THE WATCHFUL LOVE.
Anat was spinning in the cool shadow of the house; the stones of the
little court had been newly washed, and a refreshing odor of cleanliness
mingled with the fragrance which poured out from the snowy bells of the
lilies beside the cistern. Close to her feet snuggled the three small
brown children, listening while she sang. After a time the singer
faltered a little; she was chanting the Psalm of the Watchful Love:
"Jehovah is thy keeper,
Jehovah thy abode on thy right hand;
The sun shall not hurt thee by day,
Neither the moon by night."
She paused. What was that deep, dull roar? Her face paled a little.
"Sing!" cried the boy imperatively, pulling at her robe.
"Sing!" echoed the baby, looking up at her with his soft, starry eyes.
As for the little maiden, she contented herself with softly stroking the
girl's sandaled foot.
"Jehovah keep thee from all evil."
Yes, she could surely hear a sound of tumult--what could it be?
"He will keep thy life,
--"O my God! Keep him--keep him!--
"Jehovah keep thy coming and thy going
Henceforth and forever!"
The singer started to her feet with a cry. The street door had burst
open violently, a man rushed in, ghastly, breathless, with wild staring
eyes; she at first failed to recognize Ben Obed.
"My God! they are killing him!"
"Where?"
"Outside the Damascus Gate--they are stoning him!"
Anat stood for an instant like some beautiful soulless statue of
despair. Then a wild fire leapt to her eyes.
"Tell them!" she said, and fled away out of the open door, away--away
toward the Damascus Gate.
Women stared after her, men stretched forth their hands to grasp her,
but she heeded them not; her feet seemed leaden, the minutes hours. The
Damascus Gate--would she ever reach it? Again and again Ben Obed's
awful cry sounded in her ears:
"My God! they are killing him!"
The gate--the gate at last; but it is choked with people coming in.
Men, she dimly saw, men with long robes and broad phylacteries; men to
whom the gate-keepers did reverence while they shrank back with
involuntary fear. Men who drew away from her white robe and whiter face
muttering, "A mad woman--a mad dog!"
At last she has struggled through them, outside the Damascus Gate at
last. Where--where? Yes, yonder is a crowd, it must be there.
"Let me through, for God's sake! Let me through!"
Staring stupidly at her, the crowd separated. There upon the ground,
half-hidden under a pile of stones, lay--something. She threw herself
upon her knees, pulling madly at the rough, broken rock with her
delicate fingers. Then she gave a long, heart-broken scream and fell
forward in merciful unconsciousness.
* * * * *
"My daughter." There was no answer, though the black eyes were wide
open. Mary hesitated an instant, her sad lips moved in prayer. "Anat,
my child," she said, softly. "Wilt thou not look once more upon his
face before they bear him hence. I would that thou see for thy comfort
that God hath set upon him the visible seal of his love, in that the
peace that passeth understanding is writ thereon."
The girl rose feebly. "Take me to him," she said, putting out her hand.
And Mary led her into the peaceful chamber where they had laid him. The
afternoon sun shot long rays of splendor across the face on the pillow,
beautiful with the beauty of youth and of holiness, and touched with the
sublimer beauty of death. The look that he had worn when he cried out at
sight of Jesus waiting to receive him yet lingered there, his face was
as the face of an angel who slept.
"For so he giveth his beloved sleep," murmured Mary, who stood at her
side. At that word the maiden turned and the pent-up fountain of her
tears broke forth. And the two wept together--but not as those without
hope.
And so as the sad hours crept by, devout men carried forth the dead
Stephen to his burial, making great lamentation over him. And the poor
to whom he had daily ministered, and them that he had healed and
comforted from all the city and the country round about followed him to
the tomb; and the streets of the city were filled with the sound of the
wailing and loud crying.
As for the men which had done this thing, they hid themselves; and some
of them exulted because that an enemy was dead, and some were ashamed,
while others still--amongst them Saul of Tarsus--listened to the sound
of the wailing, and shook their fists.
"It is the beginning of lamentations for such as blaspheme the law,"
said these. "To-morrow they will forget this dead man in the multitude
of their own distresses."
In the house of John, the family sat that evening on the house-top as
was their wont, and they talked together of him that had gone; and while
they mourned indeed they also rejoiced, for they knew that he had fought
a good fight, and that while the earth-clouds hung dark and threatening
above their heads, this beloved one had passed through and beyond and
was safe forever more.
John remembered the words of Jesus how on that last night he had said to
them, "Let not your hearts be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also
in me. In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I
would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you, and I will come
again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be
also."
While he yet spake, another came suddenly into their midst, a ghastly,
despairing figure, his garments hanging in rags about him, his face torn
and bleeding. And as they looked in amazement and affright, the man
spoke and his voice was hoarse and weak, as of one who had wept many
hours.
"I am a dying man," he said, "for I will expiate my guilt before
to-morrow's sun rise upon the earth. But first I must confess before
you what I have done, then if thou wilt slay me for it I shall rejoice,
in that I shall be spared the further guilt of taking my own wretched
life."
"Ben Obed!" cried Anat, with a sudden premonition of what he was about
to confess.
"Yes, Ben Obed, apostate--false witness--false friend--murderer." And
he poured out in rapid disjointed sentences the story of his part in
that awful day's work. There was silence when he had finished, and the
wretched man turned blindly as if to go away, but John laid a detaining
hand upon his arm.
"Stay," he said, and there was the boundless love and forgiveness of
Jesus in his voice. "Thou hast indeed sinned, and grievously, but he
forgave thee at the last, even as did Christ when he prayed for them
that slew him. And thinkest thou not that he would bid thee live--live
to carry on the task which he has left unfinished?"
"I am unworthy," groaned Ben Obed.
"Which of us is worthy?" said Peter. "Behold, I denied the Lord himself
with curses, yet he bade me care for the church, saying unto me, 'Simon,
Simon, behold Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as
wheat; but I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not. And when
thou art converted strengthen thy brethren.' I wot that this word was
not for me only, but for all them that have been tempted beyond that
they can bear."
And when Ben Obed heard this, he fell on his knees weeping, and they all
prayed with him that he might yet be restored and his sins forgiven.
When presently he rose up, his face was full of hope. "Behold," he
cried, "the Lord hath forgiven me, for the burden hath been eased from
off my soul. Yet must I go away from this place whither the spirit
shall lead me." Then he turned to Anat. "Canst thou also forgive?" he
asked, and his voice trembled.
The maiden was silent, but only for a moment. She rose in her place, and
stretched out her hand toward the young man. "I forgive thee," she said
slowly, "as I know he would have me forgive."
Ben Obed kissed the extended hand humbly, then he went away whither the
Spirit led him, and no one of them saw his face more while they lived.
But in after years John heard of one who preached Christ among the
slaves of Alexandria, suffering many things for Christ's sake, and at
the last dying beneath the scourge. The name of this man was Ben Obed,
so said the pilgrim who told the thing.