“To die—to die!—to leave my poor sisters unprotected and to see them no
more—Oh, it is horrible!”
“Not to be,” said the Persian, in a voice of singular depth and sweetness,
“not to be is better than to be; and not to have been is better than all.”
In spite of myself and my fears, the calm and almost spiritual halo which
seemed to surround this strange old man, began to quiet my agitation and
to divert my thoughts from my impending fate.
“Are you a philosopher?” said I.
“I think,” he replied; and drawing a long whiff from his pipe, he
illustrated his remark by lapsing into a profound reverie.
I contemplated this serene philosopher a long time in silence, and made up
my mind that he must have a good many beautiful things to think about as
he sat there, bound and under sentence of death, smoking so placidly upon
the arid shore of that dreadful sea.
When he indicated, by knocking the ashes from his pipe, that he had
ascended from the ocean of dreams into which he had dived, I asked him how
he had fallen into the power of these miscreants.
“Speak evil of no one, my son! Leave wicked names to the wicked. These
gentlemen live upon the road and in the wilderness. They pay special
attention to travelers, to caravans, and to small and remote villages.
They cure some people of that chronic disease we call life, and they
permit others to ransom themselves by large quantities of that evil thing
we call money. They have set me down in the latter class, and I am
awaiting a remittance from a friend in Jerusalem.”
“Suppose your friend is dead, or absent from the city, or cannot raise the
sum required, or refuses to do it?”
He pointed to the sea, shrugging his shoulders, and exclaimed:
“What is written, is written.”
When it was quite dark my guide of the morning brought us a little food.
The old Persian ate heartily, but I could barely taste it. The guide
whispered in my ear, “Be silent and wakeful,” and departed.
“Now sleep, my son,” said my philosophic companion; “trust in God and
sleep. Our angels and good genii befriend us most powerfully when asleep.
When awake we scare them away by our villainous thoughts. Sleep.”
The whispered words of the guide had inspired me with a vague hope, and I
preferred trusting to his advice rather than to the invisible guardians of
our sleep. I was therefore silent and wakeful. The moon went down long
before midnight.
The hours passed away slowly, slowly, marked only by the coming up of the
white stars from behind the eastern hills; while the long minutes were
told by the dead plash of the water against the beach.
There were feasting and drinking and singing in the tent of Barabbas. This
was kept up until long after midnight. Then there was silence, and the
loud snoring as of some one in a drunken sleep.
It became very dark. The voices of man and nature were hushed. The hours
passed, and all things seemed to sleep except the stars which continued to
climb the heavenly dome, and the sad, gray sea which pushed feebly against
the desert beach, and myself cruelly orphaned and betrayed, thinking
alternately of home and death.
“Death at sunrise!” I exclaimed, thinking aloud to myself.
“The sun has not risen,” whispered the Persian.
And Hope, the undying consoler within us, took courage at the words of the
old man and at the slow-footed pace of the night; and thought it was long,
long till the morning, and that the angel of Life might still come, and
relieve from his awful watch the angel of Death.
An hour more of silence that could be felt, and of unutterable
suspense—and a hand was laid softly upon my shoulder. The rope that bound
me was disengaged, and my deliverer drew me stealthily along the beach,
and away from the tent where Barabbas lay dreaming of plundered caravans
and cruel uncles who enriched him for the murder of their nephews.
The guide did not speak until we stood on the mound at the mouth of the
great ravine, where the Dead Sea first broke upon my sight.
“You are free,” he said. “You are a child, abused and betrayed. You shall
not be murdered. Robber as I am, there is something in my heart which is
touched by your sorrows. Go back to life, if not to happiness. God perhaps
will deliver you from Magistus, as He has through me delivered you from
Barabbas.”
“Come with me,” said I; “leave this wretched and dangerous life in the
wilderness. Share our fate and fortune in Bethany.”
“Do not speak of it,” he answered; “it is impossible. Hasten on your
journey, or all may be lost.”
“But,” said I, clinging to him, “Barabbas will kill you when he finds I
have escaped.”
“No! I have contrived against that. I am cunning and I shall succeed.”
“The poor old Persian will be murdered!”
“No! He will be ransomed to-morrow. Away!” he continued excitedly; “a
moment’s delay may be fatal. Away!”
“Stay!” said I, eagerly; “tell me the name of my benefactor, that I may
repeat it in my prayers.”
“I have no name, no home. I am the Son of the Desert.”
He hurried softly away toward the tent, and I crept up the ravine in the
darkness.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]