_IMPRISONED._
[Illustration: Initial]
Jesus at length came up from Ephraim and prepared for that triumphal entry
into Jerusalem which aroused the animosity of the Sanhedrim to the highest
pitch, and gave color to the charge which they brought against him, that
he meditated a political conspiracy and sought the temporal authority and
kingdom of Judea.
Many, indeed, of his ignorant followers expected him to seize the reins of
civil government, and to maintain his position by miraculous power. Then
they supposed he would raise Jerusalem and the Jewish people to the
pinnacle of earthly glory. These boasted openly of their expectations; and
the chief priests and rulers no doubt congratulated themselves, in their
subsequent proceedings, that they were extinguishing a false religion and
a civil war by the same energetic blow.
On the eve before this entry into Jerusalem my sisters gave a supper to
Jesus and his disciples. It was a brilliant and beautiful scene, crowned,
however, with a certain solemnity and sadness; for the great events about
to transpire cast shadows before them which fell upon every heart. It was
there that my sister Mary drew forth, from a golden box which had been
given her by our good uncle Beltrezzor, a costly Persian ointment and
anointed the feet of Jesus. Judas Iscariot reproved her conduct as
extravagant; and Jesus responded that she was anointing him for his
burial. This prediction of death on the eve of apparent triumph and glory,
bewildered the minds and saddened the hearts of his hearers.
If I had known at that moment, upon what a frightful precipice I was
standing, and what lifelong tribulation awaited me, I would have been the
saddest of them all. But the skeleton stands invisible at our feasts, and
the serpent coils undiscovered among the flowers.
Jesus, with his favorite disciples, Peter, James and John, lodged at our
dwelling; but most of the guests returned to Jerusalem at a late hour. I
accompanied them through the grove which crowned the Mount of Olives, and
down the western slope, over the spot where Jesus was afterward betrayed,
and from which also he ascended to heaven. I parted with my friends at the
long arched bridge which crosses the valley and lands you near the gate of
the temple called Beautiful.
As the last footsteps died away on the bridge, I turned to go back, when I
was startled by the dark figure of a man advancing from behind a tree. The
moon had just gone down and the wind sighed mournfully through the olive
leaves. This man was Judas Iscariot.
“I have something,” he said in a low tone, “of the deepest importance to
reveal to you. I know your attachment to our Master. I know your
discretion and your courage. I have discovered a plot against the life of
Jesus. Two hirelings in the pay of the Sanhedrim, conscience-stricken, or
more probably afraid of the miraculous power of Jesus, have betrayed a
part of the plan. They are now underneath one of the arches of that
bridge, waiting for me. I wish you to accompany me into the valley, to
question these men, to satisfy yourself of the nature and extent of the
danger, and to aid me with your counsel and if necessary with your arm.”
I was deeply agitated at these words. I knew the animosity of the chief
priests to Jesus, and I believed they would not hesitate to employ the
knife of the assassin, if they could not arrest his career by a public
process. I had no cause to doubt the report of Judas; but for some
inexplicable reason I had a great aversion to the man.
He must have read doubt or suspicion in my manner; for he immediately
exclaimed in a tone of surprise:
“Why do you hesitate? Is my word not sufficient? I have chosen you to
share in this mission of honor and danger, because you are indebted to
Jesus for your own life, and because he is at this moment a guest in your
house. Had I communicated this to the brave Peter or the resolute James—”
“Enough!” said I, interrupting him and taking his arm; and we groped our
way along the narrow path that wound down the steep hill into the valley.
Reaching the level ground, Judas gave a low whistle and four men started
up from behind the pillars of the bridge. One of them led a mule by the
bridle. We approached them.
“Here is your man,” said Judas, suddenly stepping behind me and seizing me
with great strength by the shoulders. The men rushed upon me, and
notwithstanding my desperate struggle they bound me hand and foot in a few
seconds.
“Vile traitor!” was the only exclamation that passed my lips before they
were tightly closed by a strong leathern muzzle which was strapped
securely over my head and behind my neck. I was then blindfolded and put
upon the mule. We moved around to one of the city gates. The passwords
were given, for the party were emissaries of the Sanhedrim. We traversed
the streets a good distance, when we halted and I was conducted into a
house. When released from my bonds I found myself in a large stone chamber
with a small iron door and two lofty, iron-grated windows.
“In prison?” I exclaimed.
Judas, who stood in the doorway, rubbed his hands with insulting glee and
said:
“Your uncle Magistus pays me handsomely for this.”
“If Jesus is ever murdered,” said I, with indignant scorn, “you will be
the murderer.”
He sneered and went out. I saw him no more. Alas! I never saw the natural
form of Jesus again. He who betrayed the disciple, was already bargaining
for the thirty pieces of silver at which he estimated the life of his
Lord.
The cause of my imprisonment was not doubtful. I had become obnoxious to
the Sanhedrim from the mere fact of my resurrection. The attention it
attracted, the prestige it conferred on Jesus, the increasing crowd that
followed him, all annoyed and vexed them. I was a living proof of the
power and glory of the new religion, a standing protest and menace against
the old. It was necessary that I should be put out of the way.
I was shut out from the world; a pallet of straw for my bed; a rough table
and a stool my only furniture. A fierce, silent guard brought me a daily
supply of water and coarse food. I saw and heard nothing of the great sea
of human life which was surging outside of my stone walls.
Several days and nights passed in this manner. What had become of my
sisters? What had become of Jesus? If I had been made the first victim,
surely these others would fall shortly beneath the malice and cruelty of
such unscrupulous enemies. These thoughts, attended with gloomy
forebodings, pressed with painful reiteration upon my mind. I could not
eat. I could not sleep. I was all eye, all ear.
I was startled one night by a strange uproar in the street. I was so
watchful, so quick of hearing, that I detected it a great way off. It
gradually came nearer and nearer. It was a riot or street-fight or battle
creeping in the direction of my prison. There were at last plainly heard
shouts, groans, curses, the hurrying of feet, the clash of arms, and all
the exciting accompaniments of a bloody contest between two enraged
factions. From the triumphant cries and the great flare of torches which
came in at my window, I perceived that one party had driven the other
before it, and now occupied the ground in front of the building in which I
was imprisoned.
I put the table against the wall and the stool on the table. Mounting thus
to one of the windows, I could see partially what was going on in the
street.
What a crowd of ruffians of all nations and colors, fantastically dressed
and variously armed!
While I was gazing on this hideous rabble, a man of huge proportions rode
up on a horse finely caparisoned, which had evidently been the late
property of some dashing Roman officer. This man had a horribly bruised
and swollen face, and an immense, dingy, yellow beard. I recognized
Barabbas the robber.
“Break open the doors and release the prisoners!” he cried in a terrible
voice.
Beams used like battering-rams were soon brought to bear upon the
iron-barred and bolted doors, until the whole building resounded with the
tremendous strokes. How my heart leaped at the thought of a speedy
deliverance! I determined in the confusion to elude both parties and
escape to Bethany.
At this moment a great outcry arose: “The Romans! The Romans!” and the
swift clatter of horses’ feet and the renewal of all the sounds of a
fierce fight, assured me that the rioters had been attacked by a squadron
of Roman cavalry.
Suddenly I heard a loud, clear, sweet voice shouting with wild enthusiasm:
“Death to the Romans!”
“Freedom to Judea!”
I recognized the familiar tones before I discovered the tall figure of the
Son of the Desert.
He was bare-headed, and his fine bronzed face, his scimitar and his
crimson scarf gleamed in the torchlight as he rushed bravely forward.
Anthony, my old servant, was at his side, watching his movements with
admiration and echoing his words. The Son of the Desert was bringing up a
large party of stalwart fellows, armed with pikes and scimitars, to meet
the advancing column of horse.
I called to him loudly, waving my arms eagerly between the bars. At that
moment a strong pressure backward from the front, held the party
stationary for a second. My old friend looked up at my window surprised,
and smiled his recognition. He kissed his hand to me and pointed to the
ring on his finger which Martha had given him. Anthony also recognized me,
and saluted me with frantic gestures and every demonstration of childish
joy.
The party suddenly surged forward, and the Son of the Desert raised his
battle-cry:
“Death to the Romans!”
“Freedom to Judea!”
Just then my guard, who had entered the room, commanded me to come down
from the window, threatening to transfix me with his javelin if I did not
obey. I descended and seated myself quietly on the stool, listening in
silence to the progress of the fight. Knowing the irresistible power of
the Roman arms, and wondering why the Son of the Desert had been led into
such a hopeless enterprise, I was grieved, although not disappointed, when
I distinguished by the varying sounds of the conflict, that the
disciplined cavalry of Pilate’s legion were masters of the field.
The torchlight faded away; the tumult ceased. Nothing was heard but a
solitary horseman patrolling the deserted streets. The enterprise,
whatever it was, had failed. I was not to be rescued. I was not to rejoin
my sisters. I was to know nothing that was going on in the busy world
around me. I sank upon my straw, dispirited, despairing. Toward daylight I
slept; and I dreamed of that terrible night by the Dead Sea and of the
words of my uncle Beltrezzor.
It seems that the riot made my jailers suspect that my prison was
insecure. A few nights after this grand excitement, I was startled by
several men in masks entering my room. I was bound, muzzled and
blindfolded again. I was placed in some kind of a vehicle. We traversed
the city; we passed the gate; we descended a slope. The fresh air of the
country broke sweetly and soothingly upon me. We ascended a long hill, as
I knew by the motion to which I was subjected. No one spoke.
At last the vehicle stopped. I was led between two men into a house. We
walked through a very narrow passage where only two could pass at a time.
Suddenly I was stopped, seized by the arms, and let down into a kind of
vault. Previous to this I was stripped of my bandages; but it was so dark
that I could distinguish nothing.
It was not deliverance. It was not death, that happiest deliverance of
all! It was a change of prisons—from dark to darker. My heart sank within
me. I trembled.
Strange sounds above me at the point of my entrance now attracted my
attention! I listened with the utmost tension of ear, endeavoring to
conjecture what my jailers were doing. At last I comprehended it! They
were bringing brick and mortar, and all in the dark! They were walling up
the space by which I had been lowered into the vault.
Horrible idea! My former prison was a dungeon; this was a grave! I was to
be buried alive!
The thought overpowered me and I swooned.
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[Illustration: Ornament]