain,

whose mines were then the richest known; while his caravans came twice

a year from the East, laden with silks and spices. In faith he was a

Hebrew, observant of the law and every essential rite; his place in the

synagogue and Temple knew him well; he was thoroughly learned in the

Scriptures; he delighted in the society of the college-masters, and

carried his reverence for Hillel almost to the point of worship. Yet he

was in no sense a Separatist; his hospitality took in strangers from

every land; the carping Pharisees even accused him of having more than

once entertained Samaritans at his table. Had he been a Gentile, and

lived, the world might have heard of him as the rival of Herodes

Atticus: as it was, he perished at sea some ten years before this

second period of our story, in the prime of life, and lamented

everywhere in Judea. We are already acquainted with two members of his

family—his widow and son; the only other was a daughter—she whom we

have seen singing to her brother.

Tirzah was her name, and as the two looked at each other, their

resemblance was plain. Her features had the regularity of his, and were

of the same Jewish type; they had also the charm of childish innocency

of expression. Home-life and its trustful love permitted the negligent

attire in which she appeared. A chemise buttoned upon the right

shoulder, and passing loosely over the breast and back and under the

left arm, but half concealed her person above the waist, while it left

the arms entirely nude. A girdle caught the folds of the garment,

marking the commencement of the skirt. The coiffure was very simple and

becoming—a silken cap, Tyrian-dyed; and over that a striped scarf of

the same material, beautifully embroidered, and wound about in thin

folds so as to show the shape of the head without enlarging it; the

whole finished by a tassel dropping from the crown point of the cap.

She had rings, ear and finger; anklets and bracelets, all of gold; and

around her neck there was a collar of gold, curiously garnished with a

network of delicate chains, to which were pendants of pearl. The edges

of her eyelids were painted, and the tips of her fingers stained. Her

hair fell in two long plaits down her back. A curled lock rested upon

each cheek in front of the ear. Altogether it would have been

impossible to deny her grace, refinement, and beauty.

“Very pretty, my Tirzah, very pretty!” he said, with animation.

“The song?” she asked.

“Yes—and the singer, too. It has the conceit of a Greek. Where did you

get it?”

“You remember the Greek who sang in the theatre last month? They said

he used to be a singer at the court for Herod and his sister Salome. He

came out just after an exhibition of wrestlers, when the house was full

of noise. At his first note everything became so quiet that I heard

every word. I got the song from him.”

“But he sang in Greek.”

“And I in Hebrew.”

“Ah, yes. I am proud of my little sister. Have you another as good?”

“Very many. But let them go now. Amrah sent me to tell you she will

bring you your breakfast, and that you need not come down. She should

be here by this time. She thinks you sick—that a dreadful accident

happened you yesterday. What was it? Tell me, and I will help Amrah

doctor you. She knows the cures of the Egyptians, who were always a

stupid set; but I have a great many recipes of the Arabs who—”

“Are even more stupid than the Egyptians,” he said, shaking his head.

“Do you think so? Very well, then,” she replied, almost without pause,

and putting her hands to her left ear. “We will have nothing to do with

any of them. I have here what is much surer and better—the amulet which

was given to some of our people—I cannot tell when, it was so far

back—by a Persian magician. See, the inscription is almost worn out.”

She offered him the earring, which he took, looked at, and handed back,

laughing.

“If I were dying, Tirzah, I could not use the charm. It is a relic of

idolatry, forbidden every believing son and daughter of Abraham. Take

it, but do not wear it any more.”

“Forbidden! Not so,” she said. “Our father’s mother wore it I do not

know how many Sabbaths in her life. It has cured I do not know how many

people—more than three anyhow. It is approved—look, here is the mark of

the rabbis.”

“I have no faith in amulets.”

She raised her eyes to his in astonishment.

“What would Amrah say?”

“Amrah’s father and mother tended sakiyeh for a garden on the Nile.”

“But Gamaliel!”

“He says they are godless inventions of unbelievers and Shechemites.”

Tirzah looked at the ring doubtfully.

“What shall I do with it?”

“Wear it, my little sister. It becomes you—it helps make you beautiful,

though I think you that without help.”

Satisfied, she returned the amulet to her ear just as Amrah entered the

summer chamber, bearing a platter, with wash-bowl, water, and napkins.

Not being a Pharisee, the ablution was short and simple with Judah. The

servant then went out, leaving Tirzah to dress his hair. When a lock

was disposed to her satisfaction, she would unloose the small metallic

mirror which, as was the fashion among her fair countrywomen, she wore

at her girdle, and gave it to him, that he might see the triumph, and

how handsome it made him. Meanwhile they kept up their conversation.

“What do you think, Tirzah?—I am going away.”

She dropped her hands with amazement.

“Going away! When? Where? For what?”

He laughed.

“Three questions, all in a breath! What a body you are!” Next instant

he became serious. “You know the law requires me to follow some

occupation. Our good father set me an example. Even you would despise

me if I spent in idleness the results of his industry and knowledge. I

am going to Rome.”

“Oh, I will go with you.”

“You must stay with mother. If both of us leave her she will die.”

The brightness faded from her face.

“Ah, yes, yes! But—must you go? Here in Jerusalem you can learn all

that is needed to be a merchant—if that is what you are thinking of.”

“But that is not what I am thinking of. The law does not require the

son to be what the father was.”

“What else can you be?”

“A soldier,” he replied, with a certain pride of voice.

Tears came into her eyes.

“You will be killed.”

“If God’s will, be it so. But, Tirzah, the soldiers are not all

killed.”

She threw her arms around his neck, as if to hold him back.

“We are so happy! Stay at home, my brother.”

“Home cannot always be what it is. You yourself will be going away

before long.”

“Never!”

He smiled at her earnestness.

“A prince of Judah, or some other of one of the tribes, will come soon

and claim my Tirzah, and ride away with her, to be the light of another

house. What will then become of me?”

She answered with sobs.

“War is a trade,” he continued, more soberly. “To learn it thoroughly,

one must go to school, and there is no school like a Roman camp.”

“You would not fight for Rome?” she asked, holding her breath.

“And you—even you hate her. The whole world hates her. In that, O

Tirzah, find the reason of the answer I give you— Yes, I will fight for

her, if, in return, she will teach me how one day to fight against

her.”

“When will you go?”

Amrah’s steps were then heard returning.

“Hist!” he said. “Do not let her know of what I am thinking.”

The faithful slave came in with breakfast, and placed the waiter

holding it upon a stool before them; then, with white napkins upon her

arm, she remained to serve them. They dipped their fingers in a bowl of

water, and were rinsing them, when a noise arrested their attention.

They listened, and distinguished martial music in the street on the

north side of the house.

“Soldiers from the Praetorium! I must see them,” he cried, springing

from the divan, and running out.

In a moment more he was leaning over the parapet of tiles which guarded

the roof at the extreme northeast corner, so absorbed that he did not

notice Tirzah by his side, resting one hand upon his shoulder.

Their position—the roof being the highest one in the locality—commanded

the house-tops eastward as far as the huge irregular Tower of Antonia,

which has been already mentioned as a citadel for the garrison and

military headquarters for the governor. The street, not more than ten

feet wide, was spanned here and there by bridges, open and covered,

which, like the roofs along the way, were beginning to be occupied by

men, women, and children, called out by the music. The word is used,

though it is hardly fitting; what the people heard when they came forth

was rather an uproar of trumpets and the shriller _litui_ so delightful

to the soldiers.

The array after a while came into view of the two upon the house of the

Hurs. First, a vanguard of the light-armed—mostly slingers and

bowmen—marching with wide intervals between their ranks and files; next

a body of heavy-armed infantry, bearing large shields, and hastoe

longoe, or spears identical with those used in the duels before Ilium;

then the musicians; and then an officer riding alone, but followed

closely by a guard of cavalry; after them again, a column of infantry

also heavy-armed, which, moving in close order, crowded the streets

from wall to wall, and appeared to be without end.

The brawny limbs of the men; the cadenced motion from right to left of

the shields; the sparkle of scales, buckles, and breastplates and

helms, all perfectly burnished; the plumes nodding above the tall

crests; the sway of ensigns and iron-shod spears; the bold, confident

step, exactly timed and measured; the demeanor, so grave, yet so

watchful; the machine-like unity of the whole moving mass—made an

impression upon Judah, but as something felt rather than seen. Two

objects fixed his attention—the eagle of the legion first—a gilded

effigy perched on a tall shaft, with wings outspread until they met

above its head. He knew that, when brought from its chamber in the

Tower, it had been received with divine honors.

The officer riding alone in the midst of the column was the other

attraction. His head was bare; otherwise he was in full armor. At his

left hip he wore a short sword; in his hand, however, he carried a

truncheon, which looked like a roll of white paper. He sat upon a

purple cloth instead of a saddle, and that, and a bridle with a

forestall of gold and reins of yellow silk broadly fringed at the lower

edge, completed the housings of the horse.

While the man was yet in the distance, Judah observed that his presence

was sufficient to throw the people looking at him into angry

excitement. They would lean over the parapets or stand boldly out, and

shake their fists at him; they followed him with loud cries, and spit

at him as he passed under the bridges; the women even flung their

sandals, sometimes with such good effect as to hit him. When he was

nearer, the yells became distinguishable—“Robber, tyrant, dog of a

Roman! Away with Ishmael! Give us back our Hannas!”

When quite near, Judah could see that, as was but natural, the man did

not share the indifference so superbly shown by the soldiers; his face

was dark and sullen, and the glances he occasionally cast at his

persecutors were full of menace; the very timid shrank from them.

Now the lad had heard of the custom, borrowed from a habit of the first

Cæsar, by which chief commanders, to indicate their rank, appeared in

public with only a laurel vine upon their heads. By that sign he knew

this officer—VALERIUS GRATUS, THE NEW PROCURATOR OF JUDEA!

To say truth now, the Roman under the unprovoked storm had the young

Jew’s sympathy; so that when he reached the corner of the house, the

latter leaned yet farther over the parapet to see him go by, and in the

act rested a hand upon a tile which had been a long time cracked and

allowed to go unnoticed. The pressure was strong enough to displace the

outer piece, which started to fall. A thrill of horror shot through the

youth. He reached out to catch the missile. In appearance the motion

was exactly that of one pitching something from him. The effort

failed—nay, it served to push the descending fragment farther out over

the wall. He shouted with all his might. The soldiers of the guard

looked up; so did the great man, and that moment the missile struck

him, and he fell from his seat as dead.

The cohort halted; the guards leaped from their horses, and hastened to

cover the chief with their shields. On the other hand, the people who

witnessed the affair, never doubting that the blow had been purposely

dealt, cheered the lad as he yet stooped in full view over the parapet,

transfixed by what he beheld, and by anticipation of the consequences

flashed all too plainly upon him.

A mischievous spirit flew with incredible speed from roof to roof along

the line of march, seizing the people, and urging them all alike. They

laid hands upon the parapets and tore up the tiling and the sunburnt

mud of which the house-tops were for the most part made, and with blind

fury began to fling them upon the legionaries halted below. A battle

then ensued. Discipline, of course, prevailed. The struggle, the

slaughter, the skill of one side, the desperation of the other, are

alike unnecessary to our story. Let us look rather to the wretched

author of it all.

He arose from the parapet, his face very pale.

“O Tirzah, Tirzah! What will become of us?”

She had not seen the occurrence below, but was listening to the

shouting and watching the mad activity of the people in view on the

houses. Something terrible was going on, she knew; but what it was, or

the cause, or that she or any of those dear to her were in danger, she

did not know.

“What has happened? What does it all mean?” she asked, in sudden alarm.

“I have killed the Roman governor. The tile fell upon him.”

An unseen hand appeared to sprinkle her face with the dust of ashes—it

grew white so instantly. She put her arm around him, and looked

wistfully, but without a word, into his eyes. His fears had passed to

her, and the sight of them gave him strength.

“I did not do it purposely, Tirzah—it was an accident,” he said, more

calmly.

“What will they do?” she asked.

He looked off over the tumult momentarily deepening in the street and

on the roofs, and thought of the sullen countenance of Gratus. If he

were not dead, where would his vengeance stop? And if he were dead, to

what height of fury would not the violence of the people lash the

legionaries? To evade an answer, he peered over the parapet again, just

as the guard were assisting the Roman to remount his horse.

“He lives, he lives, Tirzah! Blessed be the Lord God of our fathers!”

With that outcry, and a brightened countenance, he drew back and

replied to her question.

“Be not afraid, Tirzah. I will explain how it happened, and they will

remember our father and his services, and not hurt us.”

He was leading her to the summer-house, when the roof jarred under

their feet, and a crash of strong timbers being burst away, followed by

a cry of surprise and agony, arose apparently from the court-yard

below. He stopped and listened. The cry was repeated; then came a rush

of many feet, and voices lifted in rage blent with voices in prayer;

and then the screams of women in mortal terror. The soldiers had beaten

in the north gate, and were in possession of the house. The terrible

sense of being hunted smote him. His first impulse was to fly; but

where? Nothing but wings would serve him. Tirzah, her eyes wild with

fear, caught his arm.

“O Judah, what does it mean?”

The servants were being butchered—and his mother! Was not one of the

voices he heard hers? With all the will left him, he said, “Stay here,

and wait for me, Tirzah. I will go down and see what is the matter, and

come back to you.”

His voice was not steady as he wished. She clung closer to him.

Clearer, shriller, no longer a fancy, his mother’s cry arose. He

hesitated no longer.

“Come, then, let us go.”

The terrace or gallery at the foot of the steps was crowded with

soldiers. Other soldiers with drawn swords ran in and out of the

chambers. At one place a number of women on their knees clung to each

other or prayed for mercy. Apart from them, one with torn garments, and

long hair streaming over her face, struggled to tear loose from a man

all whose strength was tasked to keep his hold. Her cries were

shrillest of all; cutting through the clamor, they had risen

distinguishably to the roof. To her Judah sprang—his steps were long

and swift, almost a winged flight—“Mother, mother!” he shouted. She

stretched her hands towards him; but when almost touching them he was

seized and forced aside. Then he heard some one say, speaking loudly,

“That is he!”

Judah looked, and saw—Messala.

“What, the assassin—that?” said a tall man, in legionary armor of

beautiful finish. “Why, he is but a boy.”

“Gods!” replied Messala, not forgetting his drawl. “A new philosophy!

What would Seneca say to the proposition that a man must be old before

he can hate enough to kill? You have him; and that is his mother;

yonder his sister. You have the whole family.”

For love of them, Judah forgot his quarrel.

“Help them, O my Messala! Remember our childhood and help them.

I—Judah—pray you.”

Messala affected not to hear.

“I cannot be of further use to you,” he said to the officer. “There is

richer entertainment in the street. Down Eros, up Mars!”

With the last words he disappeared. Judah understood him, and, in the

bitterness of his soul, prayed to Heaven.

“In the hour of thy vengeance, O Lord,” he said, “be mine the hand to

put it upon him!”

By great exertion, he drew nearer the officer.

“O sir, the woman you hear is my mother. Spare her, spare my sister

yonder. God is just, he will give you mercy for mercy.”

The man appeared to be moved.

“To the Tower with the women!” he shouted, “but do them no harm. I will

demand them of you.” Then to those holding Judah, he said, “Get cords,

and bind his hands, and take him to the street. His punishment is

reserved.”

The mother was carried away. The little Tirzah, in her home attire,

stupefied with fear, went passively with her keepers. Judah gave each

of them a last look, and covered his face with his hands, as if to

possess himself of the scene fadelessly. He may have shed tears, though

no one saw them.

There took place in him then what may be justly called the wonder of

life. The thoughtful reader of these pages has ere this discerned

enough to know that the young Jew in disposition was gentle even to

womanliness—a result that seldom fails the habit of loving and being

loved. The circumstances through which he had come had made no call

upon the harsher elements of his nature, if such he had. At times he

had felt the stir and impulses of ambition, but they had been like the

formless dreams of a child walking by the sea and gazing at the coming

and going of stately ships. But now, if we can imagine an idol,

sensible of the worship it was accustomed to, dashed suddenly from its

altar, and lying amidst the wreck of its little world of love, an idea

may be had of what had befallen the young Ben-Hur, and of its effect

upon his being. Yet there was no sign, nothing to indicate that he had

undergone a change, except that when he raised his head, and held his

arms out to be bound, the bend of the Cupid’s bow had vanished from his

lips. In that instant he had put off childhood and become a man.

A trumpet sounded in the court-yard. With the cessation of the call,

the gallery was cleared of the soldiery; many of whom, as they dared

not appear in the ranks with visible plunder in their hands, flung what

they had upon the floor, until it was strewn with articles of richest

virtu. When Judah descended, the formation was complete, and the

officer waiting to see his last order executed.

The mother, daughter, and entire household were led out of the north

gate, the ruins of which choked the passageway. The cries of the

domestics, some of whom had been born in the house, were most pitiable.

When, finally, the horses and all the dumb tenantry of the place were

driven past him, Judah began to comprehend the scope of the

procurator’s vengeance. The very structure was devoted. Far as the

order was possible of execution, nothing living was to be left within

its walls. If in Judea there were others desperate enough to think of

assassinating a Roman governor, the story of what befell the princely

family of Hur would be a warning to them, while the ruin of the

habitation would keep the story alive.

The officer waited outside while a detail of men temporarily restored

the gate.

In the street the fighting had almost ceased. Upon the houses here and

there clouds of dust told where the struggle was yet prolonged. The

cohort was, for the most part, standing at rest, its splendor, like its

ranks, in nowise diminished. Borne past the point of care for himself,

Judah had heart for nothing in view but the prisoners, among whom he

looked in vain for his mother and Tirzah.

Suddenly, from the earth where she had been lying, a woman arose and

started swiftly back to the gate. Some of the guards reached out to

seize her, and a great shout followed their failure. She ran to Judah,

and, dropping down, clasped his knees, the coarse black hair powdered

with dust veiling her eyes.

“O Amrah, good Amrah,” he said to her, “God help you; I cannot.”

She could not speak.

He bent down, and whispered, “Live, Amrah, for Tirzah and my mother.

They will come back, and—”

A soldier drew her away; whereupon she sprang up and rushed through the

gateway and passage into the vacant court-yard.

“Let her go,” the officer shouted. “We will seal the house, and she

will starve.”

The men resumed their work, and, when it was finished there, passed

round to the west side. That gate was also secured, after which the

palace of the Hurs was lost to use.

The cohort at length marched back to the Tower, where the procurator

stayed to recover from his hurts and dispose of his prisoners. On the

tenth day following, he visited the Market-place.

CHAPTER VII

Next day a detachment of legionaries went to the desolated palace, and,

closing the gates permanently, plastered the corners with wax, and at

the sides nailed a notice in Latin:

“THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF THE EMPEROR.”

In the haughty Roman idea, the sententious announcement was thought

sufficient for the purpose—and it was.

The day after that again, about noon, a decurion with his command of

ten horsemen approached Nazareth from the south—that is, from the

direction of Jerusalem. The place was then a straggling village,

perched on a hill-side, and so insignificant that its one street was

little more than a path well beaten by the coming and going of flocks

and herds. The great plain of Esdraelon crept close to it on the south,

and from the height on the west a view could be had of the shores of

the Mediterranean, the region beyond the Jordan, and Hermon. The valley

below, and the country on every side, were given to gardens, vineyards,

orchards, and pasturage. Groves of palm-trees Orientalized the

landscape. The houses, in irregular assemblage, were of the humbler

class—square, one-story, flat-roofed, and covered with bright-green

vines. The drought that had burned the hills of Judea to a crisp, brown

and lifeless, stopped at the boundary-line of Galilee.

A trumpet, sounded when the cavalcade drew near the village, had a

magical effect upon the inhabitants. The gates and front doors cast

forth groups eager to be the first to catch the meaning of a visitation

so unusual.

Nazareth, it must be remembered, was not only aside from any great

highway, but within the sway of Judas of Gamala; wherefore it should

not be hard to imagine the feelings with which the legionaries were

received. But when they were up and traversing the street, the duty

that occupied them became apparent, and then fear and hatred were lost

in curiosity, under the impulse of which the people, knowing there must

be a halt at the well in the northeastern part of the town, quit their

gates and doors, and closed in after the procession.

A prisoner whom the horsemen were guarding was the object of curiosity.

He was afoot, bareheaded, half naked, his hands bound behind him. A

thong fixed to his wrists was looped over the neck of a horse. The dust

went with the party when in movement, wrapping him in yellow fog,

sometimes in a dense cloud. He drooped forward, footsore and faint. The

villagers could see he was young.

At the well the decurion halted, and, with most of the men, dismounted.

The prisoner sank down in the dust of the road, stupefied, and asking

nothing: apparently he was in the last stage of exhaustion. Seeing,

when they came near, that he was but a boy, the villagers would have

helped him had they dared.

In the midst of their perplexity, and while the pitchers were passing

among the soldiers, a man was descried coming down the road from

Sepphoris. At sight of him a woman cried out, “Look! Yonder comes the

carpenter. Now we will hear something.”

The person spoken of was quite venerable in appearance. Thin white

locks fell below the edge of his full turban, and a mass of still

whiter beard flowed down the front of his coarse gray gown. He came

slowly, for, in addition to his age, he carried some tools—an axe, a

saw, and a drawing-knife, all very rude and heavy—and had evidently

travelled some distance without rest.

He stopped close by to survey the assemblage.

“O Rabbi, good Rabbi Joseph!” cried a woman, running to him. “Here is a

prisoner; come ask the soldiers about him, that we may know who he is,

and what he has done, and what they are going to do with him.”

The rabbi’s face remained stolid; he glanced at the prisoner, however,

and presently went to the officer.

“The peace of the Lord be with you!” he said, with unbending gravity.

“And that of the gods with you,” the decurion replied.

“Are you from Jerusalem?”

“Yes.”

“Your prisoner is young.”

“In years, yes.”

“May I ask what he has done?”

“He is an assassin.”

The people repeated the word in astonishment, but Rabbi Joseph pursued

his inquest.

“Is he a son of Israel?”

“He is a Jew,” said the Roman, dryly.

The wavering pity of the bystanders came back.

“I know nothing of your tribes, but can speak of his family,” the

speaker continued. “You may have heard of a prince of Jerusalem named

Hur—Ben-Hur, they called him. He lived in Herod’s day.”

“I have seen him,” Joseph said.

“Well, this is his son.”

Exclamations became general, and the decurion hastened to stop them.

“In the streets of Jerusalem, day before yesterday, he nearly killed

the noble Gratus by flinging a tile upon his head from the roof of a

palace—his father’s, I believe.”

There was a pause in the conversation during which the Nazarenes gazed

at the young Ben-Hur as at a wild beast.

“Did he kill him?” asked the rabbi.

“No.”

“He is under sentence.”

“Yes—the galleys for life.”

“The Lord help him!” said Joseph, for once moved out of his stolidity.

Thereupon a youth who came up with Joseph, but had stood behind him

unobserved, laid down an axe he had been carrying, and, going to the

great stone standing by the well, took from it a pitcher of water. The

action was so quiet that before the guard could interfere, had they

been disposed to do so, he was stooping over the prisoner, and offering

him drink.

The hand laid kindly upon his shoulder awoke the unfortunate Judah,

and, looking up, he saw a face he never forgot—the face of a boy about

his own age, shaded by locks of yellowish bright chestnut hair; a face

lighted by dark-blue eyes, at the time so soft, so appealing, so full

of love and holy purpose, that they had all the power of command and

will. The spirit of the Jew, hardened though it was by days and nights

of suffering, and so embittered by wrong that its dreams of revenge

took in all the world, melted under the stranger’s look, and became as

a child’s. He put his lips to the pitcher, and drank long and deep. Not

a word was said to him, nor did he say a word.

When the draught was finished, the hand that had been resting upon the

sufferer’s shoulder was placed upon his head, and stayed there in the

dusty locks time enough to say a blessing; the stranger then returned

the pitcher to its place on the stone, and, taking his axe again, went

back to Rabbi Joseph. All eyes went with him, the decurion’s as well as

those of the villagers.

This was the end of the scene at the well. When the men had drunk, and

the horses, the march was resumed. But the temper of the decurion was

not as it had been; he himself raised the prisoner from the dust, and

helped him on a horse behind a soldier. The Nazarenes went to their

houses—among them Rabbi Joseph and his apprentice.

And so, for the first time, Judah and the son of Mary met and parted.

BOOK THIRD

“Cleopatra.... Our size of sorrow,

Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great

As that which makes it.—

Enter, below, DIOMEDES.

How now? is he dead?

Diomedes. His death’s upon him, but not dead.”

Antony and Cleopatra (act iv., sc. xiii.).

CHAPTER I

The city of Misenum gave name to the promontory which it crowned, a few

miles southwest of Naples. An account of ruins is all that remains of

it now; yet in the year of our Lord 24—to which it is desirable to

advance the reader—the place was one of the most important on the

western coast of Italy.[1]

[1] The Roman government, it will be remembered, had two harbors in

which great fleets were constantly kept—Ravenna and Misenum.

In the year mentioned, a traveller coming to the promontory to regale

himself with the view there offered, would have mounted a wall, and,

with the city at his back, looked over the bay of Neapolis, as charming

then as now; and then, as now, he would have seen the matchless shore,

the smoking cone, the sky and waves so softly, deeply blue, Ischia here

and Capri yonder; from one to the other and back again, through the

purpled air, his gaze would have sported; at last—for the eyes do weary

of the beautiful as the palate with sweets—at last it would have

dropped upon a spectacle which the modern tourist cannot see—half the

reserve navy of Rome astir or at anchor below him. Thus regarded,

Misenum was a very proper place for three masters to meet, and at

leisure parcel the world among them.

In the old time, moreover, there was a gateway in the wall at a certain

point fronting the sea—an empty gateway forming the outlet of a street

which, after the exit, stretched itself, in the form of a broad mole,

out many stadia into the waves.

The watchman on the wall above the gateway was disturbed, one cool

September morning, by a party coming down the street in noisy

conversation. He gave one look, then settled into his drowse again.

There were twenty or thirty persons in the party, of whom the greater

number were slaves with torches, which flamed little and smoked much,

leaving on the air the perfume of the Indian nard. The masters walked

in advance arm-in-arm. One of them, apparently fifty years old,

slightly bald, and wearing over his scant locks a crown of laurel,

seemed, from the attentions paid him, the central object of some

affectionate ceremony. They all sported ample togas of white wool

broadly bordered with purple. A glance had sufficed the watchman. He

knew, without question, they were of high rank, and escorting a friend

to ship after a night of festivity. Further explanation will be found

in the conversation they carried on.

“No, my Quintus,” said one, speaking to him with the crown, “it is ill

of Fortune to take thee from us so soon. Only yesterday thou didst

return from the seas beyond the Pillars. Why, thou hast not even got

back thy land legs.”

“By Castor! if a man may swear a woman’s oath,” said another, somewhat

worse of wine, “let us not lament. Our Quintus is but going to find

what he lost last night. Dice on a rolling ship is not dice on

shore—eh, Quintus?”

“Abuse not Fortune!” exclaimed a third. “She is not blind or fickle. At

Antium, where our Arrius questions her, she answers him with nods, and

at sea she abides with him holding the rudder. She takes him from us,

but does she not always give him back with a new victory?”

“The Greeks are taking him away,” another broke in. “Let us abuse them,

not the gods. In learning to trade they forgot how to fight.”

With these words, the party passed the gateway, and came upon the mole,

with the bay before them beautiful in the morning light. To the veteran

sailor the plash of the waves was like a greeting. He drew a long

breath, as if the perfume of the water were sweeter than that of the

nard, and held his hand aloft.

“My gifts were at Praeneste, not Antium—and see! Wind from the west.

Thanks, O Fortune, my mother!” he said, earnestly.

The friends all repeated the exclamation, and the slaves waved their

torches.

“She comes—yonder!” he continued, pointing to a galley outside the

mole. “What need has a sailor for other mistress? Is your Lucrece more

graceful, my Caius?”

He gazed at the coming ship, and justified his pride. A white sail was

bent to the low mast, and the oars dipped, arose, poised a moment, then

dipped again, with wing-like action, and in perfect time.

“Yes, spare the gods,” he said, soberly, his eyes fixed upon the

vessel. “They send us opportunities. Ours the fault if we fail. And as

for the Greeks, you forget, O my Lentulus, the pirates I am going to

punish are Greeks. One victory over them is of more account than a

hundred over the Africans.”

“Then thy way is to the Aegean?”

The sailor’s eyes were full of his ship.

“What grace, what freedom! A bird hath not less care for the fretting

of the waves. See!” he said, but almost immediately added, “Thy pardon,

my Lentulus. I am going to the Aegean; and as my departure is so near,

I will tell the occasion—only keep it under the rose. I would not that

you abuse the duumvir when next you meet him. He is my friend. The

trade between Greece and Alexandria, as ye may have heard, is hardly

inferior to that between Alexandria and Rome. The people in that part

of the world forgot to celebrate the Cerealia, and Triptolemus paid

them with a harvest not worth the gathering. At all events, the trade

is so grown that it will not brook interruption a day. Ye may also have

heard of the Chersonesan pirates, nested up in the Euxine; none bolder,

by the Bacchae! Yesterday word came to Rome that, with a fleet, they

had rowed down the Bosphorus, sunk the galleys off Byzantium and

Chalcedon, swept the Propontis, and, still unsated, burst through into

the Aegean. The corn-merchants who have ships in the East Mediterranean

are frightened. They had audience with the Emperor himself, and from

Ravenna there go to-day a hundred galleys, and from Misenum”—he paused

as if to pique the curiosity of his friends, and ended with an

emphatic—“one.”

“Happy Quintus! We congratulate thee!”

“The preferment forerunneth promotion. We salute thee duumvir; nothing

less.”

“Quintus Arrius, the duumvir, hath a better sound than Quintus Arrius,

the tribune.”

In such manner they showered him with congratulations.

“I am glad with the rest,” said the bibulous friend, “very glad; but I

must be practical, O my duumvir; and not until I know if promotion will

help thee to knowledge of the tesserae will I have an opinion as to

whether the gods mean thee ill or good in this—this business.”

“Thanks, many thanks!” Arrius replied, speaking to them collectively.

“Had ye but lanterns, I would say ye were augurs. Perpol! I will go

further, and show what master diviners ye are! See—and read.”

From the folds of his toga he drew a roll of paper, and passed it to

them, saying, “Received while at table last night from—Sejanus.”

The name was already a great one in the Roman world; great, and not so

infamous as it afterwards became.

“Sejanus!” they exclaimed, with one voice, closing in to read what the

minister had written.

“Sejanus to C. Caecilius Rufus, Duumvir.

“ROME, XIX. Kal. Sept.

“Cæsar hath good report of Quintus Arrius, the tribune. In particular

he hath heard of his valor, manifested in the western seas, insomuch

that it is his will that the said Quintus be transferred instantly to

the East.

“It is our Cæsar’s will, further, that you cause a hundred triremes,

of the first class, and full appointment, to be despatched without

delay against the pirates who have appeared in the Aegean, and that

Quintus be sent to command the fleet so despatched.

“Details are thine, my Caecilius.

“The necessity is urgent, as thou will be advised by the reports

enclosed for thy perusal and the information of the said Quintus.

“SEJANUS.”

Arrius gave little heed to the reading. As the ship drew more plainly

out of the perspective, she became more and more an attraction to him.

The look with which he watched her was that of an enthusiast. At length

he tossed the loosened folds of his toga in the air; in reply to the

signal, over the aplustre, or fan-like fixture at the stern of the

vessel, a scarlet flag was displayed; while several sailors appeared

upon the bulwarks, and swung themselves hand over hand up the ropes to

the antenna, or yard, and furled the sail. The bow was put round, and

the time of the oars increased one half; so that at racing speed she

bore down directly towards him and his friends. He observed the

manoeuvring with a perceptible brightening of the eyes. Her instant

answer to the rudder, and the steadiness with which she kept her

course, were especially noticeable as virtues to be relied upon in

action.

“By the Nymphae!” said one of the friends, giving back the roll, “we

may not longer say our friend will be great; he is already great. Our

love will now have famous things to feed upon. What more hast thou for

us?”

“Nothing more,” Arrius replied. “What ye have of the affair is by this

time old news in Rome, especially between the palace and the Forum. The

duumvir is discreet; what I am to do, where go to find my fleet, he

will tell on the ship, where a sealed package is waiting me. If,

however, ye have offerings for any of the altars to-day, pray the gods

for a friend plying oar and sail somewhere in the direction of Sicily.

But she is here, and will come to,” he said, reverting to the vessel.

“I have interest in her masters; they will sail and fight with me. It

is not an easy thing to lay ship side on a shore like this; so let us

judge their training and skill.”

“What, is she new to thee?”

“I never saw her before; and, as yet, I know not if she will bring me

one acquaintance.”

“Is that well?”

“It matters but little. We of the sea come to know each other quickly;

our loves, like our hates, are born of sudden dangers.”

The vessel was of the class called naves liburnicae—long, narrow, low

in the water, and modelled for speed and quick manoeuvre. The bow was

beautiful. A jet of water spun from its foot as she came on, sprinkling

all the prow, which rose in graceful curvature twice a man’s stature

above the plane of the deck. Upon the bending of the sides were figures

of Triton blowing shells. Below the bow, fixed to the keel, and

projecting forward under the water-line, was the rostrum, or beak, a

device of solid wood, reinforced and armed with iron, in action used as

a ram. A stout molding extended from the bow the full length of the

ship’s sides, defining the bulwarks, which were tastefully crenelated;

below the molding, in three rows, each covered with a cap or shield of

bull-hide, were the holes in which the oars were worked—sixty on the

right, sixty on the left. In further ornamentation, caducei leaned

against the lofty prow. Two immense ropes passing across the bow marked

the number of anchors stowed on the foredeck.

The simplicity of the upper works declared the oars the chief

dependence of the crew. A mast, set a little forward of midship, was

held by fore and back stays and shrouds fixed to rings on the inner

side of the bulwarks. The tackle was that required for the management

of one great square sail and the yard to which it was hung. Above the

bulwarks the deck was visible.

Save the sailors who had reefed the sail, and yet lingered on the yard,

but one man was to be seen by the party on the mole, and he stood by

the prow helmeted and with a shield.

The hundred and twenty oaken blades, kept white and shining by pumice

and the constant wash of the waves, rose and fell as if operated by the

same hand, and drove the galley forward with a speed rivalling that of

a modern steamer.

So rapidly, and apparently, so rashly, did she come that the landsmen

of the tribune’s party were alarmed. Suddenly the man by the prow

raised his hand with a peculiar gesture; whereupon all the oars flew

up, poised a moment in air, then fell straight down. The water boiled

and bubbled about them; the galley shook in every timber, and stopped

as if scared. Another gesture of the hand, and again the oars arose,

feathered, and fell; but this time those on the right, dropping towards

the stern, pushed forward; while those on the left, dropping towards

the bow, pulled backwards. Three times the oars thus pushed and pulled

against each other. Round to the right the ship swung as upon a pivot;

then, caught by the wind, she settled gently broadside to the mole.

The movement brought the stern to view, with all its garniture—Tritons

like those at the bow; name in large raised letters; the rudder at the

side; the elevated platform upon which the helmsman sat, a stately

figure in full armor, his hand upon the rudder-rope; and the aplustre,

high, gilt, carved, and bent over the helmsman like a great runcinate

leaf.

In the midst of the rounding-to, a trumpet was blown brief and shrill,

and from the hatchways out poured the marines, all in superb equipment,

brazen helms, burnished shields and javelins. While the fighting-men

thus went to quarters as for action, the sailors proper climbed the

shrouds and perched themselves along the yard. The officers and

musicians took their posts. There was no shouting or needless noise.

When the oars touched the mole, a bridge was sent out from the

helmsman’s deck. Then the tribune turned to his party and said, with a

gravity he had not before shown:

“Duty now, O my friends.”

He took the chaplet from his head and gave it to the dice-player.

“Take thou the myrtle, O favorite of the tesserae!” he said. “If I

return, I will seek my sestertii again; if I am not victor, I will not

return. Hang the crown in thy atrium.”

To the company he opened his arms, and they came one by one and

received his parting embrace.

“The gods go with thee, O Quintus!” they said.

“Farewell,” he replied.

To the slaves waving their torches he waved his hand; then he turned to

the waiting ship, beautiful with ordered ranks and crested helms, and

shields and javelins. As he stepped upon the bridge, the trumpets

sounded, and over the aplustre rose the vexillum purpureum, or pennant

of a commander of a fleet.

CHAPTER II

The tribune, standing upon the helmsman’s deck with the order of the

duumvir open in his hand, spoke to the chief of the rowers.[1]

[1] Called hortator.

“What force hast thou?”

“Of oarsmen, two hundred and fifty-two; ten supernumeraries.

“Making reliefs of—”

“Eighty-four.”

“And thy habit?”

“It has been to take off and put on every two hours.”

The tribune mused a moment.

“The division is hard, and I will reform it, but not now. The oars may

not rest day or night.”

Then to the sailing-master he said,

“The wind is fair. Let the sail help the oars.”

When the two thus addressed were gone, he turned to the chief pilot.[2]

[2] Called rector.

“What service hast thou had?”

“Two-and-thirty years.”

“In what seas chiefly?”

“Between our Rome and the East.”

“Thou art the man I would have chosen.”

The tribune looked at his orders again.

“Past the Camponellan cape, the course will be to Messina. Beyond that,

follow the bend of the Calabrian shore till Melito is on thy left,

then— Knowest thou the stars that govern in the Ionian Sea?”

“I know them well.”

“Then from Melito course eastward for Cythera. The gods willing, I will

not anchor until in the Bay of Antemona. The duty is urgent. I rely

upon thee.”

A prudent man was Arrius—prudent, and of the class which, while

enriching the altars at Praeneste and Antium, was of opinion,

nevertheless, that the favor of the blind goddess depended more upon

the votary’s care and judgment than upon his gifts and vows. All night

as master of the feast he had sat at table drinking and playing; yet

the odor of the sea returned him to the mood of the sailor, and he

would not rest until he knew his ship. Knowledge leaves no room for

chances. Having begun with the chief of the rowers, the sailing-master,

and the pilot, in company with the other officers—the commander of the

marines, the keeper of the stores, the master of the machines, the

overseer of the kitchen or fires—he passed through the several

quarters. Nothing escaped his inspection. When he was through, of the

community crowded within the narrow walls he alone knew perfectly all

there was of material preparation for the voyage and its possible

incidents; and, finding the preparation complete, there was left him

but one thing further—thorough knowledge of the personnel of his

command. As this was the most delicate and difficult part of his task,

requiring much time, he set about it his own way.

At noon that day the galley was skimming the sea off Paestum. The wind

was yet from the west, filling the sail to the master’s content. The

watches had been established. On the foredeck the altar had been set

and sprinkled with salt and barley, and before it the tribune had

offered solemn prayers to Jove and to Neptune and all the Oceanidæ,

and, with vows, poured the wine and burned the incense. And now, the

better to study his men, he was seated in the great cabin, a very

martial figure.

The cabin, it should be stated, was the central compartment of the

galley, in extent quite sixty-five by thirty feet, and lighted by three

broad hatchways. A row of stanchions ran from end to end, supporting

the roof, and near the centre the mast was visible, all bristling with

axes and spears and javelins. To each hatchway there were double stairs

descending right and left, with a pivotal arrangement at the top to

allow the lower ends to be hitched to the ceiling; and, as these were

now raised, the compartment had the appearance of a skylighted hall.

The reader will understand readily that this was the heart of the ship,

the home of all aboard—eating-room, sleeping-chamber, field of

exercise, lounging-place off duty—uses made possible by the laws which

reduced life there to minute details and a routine relentless as death.

At the after-end of the cabin there was a platform, reached by several

steps. Upon it the chief of the rowers sat; in front of him a

sounding-table, upon which, with a gavel, he beat time for the oarsmen;

at his right a clepsydra, or water-clock, to measure the reliefs and

watches. Above him, on a higher platform, well guarded by gilded

railing, the tribune had his quarters, overlooking everything, and

furnished with a couch, a table, and a cathedra, or chair, cushioned,

and with arms and high back—articles which the imperial dispensation

permitted of the utmost elegance.

Thus at ease, lounging in the great chair, swaying with the motion of

the vessel, the military cloak half draping his tunic, sword in belt,

Arrius kept watchful eye over his command, and was as closely watched

by them. He saw critically everything in view, but dwelt longest upon

the rowers. The reader would doubtless have done the same: only he

would have looked with much sympathy, while, as is the habit with

masters, the tribune’s mind ran forward of what he saw, inquiring for

results.

The spectacle was simple enough of itself. Along the sides of the

cabin, fixed to the ship’s timbers, were what at first appeared to be

three rows of benches; a closer view, however, showed them a succession

of rising banks, in each of which the second bench was behind and above

the first one, and the third above and behind the second. To

accommodate the sixty rowers on a side, the space devoted to them

permitted nineteen banks separated by intervals of one yard, with a

twentieth bank divided so that what would have been its upper seat or

bench was directly above the lower seat of the first bank. The

arrangement gave each rower when at work ample room, if he timed his

movements with those of his associates, the principle being that of

soldiers marching with cadenced step in close order. The arrangement

also allowed a multiplication of banks, limited only by the length of

the galley.

As to the rowers, those upon the first and second benches sat, while

those upon the third, having longer oars to work, were suffered to

stand. The oars were loaded with lead in the handles, and near the

point of balance hung to pliable thongs, making possible the delicate

touch called feathering, but, at the same time, increasing the need of

skill, since an eccentric wave might at any moment catch a heedless

fellow and hurl him from his seat. Each oar-hole was a vent through

which the laborer opposite it had his plenty of sweet air. Light

streamed down upon him from the grating which formed the floor of the

passage between the deck and the bulwark over his head. In some

respects, therefore, the condition of the men might have been much

worse. Still, it must not be imagined that there was any pleasantness

in their lives. Communication between them was not allowed. Day after

day they filled their places without speech; in hours of labor they

could not see each other’s faces; their short respites were given to

sleep and the snatching of food. They never laughed; no one ever heard

one of them sing. What is the use of tongues when a sigh or a groan

will tell all men feel while, perforce, they think in silence?

Existence with the poor wretches was like a stream under ground

sweeping slowly, laboriously on to its outlet, wherever that might

chance to be.

O Son of Mary! The sword has now a heart—and thine the glory! So now;

but, in the days of which we are writing, for captivity there was

drudgery on walls, and in the streets and mines, and the galleys both

of war and commerce were insatiable. When Druilius won the first

sea-fight for his country, Romans plied the oars, and the glory was to

the rower not less than the marine. These benches which now we are

trying to see as they were testified to the change come with conquest,

and illustrated both the policy and the prowess of Rome. Nearly all the

nations had sons there, mostly prisoners of war, chosen for their brawn

and endurance. In one place a Briton; before him a Libyan; behind him a

Crimean. Elsewhere a Scythian, a Gaul, and a Thebasite. Roman convicts

cast down to consort with Goths and Longobardi, Jews, Ethiopians, and

barbarians from the shores of Maeotis. Here an Athenian, there a

red-haired savage from Hibernia, yonder blue-eyed giants of the Cimbri.

In the labor of the rowers there was not enough art to give occupation

to their minds, rude and simple as they were. The reach forward, the

pull, the feathering the blade, the dip, were all there was of it;

motions most perfect when most automatic. Even the care forced upon

them by the sea outside grew in time to be a thing instinctive rather

than of thought. So, as the result of long service, the poor wretches

became imbruted—patient, spiritless, obedient—creatures of vast muscle

and exhausted intellects, who lived upon recollections generally few

but dear, and at last lowered into the semi-conscious alchemic state

wherein misery turns to habit, and the soul takes on incredible

endurance.

From right to left, hour after hour, the tribune, swaying in his

easy-chair, turned with thought of everything rather than the

wretchedness of the slaves upon the benches. Their motions, precise,

and exactly the same on both sides of the vessel, after a while became

monotonous; and then he amused himself singling out individuals. With

his stylus he made note of objections, thinking, if all went well, he

would find among the pirates of whom he was in search better men for

the places.

There was no need of keeping the proper names of the slaves brought to

the galleys as to their graves; so, for convenience, they were usually

identified by the numerals painted upon the benches to which they were

assigned. As the sharp eyes of the great man moved from seat to seat on

either hand, they came at last to number sixty, which, as has been

said, belonged properly to the last bank on the left-hand side, but,

wanting room aft, had been fixed above the first bench of the first

bank. There they rested.

The bench of number sixty was slightly above the level of the platform,

and but a few feet away. The light glinting through the grating over

his head gave the rower fairly to the tribune’s view—erect, and, like

all his fellows, naked, except a cincture about the loins. There were,

however, some points in his favor. He was very young, not more than

twenty. Furthermore, Arrius was not merely given to dice; he was a

connoisseur of men physically, and when ashore indulged a habit of

visiting the gymnasia to see and admire the most famous athletae. From

some professor, doubtless, he had caught the idea that strength was as

much of the quality as the quantity of the muscle, while superiority in

performance required a certain mind as well as strength. Having adopted

the doctrine, like most men with a hobby, he was always looking for

illustrations to support it.

The reader may well believe that while the tribune, in the search for

the perfect, was often called upon to stop and study, he was seldom

perfectly satisfied—in fact, very seldom held as long as on this

occasion.

In the beginning of each movement of the oar, the rower’s body and face

were brought into profile view from the platform; the movement ended

with the body reversed, and in a pushing posture. The grace and ease of

the action at first suggested a doubt of the honesty of the effort put

forth; but it was speedily dismissed; the firmness with which the oar

was held while in the reach forward, its bending under the push, were

proofs of the force applied; not that only, they as certainly proved

the rower’s art, and put the critic in the great arm-chair in search of

the combination of strength and cleverness which was the central idea

of his theory.

In course of the study, Arrius observed the subject’s youth; wholly

unconscious of tenderness on that account, he also observed that he

seemed of good height, and that his limbs, upper and nether, were

singularly perfect. The arms, perhaps, were too long, but the objection

was well hidden under a mass of muscle, which, in some movements,

swelled and knotted like kinking cords. Every rib in the round body was

discernible; yet the leanness was the healthful reduction so strained

after in the palaestrae. And altogether there was in the rower’s action

a certain harmony which, besides addressing itself to the tribune’s

theory, stimulated both his curiosity and general interest.

Very soon he found himself waiting to catch a view of the man’s face in

full. The head was shapely, and balanced upon a neck broad at the base,

but of exceeding pliancy and grace. The features in profile were of

Oriental outline, and of that delicacy of expression which has always

been thought a sign of blood and sensitive spirit. With these

observations, the tribune’s interest in the subject deepened.

“By the gods,” he said to himself, “the fellow impresses me! He

promises well. I will know more of him.”

Directly the tribune caught the view he wished—the rower turned and

looked at him.

“A Jew! and a boy!”

Under the gaze then fixed steadily upon him, the large eyes of the

slave grew larger—the blood surged to his very brows—the blade lingered

in his hands. But instantly, with an angry crash, down fell the gavel

of the hortator. The rower started, withdrew his face from the

inquisitor, and, as if personally chidden, dropped the oar half

feathered. When he glanced again at the tribune, he was vastly more

astonished—he was met with a kindly smile.

Meantime the galley entered the Straits of Messina, and, skimming past

the city of that name, was after a while turned eastward, leaving the

cloud over Ætna in the sky astern.

Often as Arrius resumed to his platform in the cabin he returned to

study the rower, and he kept saying to himself, “The fellow hath a

spirit. A Jew is not a barbarian. I will know more of him.”

CHAPTER III

The fourth day out, and the Astroea—so the galley was named—speeding

through the Ionian Sea. The sky was clear, and the wind blew as if

bearing the good-will of all the gods.

As it was possible to overtake the fleet before reaching the bay east

of the island of Cythera, designated for assemblage, Arrius, somewhat

impatient, spent much time on deck. He took note diligently of matters

pertaining to his ship, and as a rule was well pleased. In the cabin,

swinging in the great chair, his thought continually reverted to the

rower on number sixty.

“Knowest thou the man just come from yon bench?” he at length asked of

the hortator.

A relief was going on at the moment.

“From number sixty?” returned the chief.

“Yes.”

The chief looked sharply at the rower then going forward.

“As thou knowest,” he replied “the ship is but a month from the maker’s

hand, and the men are as new to me as the ship.”

“He is a Jew,” Arrius remarked, thoughtfully.

“The noble Quintus is shrewd.”

“He is very young,” Arrius continued.

“But our best rower,” said the other. “I have seen his oar bend almost

to breaking.”

“Of what disposition is he?”

“He is obedient; further I know not. Once he made request of me.”

“For what?”

“He wished me to change him alternately from the right to the left.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He had observed that the men who are confined to one side become

misshapen. He also said that some day of storm or battle there might be

sudden need to change him, and he might then be unserviceable.”

“Perpol! The idea is new. What else hast thou observed of him?”

“He is cleanly above his companions.”

“In that he is Roman,” said Arrius, approvingly. “Have you nothing of

his history?”

“Not a word.”

The tribune reflected awhile, and turned to go to his own seat.

“If I should be on deck when his time is up,” he paused to say, “send

him to me. Let him come alone.”

About two hours later Arrius stood under the aplustre of the galley; in

the mood of one who, seeing himself carried swiftly towards an event of

mighty import, has nothing to do but wait—the mood in which philosophy

vests an even-minded man with the utmost calm, and is ever so

serviceable. The pilot sat with a hand upon the rope by which the

rudder paddles, one on each side of the vessel, were managed. In the

shade of the sail some sailors lay asleep, and up on the yard there was

a lookout. Lifting his eyes from the solarium set under the aplustre

for reference in keeping the course, Arrius beheld the rower

approaching.

“The chief called thee the noble Arrius, and said it was thy will that

I should seek thee here. I have come.”

Arrius surveyed the figure, tall, sinewy, glistening in the sun, and

tinted by the rich red blood within—surveyed it admiringly, and with a

thought of the arena; yet the manner was not without effect upon him:

there was in the voice a suggestion of life at least partly spent under

refining influences; the eyes were clear and open, and more curious

than defiant. To the shrewd, demanding, masterful glance bent upon it,

the face gave back nothing to mar its youthful comeliness—nothing of

accusation or sullenness or menace, only the signs which a great sorrow

long borne imprints, as time mellows the surface of pictures. In tacit

acknowledgment of the effect, the Roman spoke as an older man to a

younger, not as a master to a slave.

“The hortator tells me thou art his best rower.”

“The hortator is very kind,” the rower answered.

“Hast thou seen much service?”

“About three years.”

“At the oars?”

“I cannot recall a day of rest from them.”

“The labor is hard; few men bear it a year without breaking, and

thou—thou art but a boy.”

“The noble Arrius forgets that the spirit hath much to do with

endurance. By its help the weak sometimes thrive, when the strong

perish.”

“From thy speech, thou art a Jew.”

“My ancestors further back than the first Roman were Hebrews.”

“The stubborn pride of thy race is not lost in thee,” said Arrius,

observing a flush upon the rower’s face.

“Pride is never so loud as when in chains.”

“What cause hast thou for pride?”

“That I am a Jew.”

Arrius smiled.

“I have not been to Jerusalem,” he said; “but I have heard of its

princes. I knew one of them. He was a merchant, and sailed the seas. He

was fit to have been a king. Of what degree art thou?”

“I must answer thee from the bench of a galley. I am of the degree of

slaves. My father was a prince of Jerusalem, and, as a merchant, he

sailed the seas. He was known and honored in the guest-chamber of the

great Augustus.”

“His name?”

“Ithamar, of the house of Hur.”

The tribune raised his hand in astonishment.

“A son of Hur—thou?”

After a silence, he asked,

“What brought thee here?”

Judah lowered his head, and his breast labored hard. When his feelings

were sufficiently mastered, he looked the tribune in the face, and

answered,

“I was accused of attempting to assassinate Valerius Gratus, the

procurator.”

“Thou!” cried Arrius, yet more amazed, and retreating a step. “Thou

that assassin! All Rome rang with the story. It came to my ship in the

river by Lodinum.”

The two regarded each other silently.

“I thought the family of Hur blotted from the earth,” said Arrius,

speaking first.

A flood of tender recollections carried the young man’s pride away;

tears shone upon his cheeks.

“Mother—mother! And my little Tirzah! Where are they? O tribune, noble

tribune, if thou knowest anything of them”—he clasped his hands in

appeal—“tell me all thou knowest. Tell me if they are living—if living,

where are they? and in what condition? Oh, I pray thee, tell me!”

He drew nearer Arrius, so near that his hands touched the cloak where

it dropped from the latter’s folded arms.

“The horrible day is three years gone,” he continued—“three years, O

tribune, and every hour a whole lifetime of misery—a lifetime in a

bottomless pit with death, and no relief but in labor—and in all that

time not a word from any one, not a whisper. Oh, if, in being

forgotten, we could only forget! If only I could hide from that

scene—my sister torn from me, my mother’s last look! I have felt the

plague’s breath, and the shock of ships in battle; I have heard the

tempest lashing the sea, and laughed, though others prayed: death would

have been a riddance. Bend the oar—yes, in the strain of mighty effort

trying to escape the haunting of what that day occurred. Think what

little will help me. Tell me they are dead, if no more, for happy they

cannot be while I am lost. I have heard them call me in the night; I

have seen them on the water walking. Oh, never anything so true as my

mother’s love! And Tirzah—her breath was as the breath of white lilies.

She was the youngest branch of the palm—so fresh, so tender, so

graceful, so beautiful! She made my day all morning. She came and went

in music. And mine was the hand that laid them low! I—”

“Dost thou admit thy guilt?” asked Arrius, sternly.

The change that came upon Ben-Hur was wonderful to see, it was so

instant and extreme. The voice sharpened; the hands arose

tight-clenched; every fibre thrilled; his eyes inflamed.

“Thou hast heard of the God of my fathers,” he said; “of the infinite

Jehovah. By his truth and almightiness, and by the love with which he

hath followed Israel from the beginning, I swear I am innocent!”

The tribune was much moved.

“O noble Roman!” continued Ben-Hur, “give me a little faith, and, into

my darkness, deeper darkening every day, send a light!”

Arrius turned away, and walked the deck.

“Didst thou not have a trial?” he asked, stopping suddenly.

“No!”

The Roman raised his head, surprised.

“No trial—no witnesses! Who passed judgment upon thee?”

Romans, it should be remembered, were at no time such lovers of the law

and its forms as in the ages of their decay.

“They bound me with cords, and dragged me to a vault in the Tower. I

saw no one. No one spoke to me. Next day soldiers took me to the

seaside. I have been a galley-slave ever since.”

“What couldst thou have proven?”

“I was a boy, too young to be a conspirator. Gratus was a stranger to

me. If I had meant to kill him, that was not the time or the place. He

was riding in the midst of a legion, and it was broad day. I could not

have escaped. I was of a class most friendly to Rome. My father had

been distinguished for his services to the emperor. We had a great

estate to lose. Ruin was certain to myself, my mother, my sister. I had

no cause for malice, while every consideration—property, family, life,

conscience, the Law—to a son of Israel as the breath of his

nostrils—would have stayed my hand, though the foul intent had been

ever so strong. I was not mad. Death was preferable to shame; and,

believe me, I pray, it is so yet.”

“Who was with thee when the blow was struck?”

“I was on the house-top—my father’s house. Tirzah was with me—at my

side—the soul of gentleness. Together we leaned over the parapet to see

the legion pass. A tile gave way under my hand, and fell upon Gratus. I

thought I had killed him. Ah, what horror I felt!”

“Where was thy mother?”

“In her chamber below.”

“What became of her?”

Ben-Hur clenched his hands, and drew a breath like a gasp.

“I do not know. I saw them drag her away—that is all I know. Out of the

house they drove every living thing, even the dumb cattle, and they

sealed the gates. The purpose was that she should not return. I, too,

ask for her. Oh for one word! She, at least, was innocent. I can

forgive—but I pray thy pardon, noble tribune! A slave like me should

not talk of forgiveness or of revenge. I am bound to an oar for life.”

Arrius listened intently. He brought all his experience with slaves to

his aid. If the feeling shown in this instance were assumed, the acting

was perfect; on the other hand, if it were real, the Jew’s innocence

might not be doubted; and if he were innocent, with what blind fury the

power had been exercised! A whole family blotted out to atone an

accident! The thought shocked him.

There is no wiser providence than that our occupations, however rude or

bloody, cannot wear us out morally; that such qualities as justice and

mercy, if they really possess us, continue to live on under them, like

flowers under the snow. The tribune could be inexorable, else he had

not been fit for the usages of his calling; he could also be just; and

to excite his sense of wrong was to put him in the way to right the

wrong. The crews of the ships in which he served came after a time to

speak of him as the good tribune. Shrewd readers will not want a better

definition of his character.

In this instance there were many circumstances certainly in the young

man’s favor, and some to be supposed. Possibly Arrius knew Valerius

Gratus without loving him. Possibly he had known the elder Hur. In the

course of his appeal, Judah had asked him of that; and, as will be

noticed, he had made no reply.

For once the tribune was at loss, and hesitated. His power was ample.

He was monarch of the ship. His prepossessions all moved him to mercy.

His faith was won. Yet, he said to himself, there was no haste—or,

rather, there was haste to Cythera; the best rower could not then be

spared; he would wait; he would learn more; he would at least be sure

this was the prince Ben-Hur, and that he was of a right disposition.

Ordinarily, slaves were liars.

“It is enough,” he said aloud. “Go back to thy place.”

Ben-Hur bowed; looked once more into the master’s face, but saw nothing

for hope. He turned away slowly, looked back, and said,

“If thou dost think of me again, O tribune, let it not be lost in thy

mind that I prayed thee only for word of my people—mother, sister.”

He moved on.

Arrius followed him with admiring eyes.

“Perpol!” he thought. “With teaching, what a man for the arena! What a

runner! Ye gods! what an arm for the sword or the cestus!—Stay!” he

said aloud.

Ben-Hur stopped, and the tribune went to him.

“If thou wert free, what wouldst thou do?”

“The noble Arrius mocks me!” Judah said, with trembling lips.

“No; by the gods, no!”

“Then I will answer gladly. I would give myself to duty the first of

life. I would know no other. I would know no rest until my mother and

Tirzah were restored to home. I would give every day and hour to their

happiness. I would wait upon them; never a slave more faithful. They

have lost much, but, by the God of my fathers, I would find them more!”

The answer was unexpected by the Roman. For a moment he lost his

purpose.

“I spoke to thy ambition,” he said, recovering. “If thy mother and

sister were dead, or not to be found, what wouldst thou do?”

A distinct pallor overspread Ben-Hur’s face, and he looked over the

sea. There was a struggle with some strong feeling; when it was

conquered, he turned to the tribune.

“What pursuit would I follow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Tribune, I will tell thee truly. Only the night before the dreadful

day of which I have spoken, I obtained permission to be a soldier. I am

of the same mind yet; and, as in all the earth there is but one school

of war, thither I would go.”

“The palaestra!” exclaimed Arrius.

“No; a Roman camp.”

“But thou must first acquaint thyself with the use of arms.”

Now a master may never safely advise a slave. Arrius saw his

indiscretion, and, in a breath, chilled his voice and manner.

“Go now,” he said, “and do not build upon what has passed between us.

Perhaps I do but play with thee. Or”—he looked away musingly—“or, if

thou dost think of it with any hope, choose between the renown of a

gladiator and the service of a soldier. The former may come of the

favor of the emperor; there is no reward for thee in the latter. Thou

art not a Roman. Go!”

A short while after Ben-Hur was upon his bench again.

A man’s task is always light if his heart is light. Handling the oar

did not seem so toilsome to Judah. A hope had come to him, like a

singing bird. He could hardly see the visitor or hear its song; that it

was there, though, he knew; his feelings told him so. The caution of

the tribune—“Perhaps I do but play with thee”—was dismissed often as it

recurred to his mind. That he had been called by the great man and

asked his story was the bread upon which he fed his hungry spirit.

Surely something good would come of it. The light about his bench was

clear and bright with promises, and he prayed.

“O God! I am a true son of the Israel thou hast so loved! Help me, I

pray thee!”

CHAPTER IV

In the Bay of Antemona, east of Cythera the island, the hundred galleys

assembled. There the tribune gave one day to inspection. He sailed then

to Naxos, the largest of the Cyclades, midway the coasts of Greece and

Asia, like a great stone planted in the centre of a highway, from which

he could challenge everything that passed; at the same time, he would

be in position to go after the pirates instantly, whether they were in

the Ægean or out on the Mediterranean.

As the fleet, in order, rowed in towards the mountain shores of the

island, a galley was descried coming from the north. Arrius went to

meet it. She proved to be a transport just from Byzantium, and from her

commander he learned the particulars of which he stood in most need.

The pirates were from all the farther shores of the Euxine. Even

Tanais, at the mouth of the river which was supposed to feed Palus

Maeotis, was represented among them. Their preparations had been with

the greatest secrecy. The first known of them was their appearance off

the entrance to the Thracian Bosphorus, followed by the destruction of

the fleet in station there. Thence to the outlet of the Hellespont

everything afloat had fallen their prey. There were quite sixty galleys

in the squadron, all well manned and supplied. A few were biremes, the

rest stout triremes. A Greek was in command, and the pilots, said to be

familiar with all the Eastern seas, were Greek. The plunder had been

incalculable. The panic, consequently, was not on the sea alone;

cities, with closed gates, sent their people nightly to the walls.

Traffic had almost ceased.

Where were the pirates now?

To this question, of most interest to Arrius, he received answer.

After sacking Hephaestia, on the island of Lemnos, the enemy had

coursed across to the Thessalian group, and, by last account,

disappeared in the gulfs between Euboea and Hellas.

Such were the tidings.

Then the people of the island, drawn to the hill-tops by the rare

spectacle of a hundred ships careering in united squadron, beheld the

advance division suddenly turn to the north, and the others follow,

wheeling upon the same point like cavalry in a column. News of the

piratical descent had reached them, and now, watching the white sails

until they faded from sight up between Rhene and Syros, the thoughtful

among them took comfort, and were grateful. What Rome seized with

strong hand she always defended: in return for their taxes, she gave

them safety.

The tribune was more than pleased with the enemy’s movements; he was

doubly thankful to Fortune. She had brought swift and sure

intelligence, and had lured his foes into the waters where, of all

others, destruction was most assured. He knew the havoc one galley

could play in a broad sea like the Mediterranean, and the difficulty of

finding and overhauling her; he knew, also, how those very

circumstances would enhance the service and glory if, at one blow, he

could put a finish to the whole piratical array.

If the reader will take a map of Greece and the Ægean, he will notice

the island of Euboea lying along the classic coast like a rampart

against Asia, leaving a channel between it and the continent quite a

hundred and twenty miles in length, and scarcely an average of eight in

width. The inlet on the north had admitted the fleet of Xerxes, and now

it received the bold raiders from the Euxine. The towns along the

Pelasgic and Meliac gulfs were rich and their plunder seductive. All

things considered, therefore, Arrius judged that the robbers might be

found somewhere below Thermopylae. Welcoming the chance, he resolved to

enclose them north and south, to do which not an hour could be lost;

even the fruits and wines and women of Naxos must be left behind. So he

sailed away without stop or tack until, a little before nightfall,

Mount Ocha was seen upreared against the sky, and the pilot reported

the Euboean coast.

At a signal the fleet rested upon its oars. When the movement was

resumed, Arrius led a division of fifty of the galleys, intending to

take them up the channel, while another division, equally strong,

turned their prows to the outer or seaward side of the island, with

orders to make all haste to the upper inlet, and descend sweeping the

waters.

To be sure, neither division was equal in number to the pirates; but

each had advantages in compensation, among them, by no means least, a

discipline impossible to a lawless horde, however brave. Besides, it

was a shrewd count on the tribune’s side, if, peradventure, one should

be defeated, the other would find the enemy shattered by his victory,

and in condition to be easily overwhelmed.

Meantime Ben-Hur kept his bench, relieved every six hours. The rest in

the Bay of Antemona had freshened him, so that the oar was not

troublesome, and the chief on the platform found no fault.

People, generally, are not aware of the ease of mind there is in

knowing where they are, and where they are going. The sensation of

being lost is a keen distress; still worse is the feeling one has in

driving blindly into unknown places. Custom had dulled the feeling with

Ben-Hur, but only measurably. Pulling away hour after hour, sometimes

days and nights together, sensible all the time that the galley was

gliding swiftly along some of the many tracks of the broad sea, the

longing to know where he was, and whither going, was always present

with him; but now it seemed quickened by the hope which had come to new

life in his breast since the interview with the tribune. The narrower

the abiding-place happens to be, the more intense is the longing; and

so he found. He seemed to hear every sound of the ship in labor, and

listened to each one as if it were a voice come to tell him something;

he looked to the grating overhead, and through it into the light of

which so small a portion was his, expecting, he knew not what; and many

times he caught himself on the point of yielding to the impulse to

speak to the chief on the platform, than which no circumstance of

battle would have astonished that dignitary more.

In his long service, by watching the shifting of the meager sunbeams

upon the cabin floor when the ship was under way, he had come to know,

generally, the quarter into which she was sailing. This, of course, was

only of clear days like those good-fortune was sending the tribune. The

experience had not failed him in the period succeeding the departure

from Cythera. Thinking they were tending towards the old Judean

country, he was sensitive to every variation from the course. With a

pang, he had observed the sudden change northward which, as has been

noticed, took place near Naxos: the cause, however, he could not even

conjecture; for it must be remembered that, in common with his

fellow-slaves, he knew nothing of the situation, and had no interest in

the voyage. His place was at the oar, and he was held there inexorably,

whether at anchor or under sail. Once only in three years had he been

permitted an outlook from the deck. The occasion we have seen. He had

no idea that, following the vessel he was helping drive, there was a

great squadron close at hand and in beautiful order; no more did he

know the object of which it was in pursuit.

When the sun, going down, withdrew his last ray from the cabin, the

galley still held northward. Night fell, yet Ben-Hur could discern no

change. About that time the smell of incense floated down the gangways

from the deck.

“The tribune is at the altar,” he thought. “Can it be we are going into

battle?”

He became observant.

Now he had been in many battles without having seen one. From his bench

he had heard them above and about him, until he was familiar with all

their notes, almost as a singer with a song. So, too, he had become

acquainted with many of the preliminaries of an engagement, of which,

with a Roman as well as a Greek, the most invariable was the sacrifice

to the gods. The rites were the same as those performed at the

beginning of a voyage, and to him, when noticed, they were always an

admonition.

A battle, it should be observed, possessed for him and his

fellow-slaves of the oar an interest unlike that of the sailor and

marine; it came, not of the danger encountered but of the fact that

defeat, if survived, might bring an alteration of condition—possibly

freedom—at least a change of masters, which might be for the better.

In good time the lanterns were lighted and hung by the stairs, and the

tribune came down from the deck. At his word the marines put on their

armor. At his word again, the machines were looked to, and spears,

javelins, and arrows, in great sheaves, brought and laid upon the

floor, together with jars of inflammable oil, and baskets of cotton

balls wound loose like the wicking of candles. And when, finally,

Ben-Hur saw the tribune mount his platform and don his armor, and get

his helmet and shield out, the meaning of the preparations might not be

any longer doubted, and he made ready for the last ignominy of his

service.

To every bench, as a fixture, there was a chain with heavy anklets.

These the hortator proceeded to lock upon the oarsmen, going from

number to number, leaving no choice but to obey, and, in event of

disaster, no possibility of escape.

In the cabin, then, a silence fell, broken, at first, only by the sough

of the oars turning in the leathern cases. Every man upon the benches

felt the shame, Ben-Hur more keenly than his companions. He would have

put it away at any price. Soon the clanking of the fetters notified him

of the progress the chief was making in his round. He would come to him

in turn; but would not the tribune interpose for him?

The thought may be set down to vanity or selfishness, as the reader

pleases; it certainly, at that moment, took possession of Ben-Hur. He

believed the Roman would interpose; anyhow, the circumstance would test

the man’s feelings. If, intent upon the battle, he would but think of

him, it would be proof of his opinion formed—proof that he had been

tacitly promoted above his associates in misery—such proof as would

justify hope.

Ben-Hur waited anxiously. The interval seemed like an age. At every

turn of the oar he looked towards the tribune, who, his simple

preparations made, lay down upon the couch and composed himself to

rest; whereupon number sixty chid himself, and laughed grimly, and

resolved not to look that way again.

The hortator approached. Now he was at number one—the rattle of the

iron links sounded horribly. At last number sixty! Calm from despair,

Ben-Hur held his oar at poise, and gave his foot to the officer. Then

the tribune stirred—sat up—beckoned to the chief.

A strong revulsion seized the Jew. From the hortator, the great man

glanced at him; and when he dropped his oar all the section of the ship

on his side seemed aglow. He heard nothing of what was said; enough

that the chain hung idly from its staple in the bench, and that the

chief, going to his seat, began to beat the sounding-board. The notes

of the gavel were never so like music. With his breast against the

leaded handle, he pushed with all his might—pushed until the shaft bent

as if about to break.

The chief went to the tribune, and, smiling, pointed to number sixty.

“What strength!” he said.

“And what spirit!” the tribune answered. “Perpol! He is better without

the irons. Put them on him no more.”

So saying, he stretched himself upon the couch again.

The ship sailed on hour after hour under the oars in water scarcely

rippled by the wind. And the people not on duty slept, Arrius in his

place, the marines on the floor.

Once—twice—Ben-Hur was relieved; but he could not sleep. Three years of

night, and through the darkness a sunbeam at last! At sea adrift and

lost, and now land! Dead so long, and, lo! the thrill and stir of

resurrection. Sleep was not for such an hour. Hope deals with the

future; now and the past are but servants that wait on her with impulse

and suggestive circumstance. Starting from the favor of the tribune,

she carried him forward indefinitely. The wonder is, not that things so

purely imaginative as the results she points us to can make us so

happy, but that we can receive them as so real. They must be as

gorgeous poppies under the influence of which, under the crimson and

purple and gold, reason lies down the while, and is not. Sorrows

assuaged, home and the fortunes of his house restored; mother and

sister in his arms once more—such were the central ideas which made him

happier that moment than he had ever been. That he was rushing, as on

wings, into horrible battle had, for the time, nothing to do with his

thoughts. The things thus in hope were unmixed with doubts—they WERE.

Hence his joy so full, so perfect, there was no room in his heart for

revenge. Messala, Gratus, Rome, and all the bitter, passionate memories

connected with them, were as dead plagues—miasms of the earth above

which he floated, far and safe, listening to singing stars.

The deeper darkness before the dawn was upon the waters, and all things

going well with the Astroea, when a man, descending from the deck,

walked swiftly to the platform where the tribune slept, and awoke him.

Arrius arose, put on his helmet, sword, and shield, and went to the

commander of the marines.

“The pirates are close by. Up and ready!” he said, and passed to the

stairs, calm, confident, insomuch that one might have thought, “Happy

fellow! Apicius has set a feast for him.”

CHAPTER V

Every soul aboard, even the ship, awoke. Officers went to their

quarters. The marines took arms, and were led out, looking in all

respects like legionaries. Sheaves of arrows and armfuls of javelins

were carried on deck. By the central stairs the oil-tanks and

fire-balls were set ready for use. Additional lanterns were lighted.

Buckets were filled with water. The rowers in relief assembled under

guard in front of the chief. As Providence would have it, Ben-Hur was

one of the latter. Overhead he heard the muffled noises of the final

preparations—of the sailors furling sail, spreading the nettings,

unslinging the machines, and hanging the armor of bull-hide over the

side. Presently quiet settled about the galley again; quiet full of

vague dread and expectation, which, interpreted, means READY.

At a signal passed down from the deck, and communicated to the hortator

by a petty officer stationed on the stairs, all at once the oars

stopped.

What did it mean?

Of the hundred and twenty slaves chained to the benches, not one but

asked himself the question. They were without incentive. Patriotism,

love of honor, sense of duty, brought them no inspiration. They felt

the thrill common to men rushed helpless and blind into danger. It may

be supposed the dullest of them, poising his oar, thought of all that

might happen, yet could promise himself nothing; for victory would but

rivet his chains the firmer, while the chances of the ship were his;

sinking or on fire, he was doomed to her fate.

Of the situation without they might not ask. And who were the enemy?

And what if they were friends, brethren, countrymen? The reader,

carrying the suggestion forward, will see the necessity which governed

the Roman when, in such emergencies, he locked the hapless wretches to

their seats.

There was little time, however, for such thought with them. A sound

like the rowing of galleys astern attracted Ben-Hur, and the Astroea

rocked as if in the midst of countering waves. The idea of a fleet at

hand broke upon him—a fleet in manoeuvre—forming probably for attack.

His blood started with the fancy.

Another signal came down from the deck. The oars dipped, and the galley

started imperceptibly. No sound from without, none from within, yet

each man in the cabin instinctively poised himself for a shock; the

very ship seemed to catch the sense, and hold its breath, and go

crouched tiger-like.

In such a situation time is inappreciable; so that Ben-Hur could form

no judgment of distance gone. At last there was a sound of trumpets on

deck, full, clear, long blown. The chief beat the sounding-board until

it rang; the rowers reached forward full length, and, deepening the dip

of their oars, pulled suddenly with all their united force. The galley,

quivering in every timber, answered with a leap. Other trumpets joined

in the clamor—all from the rear, none forward—from the latter quarter

only a rising sound of voices in tumult heard briefly. There was a

mighty blow; the rowers in front of the chief’s platform reeled, some

of them fell; the ship bounded back, recovered, and rushed on more

irresistibly than before. Shrill and high arose the shrieks of men in

terror; over the blare of trumpets, and the grind and crash of the

collision, they arose; then under his feet, under the keel, pounding,

rumbling, breaking to pieces, drowning, Ben-Hur felt something

overridden. The men about him looked at each other afraid. A shout of

triumph from the deck—the beak of the Roman had won! But who were they

whom the sea had drunk? Of what tongue, from what land were they?

No pause, no stay! Forward rushed the Astroea; and, as it went, some

sailors ran down, and plunging the cotton balls into the oil-tanks,

tossed them dripping to comrades at the head of the stairs: fire was to

be added to other horrors of the combat.

Directly the galley heeled over so far that the oarsmen on the

uppermost side with difficulty kept their benches. Again the hearty

Roman cheer, and with it despairing shrieks. An opposing vessel, caught

by the grappling-hooks of the great crane swinging from the prow, was

being lifted into the air that it might be dropped and sunk.

The shouting increased on the right hand and on the left; before,

behind, swelled an indescribable clamor. Occasionally there was a

crash, followed by sudden peals of fright, telling of other ships

ridden down, and their crews drowned in the vortexes.

Nor was the fight all on one side. Now and then a Roman in armor was

borne down the hatchway, and laid bleeding, sometimes dying, on the

floor.

Sometimes, also, puffs of smoke, blended with steam, and foul with the

scent of roasting human flesh, poured into the cabin, turning the

dimming light into yellow murk. Gasping for breath the while, Ben-Hur

knew they were passing through the cloud of a ship on fire, and burning

up with the rowers chained to the benches.

The Astroea all this time was in motion. Suddenly she stopped. The oars

forward were dashed from the hands of the rowers, and the rowers from

their benches. On deck, then, a furious trampling, and on the sides a

grinding of ships afoul of each other. For the first time the beating

of the gavel was lost in the uproar. Men sank on the floor in fear or

looked about seeking a hiding-place. In the midst of the panic a body

plunged or was pitched headlong down the hatchway, falling near

Ben-Hur. He beheld the half-naked carcass, a mass of hair blackening

the face, and under it a shield of bull-hide and wicker-work—a

barbarian from the white-skinned nations of the North whom death had

robbed of plunder and revenge. How came he there? An iron hand had

snatched him from the opposing deck—no, the Astroea had been boarded!

The Romans were fighting on their own deck? A chill smote the young

Jew: Arrius was hard pressed—he might be defending his own life. If he

should be slain! God of Abraham forefend! The hopes and dreams so

lately come, were they only hopes and dreams? Mother and

sister—house—home—Holy Land—was he not to see them, after all? The

tumult thundered above him; he looked around; in the cabin all was

confusion—the rowers on the benches paralyzed; men running blindly

hither and thither; only the chief on his seat imperturbable, vainly

beating the sounding-board, and waiting the orders of the tribune—in

the red murk illustrating the matchless discipline which had won the

world.

The example had a good effect upon Ben-Hur. He controlled himself

enough to think. Honor and duty bound the Roman to the platform; but

what had he to do with such motives then? The bench was a thing to run

from; while, if he were to die a slave, who would be the better of the

sacrifice? With him living was duty, if not honor. His life belonged to

his people. They arose before him never more real: he saw them, their

arms outstretched; he heard them imploring him. And he would go to

them. He started—stopped. Alas! a Roman judgment held him in doom.

While it endured, escape would be profitless. In the wide, wide earth

there was no place in which he would be safe from the imperial demand;

upon the land none, nor upon the sea. Whereas he required freedom

according to the forms of law, so only could he abide in Judea and

execute the filial purpose to which he would devote himself: in other

land he would not live. Dear God! How he had waited and watched and

prayed for such a release! And how it had been delayed! But at last he

had seen it in the promise of the tribune. What else the great man’s

meaning? And if the benefactor so belated should now be slain! The dead

come not back to redeem the pledges of the living. It should not

be—Arrius should not die. At least, better perish with him than survive

a galley-slave.

Once more Ben-Hur looked around. Upon the roof of the cabin the battle

yet beat; against the sides the hostile vessels yet crushed and grided.

On the benches, the slaves struggled to tear loose from their chains,

and, finding their efforts vain, howled like madmen; the guards had

gone upstairs; discipline was out, panic in. No, the chief kept his

chair, unchanged, calm as ever—except the gavel, weaponless. Vainly

with his clangor he filled the lulls in the din. Ben-Hur gave him a

last look, then broke away—not in flight, but to seek the tribune.

A very short space lay between him and the stairs of the hatchway aft.

He took it with a leap, and was half-way up the steps—up far enough to

catch a glimpse of the sky blood-red with fire, of the ships alongside,

of the sea covered with ships and wrecks, of the fight closed in about

the pilot’s quarter, the assailants many, the defenders few—when

suddenly his foothold was knocked away, and he pitched backward. The

floor, when he reached it, seemed to be lifting itself and breaking to

pieces; then, in a twinkling, the whole after-part of the hull broke

asunder, and, as if it had all the time been lying in wait, the sea,

hissing and foaming, leaped in, and all became darkness and surging

water to Ben-Hur.

It cannot be said that the young Jew helped himself in this stress.

Besides his usual strength, he had the indefinite extra force which

nature keeps in reserve for just such perils to life; yet the darkness,

and the whirl and roar of water, stupefied him. Even the holding his

breath was involuntary.

The influx of the flood tossed him like a log forward into the cabin,

where he would have drowned but for the refluence of the sinking

motion. As it was, fathoms under the surface the hollow mass vomited

him forth, and he arose along with the loosed debris. In the act of

rising, he clutched something, and held to it. The time he was under

seemed an age longer than it really was; at last he gained the top;

with a great gasp he filled his lungs afresh, and, tossing the water

from his hair and eyes, climbed higher upon the plank he held, and

looked about him.

Death had pursued him closely under the waves; he found it waiting for

him when he was risen—waiting multiform.

Smoke lay upon the sea like a semitransparent fog, through which here

and there shone cores of intense brilliance. A quick intelligence told

him that they were ships on fire. The battle was yet on; nor could he

say who was victor. Within the radius of his vision now and then ships

passed, shooting shadows athwart lights. Out of the dun clouds farther

on he caught the crash of other ships colliding. The danger, however,

was closer at hand. When the Astroea went down, her deck, it will be

recollected, held her own crew, and the crews of the two galleys which

had attacked her at the same time, all of whom were ingulfed. Many of

them came to the surface together, and on the same plank or support of

whatever kind continued the combat, begun possibly in the vortex

fathoms down. Writhing and twisting in deadly embrace, sometimes

striking with sword or javelin, they kept the sea around them in

agitation, at one place inky-black, at another aflame with fiery

reflections. With their struggles he had nothing to do; they were all

his enemies: not one of them but would kill him for the plank upon

which he floated. He made haste to get away.

About that time he heard oars in quickest movement, and beheld a galley

coming down upon him. The tall prow seemed doubly tall, and the red

light playing upon its gilt and carving gave it an appearance of snaky

life. Under its foot the water churned to flying foam.

He struck out, pushing the plank, which was very broad and

unmanageable. Seconds were precious—half a second might save or lose

him. In the crisis of the effort, up from the sea, within arm’s reach,

a helmet shot like a gleam of gold. Next came two hands with fingers

extended—large hands were they, and strong—their hold once fixed, might

not be loosed. Ben-Hur swerved from them appalled. Up rose the helmet

and the head it encased—then two arms, which began to beat the water

wildly—the head turned back, and gave the face to the light. The mouth

gaping wide; the eyes open, but sightless, and the bloodless pallor of

a drowning man—never anything more ghastly! Yet he gave a cry of joy at

the sight, and as the face was going under again, he caught the

sufferer by the chain which passed from the helmet beneath the chin,

and drew him to the plank.

The man was Arrius, the tribune.

For a while the water foamed and eddied violently about Ben-Hur, taxing

all his strength to hold to the support and at the same time keep the

Roman’s head above the surface. The galley had passed, leaving the two

barely outside the stroke of its oars. Right through the floating men,

over heads helmeted as well as heads bare, she drove, in her wake

nothing but the sea sparkling with fire. A muffled crash, succeeded by

a great outcry, made the rescuer look again from his charge. A certain

savage pleasure touched his heart—the Astroea was avenged.

After that the battle moved on. Resistance turned to flight. But who

were the victors? Ben-Hur was sensible how much his freedom and the

life of the tribune depended upon that event. He pushed the plank under

the latter until it floated him, after which all his care was to keep

him there. The dawn came slowly. He watched its growing hopefully, yet

sometimes afraid. Would it bring the Romans or the pirates? If the

pirates, his charge was lost.

At last morning broke in full, the air without a breath. Off to the

left he saw the land, too far to think of attempting to make it. Here

and there men were adrift like himself. In spots the sea was blackened

by charred and sometimes smoking fragments. A galley up a long way was

lying to with a torn sail hanging from the tilted yard, and the oars

all idle. Still farther away he could discern moving specks, which he

thought might be ships in flight or pursuit, or they might be white

birds a-wing.

An hour passed thus. His anxiety increased. If relief came not

speedily, Arrius would die. Sometimes he seemed already dead, he lay so

still. He took the helmet off, and then, with greater difficulty, the

cuirass; the heart he found fluttering. He took hope at the sign, and

held on. There was nothing to do but wait, and, after the manner of his

people, pray.

CHAPTER VI

The throes of recovery from drowning are more painful than the

drowning. These Arrius passed through, and, at length, to Ben-Hur’s

delight, reached the point of speech.

Gradually, from incoherent questions as to where he was, and by whom

and how he had been saved, he reverted to the battle. The doubt of the

victory stimulated his faculties to full return, a result aided not a

little by a long rest—such as could be had on their frail support.

After a while he became talkative.

“Our rescue, I see, depends upon the result of the fight. I see also

what thou hast done for me. To speak fairly, thou hast saved my life at

the risk of thy own. I make the acknowledgment broadly; and, whatever

cometh, thou hast my thanks. More than that, if fortune doth but serve

me kindly, and we get well out of this peril, I will do thee such favor

as becometh a Roman who hath power and opportunity to prove his

gratitude. Yet, yet it is to be seen if, with thy good intent, thou

hast really done me a kindness; or, rather, speaking to thy

good-will”—he hesitated—“I would exact of thee a promise to do me, in a

certain event, the greatest favor one man can do another—and of that

let me have thy pledge now.”

“If the thing be not forbidden, I will do it,” Ben-Hur replied.

Arrius rested again.

“Art thou, indeed, a son of Hur, the Jew?” he next asked.

“It is as I have said.”

“I knew thy father—”

Judah drew himself nearer, for the tribune’s voice was weak—he drew

nearer, and listened eagerly—at last he thought to hear of home.

“I knew him, and loved him,” Arrius continued.

There was another pause, during which something diverted the speaker’s

thought.

“It cannot be,” he proceeded, “that thou, a son of his, hast not heard

of Cato and Brutus. They were very great men, and never as great as in

death. In their dying, they left this law—A Roman may not survive his

good-fortune. Art thou listening?”

“I hear.”

“It is a custom of gentlemen in Rome to wear a ring. There is one on my

hand. Take it now.”

He held the hand to Judah, who did as he asked.

“Now put it on thine own hand.”

Ben-Hur did so.

“The trinket hath its uses,” said Arrius next. “I have property and

money. I am accounted rich even in Rome. I have no family. Show the

ring to my freedman, who hath control in my absence; you will find him

in a villa near Misenum. Tell him how it came to thee, and ask

anything, or all he may have; he will not refuse the demand. If I live,

I will do better by thee. I will make thee free, and restore thee to

thy home and people; or thou mayst give thyself to the pursuit that

pleaseth thee most. Dost thou hear?”

“I could not choose but hear.”

“Then pledge me. By the gods—”

“Nay, good tribune, I am a Jew.”

“By thy God, then, or in the form most sacred to those of thy

faith—pledge me to do what I tell thee now, and as I tell thee; I am

waiting, let me have thy promise.”

“Noble Arrius, I am warned by thy manner to expect something of gravest

concern. Tell me thy wish first.”

“Wilt thou promise then?”

“That were to give the pledge, and— Blessed be the God of my fathers!

yonder cometh a ship!”

“In what direction?”

“From the north.”

“Canst thou tell her nationality by outward signs?”

“No. My service hath been at the oars.”

“Hath she a flag?”

“I cannot see one.”

Arrius remained quiet some time, apparently in deep reflection.

“Does the ship hold this way yet?” he at length asked.

“Still this way.”

“Look for the flag now.”

“She hath none.”

“Nor any other sign?”

“She hath a sail set, and is of three banks, and cometh swiftly—that is

all I can say of her.”

“A Roman in triumph would have out many flags. She must be an enemy.

Hear now,” said Arrius, becoming grave again, “hear, while yet I may

speak. If the galley be a pirate, thy life is safe; they may not give

thee freedom; they may put thee to the oar again; but they will not

kill thee. On the other hand, I—”

The tribune faltered.

“Perpol!” he continued, resolutely. “I am too old to submit to

dishonor. In Rome, let them tell how Quintus Arrius, as became a Roman

tribune, went down with his ship in the midst of the foe. This is what

I would have thee do. If the galley prove a pirate, push me from the

plank and drown me. Dost thou hear? Swear thou wilt do it.”

“I will not swear,” said Ben-Hur, firmly; “neither will I do the deed.

The Law, which is to me most binding, O tribune, would make me

answerable for thy life. Take back the ring”—he took the seal from his

finger—“take it back, and all thy promises of favor in the event of

delivery from this peril. The judgment which sent me to the oar for

life made me a slave, yet I am not a slave; no more am I thy freedman.

I am a son of Israel, and this moment, at least, my own master. Take

back the ring.”

Arrius remained passive.

“Thou wilt not?” Judah continued. “Not in anger, then, nor in any

despite, but to free myself from a hateful obligation, I will give thy

gift to the sea. See, O tribune!”

He tossed the ring away. Arrius heard the splash where it struck and

sank, though he did not look.

“Thou hast done a foolish thing,” he said; “foolish for one placed as

thou art. I am not dependent upon thee for death. Life is a thread I

can break without thy help; and, if I do, what will become of thee? Men

determined on death prefer it at the hands of others, for the reason

that the soul which Plato giveth us is rebellious at the thought of

self-destruction; that is all. If the ship be a pirate, I will escape

from the world. My mind is fixed. I am a Roman. Success and honor are

all in all. Yet I would have served thee; thou wouldst not. The ring

was the only witness of my will available in this situation. We are

both lost. I will die regretting the victory and glory wrested from me;

thou wilt live to die a little later, mourning the pious duties undone

because of this folly. I pity thee.”

Ben-Hur saw the consequences of his act more distinctly than before,

yet he did not falter.

“In the three years of my servitude, O tribune, thou wert the first to

look upon me kindly. No, no! There was another.” The voice dropped, the

eyes became humid, and he saw plainly as if it were then before him the

face of the boy who helped him to a drink by the old well at Nazareth.

“At least,” he proceeded, “thou wert the first to ask me who I was; and

if, when I reached out and caught thee, blind and sinking the last

time, I, too, had thought of the many ways in which thou couldst be

useful to me in my wretchedness, still the act was not all selfish;

this I pray you to believe. Moreover, seeing as God giveth me to know,

the ends I dream of are to be wrought by fair means alone. As a thing

of conscience, I would rather die with thee than be thy slayer. My mind

is firmly set as thine; though thou wert to offer me all Rome, O

tribune, and it belonged to thee to make the gift good, I would not

kill thee. Thy Cato and Brutus were as little children compared to the

Hebrew whose law a Jew must obey.”

“But my request. Hast—”

“Thy command would be of more weight, and that would not move me. I

have said.”

Both became silent, waiting.

Ben-Hur looked often at the coming ship. Arrius rested with closed

eyes, indifferent.

“Art thou sure she is an enemy?” Ben-Hur asked.

“I think so,” was the reply.

“She stops, and puts a boat over the side.”

“Dost thou see her flag?”

“Is there no other sign by which she may be known if Roman?”

“If Roman, she hath a helmet over the mast’s top.”

“Then be of cheer. I see the helmet.”

Still Arrius was not assured.

“The men in the small boat are taking in the people afloat. Pirates are

not humane.”

“They may need rowers,” Arrius replied, recurring, possibly, to times

when he had made rescues for the purpose.

Ben-Hur was very watchful of the actions of the strangers.

“The ship moves off,” he said.

“Whither?”

“Over on our right there is a galley which I take to be deserted. The

new-comer heads towards it. Now she is alongside. Now she is sending

men aboard.”

Then Arrius opened his eyes and threw off his calm.

“Thank thou thy God,” he said to Ben-Hur, after a look at the galleys,

“thank thou thy God, as I do my many gods. A pirate would sink, not

save, yon ship. By the act and the helmet on the mast I know a Roman.

The victory is mine. Fortune hath not deserted me. We are saved. Wave

thy hand—call to them—bring them quickly. I shall be duumvir, and thou!

I knew thy father, and loved him. He was a prince indeed. He taught me

a Jew was not a barbarian. I will take thee with me. I will make thee

my son. Give thy God thanks, and call the sailors. Haste! The pursuit

must be kept. Not a robber shall escape. Hasten them!”

Judah raised himself upon the plank, and waved his hand, and called

with all his might; at last he drew the attention of the sailors in the

small boat, and they were speedily taken up.

Arrius was received on the galley with all the honors due a hero so the

favorite of Fortune. Upon a couch on the deck he heard the particulars

of the conclusion of the fight. When the survivors afloat upon the

water were all saved and the prize secured, he spread his flag of

commandant anew, and hurried northward to rejoin the fleet and perfect

the victory. In due time the fifty vessels coming down the channel

closed in upon the fugitive pirates, and crushed them utterly; not one

escaped. To swell the tribune’s glory, twenty galleys of the enemy were

captured.

Upon his return from the cruise, Arrius had warm welcome on the mole at

Misenum. The young man attending him very early attracted the attention

of his friends there; and to their questions as to who he was the

tribune proceeded in the most affectionate manner to tell the story of

his rescue and introduce the stranger, omitting carefully all that

pertained to the latter’s previous history. At the end of the

narrative, he called Ben-Hur to him, and said, with a hand resting

affectionately upon his shoulder,

“Good friends, this is my son and heir, who, as he is to take my

property—if it be the will of the gods that I leave any—shall be known

to you by my name. I pray you all to love him as you love me.”

Speedily as opportunity permitted, the adoption was formally perfected.

And in such manner the brave Roman kept his faith with Ben-Hur, giving

him happy introduction into the imperial world. The month succeeding

Arrius’s return, the armilustrium was celebrated with the utmost

magnificence in the theater of Scaurus. One side of the structure was

taken up with military trophies; among which by far the most

conspicuous and most admired were twenty prows, complemented by their

corresponding aplustra, cut bodily from as many galleys; and over them,

so as to be legible to the eighty thousand spectators in the seats, was

this inscription:

TAKEN FROM THE PIRATES IN THE GULF OF EURIPUS,

BY

QUINTUS ARRIUS,

DUUMVIR.

BOOK FOURTH

“Alva. Should the monarch prove unjust—

And, at this time—

Queen. Then I must wait for justice

Until it come; and they are happiest far

Whose consciences may calmly wait their right.”

Schiller, Don Carlos (act iv., sc. xv.)

CHAPTER I

The month to which we now come is July, the year that of our Lord 29,

and the place Antioch, then Queen of the East, and next to Rome the

strongest, if not the most populous, city in the world.

There is an opinion that the extravagance and dissoluteness of the age

had their origin in Rome, and spread thence throughout the empire; that

the great cities but reflected the manners of their mistress on the

Tiber. This may be doubted. The reaction of the conquest would seem to

have been upon the morals of the conqueror. In Greece she found a

spring of corruption; so also in Egypt; and the student, having

exhausted the subject, will close the books assured that the flow of

the demoralizing river was from the East westwardly, and that this very

city of Antioch, one of the oldest seats of Assyrian power and

splendor, was a principal source of the deadly stream.

A transport galley entered the mouth of the river Orontes from the blue

waters of the sea. It was in the forenoon. The heat was great, yet all

on board who could avail themselves of the privilege were on

deck—Ben-Hur among others.

The five years had brought the young Jew to perfect manhood. Though the

robe of white linen in which he was attired somewhat masked his form,

his appearance was unusually attractive. For an hour and more he had

occupied a seat in the shade of the sail, and in that time several

fellow-passengers of his own nationality had tried to engage him in

conversation, but without avail. His replies to their questions had

been brief, though gravely courteous, and in the Latin tongue. The

purity of his speech, his cultivated manners, his reticence, served to

stimulate their curiosity the more. Such as observed him closely were

struck by an incongruity between his demeanor, which had the ease and

grace of a patrician, and certain points of his person. Thus his arms

were disproportionately long; and when, to steady himself against the

motion of the vessel, he took hold of anything near by, the size of his

hands and their evident power compelled remark; so the wonder who and

what he was mixed continually with a wish to know the particulars of

his life. In other words, his air cannot be better described than as a

notice—This man has a story to tell.

The galley, in coming, had stopped at one of the ports of Cyprus, and

picked up a Hebrew of most respectable appearance, quiet, reserved,

paternal. Ben-Hur ventured to ask him some questions; the replies won

his confidence, and resulted finally in an extended conversation.

It chanced also that as the galley from Cyprus entered the receiving

bay of the Orontes, two other vessels which had been sighted out in the

sea met it and passed into the river at the same time; and as they did

so both the strangers threw out small flags of brightest yellow. There

was much conjecture as to the meaning of the signals. At length a

passenger addressed himself to the respectable Hebrew for information

upon the subject.

“Yes, I know the meaning of the flags,” he replied; “they do not

signify nationality—they are merely marks of ownership.”

“Has the owner many ships?”

“He has.”

“You know him?”

“I have dealt with him.”

The passengers looked at the speaker as if requesting him to go on.

Ben-Hur listened with interest.

“He lives in Antioch,” the Hebrew continued, in his quiet way. “That he

is vastly rich has brought him into notice, and the talk about him is

not always kind. There used to be in Jerusalem a prince of very ancient

family named Hur.”

Judah strove to be composed, yet his heart beat quicker.

“The prince was a merchant, with a genius for business. He set on foot

many enterprises, some reaching far East, others West. In the great

cities he had branch houses. The one in Antioch was in charge of a man

said by some to have been a family servant called Simonides, Greek in

name, yet an Israelite. The master was drowned at sea. His business,

however, went on, and was scarcely less prosperous. After a while

misfortune overtook the family. The prince’s only son, nearly grown,

tried to kill the procurator Gratus in one of the streets of Jerusalem.

He failed by a narrow chance, and has not since been heard of. In fact,

the Roman’s rage took in the whole house—not one of the name was left

alive. Their palace was sealed up, and is now a rookery for pigeons;

the estate was confiscated; everything that could be traced to the

ownership of the Hurs was confiscated. The procurator cured his hurt

with a golden salve.”

The passengers laughed.

“You mean he kept the property,” said one of them.

“They say so,” the Hebrew replied; “I am only telling a story as I

received it. And, to go on, Simonides, who had been the prince’s agent

here in Antioch, opened trade in a short time on his own account, and

in a space incredibly brief became the master merchant of the city. In

imitation of his master, he sent caravans to India; and on the sea at

present he has galleys enough to make a royal fleet. They say nothing

goes amiss with him. His camels do not die, except of old age; his

ships never founder; if he throw a chip into the river, it will come

back to him gold.”

“How long has he been going on thus?”

“Not ten years.”

“He must have had a good start.”

“Yes, they say the procurator took only the prince’s property ready at

hand—his horses, cattle, houses, land, vessels, goods. The money could

not be found, though there must have been vast sums of it. What became

of it has been an unsolved mystery.”

“Not to me,” said a passenger, with a sneer.

“I understand you,” the Hebrew answered. “Others have had your idea.

That it furnished old Simonides his start is a common belief. The

procurator is of that opinion—or he has been—for twice in five years he

has caught the merchant, and put him to torture.”

Judah gripped the rope he was holding with crushing force.

“It is said,” the narrator continued, “that there is not a sound bone

in the man’s body. The last time I saw him he sat in a chair, a

shapeless cripple, propped against cushions.”

“So tortured!” exclaimed several listeners in a breath.

“Disease could not have produced such a deformity. Still the suffering

made no impression upon him. All he had was his lawfully, and he was

making lawful use of it—that was the most they wrung from him. Now,

however, he is past persecution. He has a license to trade signed by

Tiberius himself.”

“He paid roundly for it, I warrant.”

“These ships are his,” the Hebrew continued, passing the remark. “It is

a custom among his sailors to salute each other upon meeting by

throwing out yellow flags, sight of which is as much as to say, ‘We

have had a fortunate voyage.’”

The story ended there.

When the transport was fairly in the channel of the river, Judah spoke

to the Hebrew.

“What was the name of the merchant’s master?”

“Ben-Hur, Prince of Jerusalem.”

“What became of the prince’s family?”

“The boy was sent to the galleys. I may say he is dead. One year is the

ordinary limit of life under that sentence. The widow and daughter have

not been heard of; those who know what became of them will not speak.

They died doubtless in the cells of one of the castles which spot the

waysides of Judea.”

Judah walked to the pilot’s quarter. So absorbed was he in thought that

he scarcely noticed the shores of the river, which from sea to city

were surpassingly beautiful with orchards of all the Syrian fruits and

vines, clustered about villas rich as those of Neapolis. No more did he

observe the vessels passing in an endless fleet, nor hear the singing

and shouting of the sailors, some in labor, some in merriment. The sky

was full of sunlight, lying in hazy warmth upon the land and the water;

nowhere except over his life was there a shadow.

Once only he awoke to a momentary interest, and that was when some one

pointed out the Grove of Daphne, discernible from a bend in the river.