Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he
was still a pilgrim, and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker
than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry snow that
covered them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were
dull as embers smouldering among the ashes.
Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had
come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had often visited the holy city
before, and had searched through all its lanes and crowded hovels and
black prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who
had fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make
one more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he
might succeed.
It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with
strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far lands all over the
world, had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there had
been a confusion of tongues in the narrow streets for many days.
But on this day there was a singular agitation visible in the
multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous gloom, and currents of
excitement seemed to flash through the crowd like the thrill which
shakes the forest on the eve of a storm. A secret tide was sweeping
them all one way. The clatter of sandals, and the soft, thick sound of
thousands of bare feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly
along the street that leads to the Damascus gate.
Artaban joined company with a group of people from his own country,
Parthian Jews who had come up to keep the Passover, and inquired of
them the cause of the tumult, and where they were going.
"We are going," they answered, "to the place called Golgotha, outside
the city walls, where there is to be an execution. Have you not heard
what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with
them another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many
wonderful works among the people, so that they love him greatly. But
the priests and elders have said that he must die, because he gave
himself out to be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross
because he said that he was the 'King of the Jews.'"
How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of
Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over land and sea. And now
they came to him darkly and mysteriously like a message of despair. The
King had arisen, but He had been denied and cast out. He was about to
perish. Perhaps He was already dying. Could it be the same who had been
born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had
appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?
Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful
apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But he said within
himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it
may be that I shall find the King, at last, in the hands of His
enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for His ransom before
He dies."
So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps
towards the Damascus gate of the city. Just beyond the entrance of the
guard-house a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street,
dragging a young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the
Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she broke suddenly from
the hands of her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping
him around the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle
on his breast.
[Illustration - "The old man followed the multitude"]
"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God of
Purity! I also am a daughter of the true religion which is taught by
the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am
seized for his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than
death."
Artaban trembled.
It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the
palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict
between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the
gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn
from his hand to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the
ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.
Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not
tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of his mind--it was
inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?
One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this helpless
girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the light of the
soul?
He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so
radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand of
the slave.
"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I
kept for the King."
While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened, and shuddering
tremors ran through the earth, heaving convulsively like the breast of
one who struggles with mighty grief.
The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and
crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air. The soldiers fled
in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he
had ransomed crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.
What had he to fear? What had he to live for? He had given away the
last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last
hope of finding Him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even
in that thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not
resignation. It was not submission. It was something more profound and
searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that
he could, from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been
given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had not found it, if a
failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best
that was possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting,
incorruptible and immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his
earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.
One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the
ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and struck the old man
on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting
on the young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound.
As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice
through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a
distance, in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl
turned to see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but
she saw no one.
Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard
him say in the Parthian tongue:
"Not so, my Lord: For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or
thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a stranger, and took thee
in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and
came unto thee? Three-and-thirty years have I looked for thee; but I
have never seen thy face, nor ministered to thee, my King."
He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it,
very faintly and far away. But now it seemed as though she understood
the words:
"_Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the
least of these my brethren, thou hast done it unto me._"
A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like
the first ray of dawn on a snowy mountain-peak. One long, last breath
of relief exhaled gently from his lips.
His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man
had found the King.