UNTIL THE DAY BREAK.
In the morning of that same day, before it was yet dawn, Stephen arose
and went away out of the city.
After the supreme renunciation of the night before, he had experienced a
strange, a wonderful peace: the world had vanished from out his sight;
he felt that he had already entered upon the life beyond. And while he
yet marvelled and rejoiced because of this, he slept. How many hours
had elapsed before he awoke he did not know; it was dark in the
house-place, and the darkness lay heavily upon him like a pall. With
the darkness there had also fallen the icy shadow of his approaching
doom; before the shrouded face of this awful impalpable presence peace
and joy fled away in affright. He strove to pray, but his tongue clave
to the roof of his mouth. Near by he could hear the regular, peaceful
breathing of John and Andrew; somehow the sound added an intolerable
poignancy to his anguish. For the first time he realized to the full
the utter loneliness of the soul. "They love me," he said within
himself bitterly,--"but they sleep."
After a time he arose, and wrapping his cloak about him, stole out into
the courtyard. The fresh wind as it smote him brought with it a sense
of relief. The stars glittered keenly overhead against the dark blue of
the heavens; the fragrance of a tall white lily abloom beside the little
cistern hung heavy upon the air. An irresistible impulse to go
swiftly--somewhere--anywhere--came upon him. Undoing the fastening of
the outer door, he slipped out, feeling a quick thrill of satisfaction
in the fact that he had accomplished this noiselessly. The cocks were
crowing as he started swiftly down the street, first one, then another,
then half a dozen at once, dying away into silence only to break forth
again as some faint challenge from a distance rang out triumphantly.
As yet there was little token of day, but the keeper was drowsily
undoing the fastenings of the city gate, in due anticipation of the
market-men, who would soon be coming from every quarter. Stephen
hesitated for an instant, then slipped through the opening without being
observed. Before him lay the Roman road, hard and white, stretching
dimly away into the darkness. All the young life in him leapt up at the
sight.
"I have but to follow this road," he thought, "it will bring me to
safety. And why, after all, should I remain? Wicked men have laid a
snare for me, and it hath been made known to me in the mercy of God. It
must needs be that I escape; I am young, I can and will do good service
to them that believe for many years. What shall it profit any man if I
perish now?"
He was walking the more swiftly as he communed thus with himself, and
hearing, or fancying that he heard, a sound as of pursuit behind him, he
thrust his fingers into his ears and ran, the road still dimly unrolling
itself out of the darkness before him like a dusky ribbon from the loom
of night. After he had gone thus for a long distance--his breath being
well-nigh spent and his laboring heart knocking loudly for relief--he
paused, and withdrawing his fingers from his ears, listened. There was
no sound save the soughing of the wind in the gnarled branches of the
trees and the shrilling of insects in the lush grass. He sank down for
a moment to rest.
"If I go away now--as indeed those older and wiser than myself have
advised--I can remain till the present danger be passed, afterward I can
return, and--there is Anat. The world is wide, there is no need that we
remain at Jerusalem. We two will go away into far countries and among
strange peoples, that we may spread the Gospel among all nations, even
as the Master commanded. It is right that this should be, else why do
these thoughts come to me. As for means for my journey, I have here in
my pouch the money with which I was to buy provisions to-day, this would
the apostles gladly give me for my present needs--ay, and more. Yes, I
will go--I must go." And he arose and girding himself resolutely,
started once more upon his journey.
"I will go," he repeated to himself more than once. "I must go." But
after a time he ceased to walk swiftly; at length he stopped altogether
and turned his face toward the East. Faint rosy flushes--momently
brightening--merged finally into long tremulous beams of pure unearthly
light, which shot up as if in an ecstasy of triumph over the conquered
gloom. Stephen's heart expanded at the sight. He sank upon his knees.
"'Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe,'" he murmured
aloud. "'Who createst light and formest darkness, who makest peace and
createst all things! He in mercy causes the light to shine upon the
earth and the inhabitants thereof, and in goodness renews every day the
work of creation. Blessed art thou, the Creator of Light!'"
Something in the familiar and well-loved words spoken in that dewy
solitude seemed to sweep away the paralyzing and unworthy fear from out
his soul. He looked at the Roman road, showing hard, white and dusty in
the morning light, it no longer appeared alluring. He thought again of
his resolve to use the money from the almoner's fund to make good his
escape, and the honest crimson rose to his cheek.
"I am no better than a thief," he cried aloud. "I will go back; and if
it needs be that I suffer, God help me, for the flesh is weak."
As he arose to his feet he saw with a shock of surprise that he had
paused near to the little rocky knoll, called, from its strange
resemblance to a human skull, Golgotha. Upon the bald summit of this
place of death stood a cross, and upon the cross hung the figure of a
man--naked save for his scanty rags which fluttered fitfully in the
light breeze, the clear light of the dawn revealing with ghastly
insistency his drawn features, and the purple wounds in his hands and
feet. At the foot of the cross lay two Roman soldiers, evidently
detailed to watch the dying man; they were snoring loudly, a
half-emptied wine-skin upon the grass between them revealing the manner
in which they had beguiled the night watches.
As Stephen gazed at this horrible sight, the figure on the cross writhed
feebly, the blue lips parted. "God! daylight again, and I live--live--"
were the words which gushed out from them in a quavering shriek.
Sick with a fear that he could not control, Stephen approached the
cross, treading carefully lest he should awaken the brutal sleepers at
its foot.
"Water!" cried the sufferer. "Yes, I see it--a brown stream running
over its pebbles--a lake deep and cool. I will hide in it, my hands are
burning--no, no, they are dead."
"Here is water," said Stephen in a trembling voice, holding his flask to
the lips of the dying wretch--for he hung low, his feet almost touching
the ground.
But the man could not drink; he opened his glazing eyes, apparently not
seeing the face of angelic pity at his side, for he fell to babbling
disconnectedly of many things, mingling frightful curses on his
tormentors with prayers to the pagan gods.
Stephen sent up a swift prayer for help; he could pray now. "Listen!"
he cried, not heeding the fact that a group of wayfarers had stopped and
were regarding him with open-mouthed amazement. "Listen--thou mayest yet
be saved. Jesus of Nazareth can save thee! Master, hear--I beseech
thee--and save!"
The dim eyes were turned upon him now; there was a gleam of
understanding in them. "Art thou--Jesus--of Nazareth?"
"Nay, I am but his servant. Call upon him quickly to forgive--to save."
"Jesus--forgive--save!" gasped the failing voice, then all was still.
Stephen looked once into the quiet face of the man on the cross, then
down at the soldiers, who were beginning to stir a little. One of them
sat up and threw his arms above his head and yawned.
"By Bacchus!" he exclaimed. "I must have slept,--a murrain on these
night watches, the fellow could not have gotten away." Then his eye
fell upon Stephen. "Who art thou?" he cried, springing to his feet;
"and what art thou doing here? If now thou hast meddled with the
malefactor--ha! the fellow is gone. Didst thou give him aught to help
him to his death?"
"No, friend," answered Stephen quietly. "I but spoke to him of Jesus,
the Redeemer; and if God will, that word hath helped him to eternal
life."
The man to whom he had spoken made a motion as if to seize him, but the
other, who had also awakened, held him back.
"Let be," he said in a low voice; "he hath done no harm; 'tis Stephen,
the Nazarene."
The soldier dropped his arm. "Go," he commanded briefly; "we had orders
to allow no one near the cross of this man."
Stephen bowed his head and passed on. He walked swiftly--as he had done
before the dawn--but this time his face was steadfastly set towards
Jerusalem, and upon it shone the light of a peace which the world had
not given, and which from henceforth it was powerless to take away.
Verily, when the day breaks, the shadows flee away.