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Pearl-Maiden: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #5175 · 742,570 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Pearl-Maiden: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: April 22, 2006 [eBook #5175]
                Most recently updated: June 21, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PEARL-MAIDEN: A TALE OF THE FALL OF JERUSALEM ***

[Illustration]




Pearl-Maiden

A Tale Of The Fall of Jerusalem

by H. Rider Haggard

First Published 1901.


Contents

 CHAPTER I. THE PRISON AT CÆSAREA
 CHAPTER II. THE VOICE OF A GOD
 CHAPTER III. THE GRAIN STORE
 CHAPTER IV. THE BIRTH OF MIRIAM
 CHAPTER V. MIRIAM IS ENTHRONED
 CHAPTER VI. CALEB
 CHAPTER VII. MARCUS
 CHAPTER VIII. MARCUS AND CALEB
 CHAPTER IX. THE JUSTICE OF FLORUS
 CHAPTER X. BENONI
 CHAPTER XI. THE ESSENES LOSE THEIR QUEEN
 CHAPTER XII. THE RING, THE NECKLACE AND THE LETTER
 CHAPTER XIII. WOE, WOE TO JERUSALEM
 CHAPTER XIV. THE ESSENES FIND THEIR QUEEN AGAIN
 CHAPTER XV. WHAT PASSED IN THE TOWER
 CHAPTER XVI. THE SANHEDRIM
 CHAPTER XVII. THE GATE OF NICANOR
 CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEATH-STRUGGLE OF ISRAEL
 CHAPTER XIX. PEARL-MAIDEN
 CHAPTER XX. THE MERCHANT DEMETRIUS
 CHAPTER XXI. THE CÆSARS AND PRINCE DOMITIAN
 CHAPTER XXII. THE TRIUMPH
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE SLAVE-RING
 CHAPTER XXIV. MASTER AND SLAVE
 CHAPTER XXV. THE REWARD OF SATURIUS
 CHAPTER XXVI. THE JUDGMENT OF DOMITIAN
 CHAPTER XXVII. THE BISHOP CYRIL
 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE LAMP
 CHAPTER XXIX. HOW MARCUS CHANGED HIS FAITH




TO GLADYS CHRISTIAN A DWELLER IN THE EAST
THIS EASTERN TALE IS DEDICATED
BY HER OWN AND
HER FATHER’S FRIEND

THE AUTHOR
Ditchingham: September 14, 1902.




PEARL-MAIDEN




CHAPTER I
THE PRISON AT CÆSAREA


It was but two hours after midnight, yet many were wakeful in Cæsarea
on the Syrian coast. Herod Agrippa, King of all Palestine—by grace of
the Romans—now at the very apex of his power, celebrated a festival in
honour of the Emperor Claudius, to which had flocked all the mightiest
in the land and tens of thousands of the people. The city was full of
them, their camps were set upon the sea-beach and for miles around;
there was no room at the inns or in the private houses, where guests
slept upon the roofs, the couches, the floors, and in the gardens. The
great town hummed like a hive of bees disturbed after sunset, and
though the louder sounds of revelling had died away, parties of
feasters, many of them still crowned with fading roses, passed along
the streets shouting and singing to their lodgings. As they went, they
discussed—those of them who were sufficiently sober—the incidents of
that day’s games in the great circus, and offered or accepted odds upon
the more exciting events of the morrow.

The captives in the prison that was set upon a little hill, a frowning
building of brown stone, divided into courts and surrounded by a high
wall and a ditch, could hear the workmen at their labours in the
amphitheatre below. These sounds interested them, since many of those
who listened were doomed to take a leading part in the spectacle of
this new day. In the outer court, for instance, were a hundred men
called malefactors, for the most part Jews convicted of various
political offences. These were to fight against twice their number of
savage Arabs of the desert taken in a frontier raid, people whom to-day
we should know as Bedouins, mounted and armed with swords and lances,
but wearing no mail. The malefactor Jews, by way of compensation, were
to be protected with heavy armour and ample shields. Their combat was
to last for twenty minutes by the sand-glass, when, unless they had
shown cowardice, those who were left alive of either party were to
receive their freedom. Indeed, by a kindly decree the King Agrippa, a
man who did not seek unnecessary bloodshed, contrary to custom, even
the wounded were to be spared, that is, if any would undertake the care
of them. Under these circumstances, since life is sweet, all had
determined to fight their best.

In another division of the great hall was collected a very different
company. There were not more than fifty or sixty of these, so the wide
arches of the surrounding cloisters gave them sufficient shelter and
even privacy. With the exception of eight or ten men, all of them old,
or well on in middle age, since the younger and more vigorous males had
been carefully drafted to serve as gladiators, this little band was
made of women and a few children. They belonged to the new sect called
Christians, the followers of one Jesus, who, according to report, was
crucified as a troublesome person by the governor, Pontius Pilate, a
Roman official, who in due course had been banished to Gaul, where he
was said to have committed suicide. In his day Pilate was unpopular in
Judæa, for he had taken the treasures of the Temple at Jerusalem to
build waterworks, causing a tumult in which many were killed. Now he
was almost forgotten, but very strangely, the fame of this crucified
demagogue, Jesus, seemed to grow, since there were many who made a kind
of god of him, preaching doctrines in his name that were contrary to
the law and offensive to every sect of the Jews.

Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, Levites, priests, all called out against
them. All besought Agrippa that he would be rid of them, these
apostates who profaned the land and proclaimed in the ears of a nation
awaiting its Messiah, that Heaven-born King who should break the Roman
yoke and make Jerusalem the capital of the world, that this Messiah had
come already in the guise of an itinerant preacher, and perished with
other malefactors by the death of shame.

Wearied with their importunities, the King listened. Like the
cultivated Romans with whom he associated, Agrippa had no real
religion. At Jerusalem he embellished the Temple and made offerings to
Jehovah; at Berytus he embellished the temple and made offerings there
to Jupiter. He was all things to all men and to himself—nothing but a
voluptuous time-server. As for these Christians, he never troubled
himself about them. Why should he? They were few and insignificant, no
single man of rank or wealth was to be found among them. To persecute
them was easy, and—it pleased the Jews. Therefore he persecuted them.
One James, a disciple of the crucified man called Christ, who had
wandered about the country with him, he seized and beheaded at
Jerusalem. Another, called Peter, a powerful preacher, he threw into
prison, and of their followers he slew many. A few of these were given
over to be stoned by the Jews, but the pick of the men were forced to
fight as gladiators at Berytus and elsewhere. The women, if young and
beautiful, were sold as slaves, but if matrons or aged, they were cast
to the wild beasts in the circus.

Such was the fate, indeed, that was reserved for these poor victims in
the prison on this very day of the opening of our history. After the
gladiators had fought and the other games had been celebrated, sixty
Christians, it was announced, old and useless men, married women and
young children whom nobody would buy, were to be turned down in the
great amphitheatre. Then thirty fierce lions, with other savage beasts,
made ravenous by hunger and mad with the smell of blood, were to be let
loose among them. Even in this act of justice, however, Agrippa
suffered it to be seen that he was gentle-hearted, since of his
kindness he had decreed that any whom the lions refused to eat were to
be given clothes, a small sum of money, and released to settle their
differences with the Jews as they might please.

Such was the state of public feeling and morals in the Roman world of
that day, that this spectacle of the feeding of starved beasts with
live women and children, whose crime was that they worshipped a
crucified man and would offer sacrifice to no other god, either in the
Temple or elsewhere, was much looked forward to by the population of
Cæsarea. Indeed, great sums of money were ventured upon the event, by
means of what to-day would be called sweepstakes, under the regulations
of which he who drew the ticket marked with the exact number of those
whom the lions left alive, would take the first prize. Already some
far-seeing gamblers who had drawn low numbers, had bribed the soldiers
and wardens to sprinkle the hair and garments of the Christians with
valerian water, a decoction which was supposed to attract and excite
the appetite of these great cats. Others, whose tickets were high, paid
handsomely for the employment of artifices which need not be detailed,
calculated to induce in the lions aversion to the subject that had been
treated. The Christian woman or child, it will be observed, who was to
form the _corpus vile_ of these ingenious experiments, was not
considered, except, indeed, as the fisherman considers the mussel or
the sand-worm on his hook.

Under an arch by themselves, and not far from the great gateway where
the guards, their lances in hand, could be seen pacing up and down, sat
two women. The contrast in the appearance of this pair was very
striking. One, who could not have been much more than twenty years of
age, was a Jewess, too thin-faced for beauty, but with dark and lovely
eyes, and bearing in every limb and feature the stamp of noble blood.
She was Rachel, the widow of Demas, a Græco-Syrian, and only child of
the high-born Jew Benoni, one of the richest merchants in Tyre. The
other was a woman of remarkable aspect, apparently about forty years of
age. She was a native of the coasts of Libya, where she had been
kidnapped as a girl by Jewish traders, and by them passed on to
Phœnicians, who sold her upon the slave market of Tyre. In fact she was
a high-bred Arab without any admixture of negro blood, as was shown by
her copper-coloured skin, prominent cheek bones, her straight, black,
abundant hair, and untamed, flashing eyes. In frame she was tall and
spare, very agile, and full of grace in every movement. Her face was
fierce and hard; even in her present dreadful plight she showed no
fear, only when she looked at the lady by her side it grew anxious and
tender. She was called Nehushta, a name which Benoni had given her when
many years ago he bought her upon the market-place. In Hebrew Nehushta
means copper, and this new slave was copper-coloured. In her native
land, however, she had another name, Nou, and by this name she was
known to her dead mistress, the wife of Benoni, and to his daughter
Rachel, whom she had nursed from childhood.

The moon shone very brightly in a clear sky, and by the light of it an
observer, had there been any to observe where all were so occupied with
their own urgent affairs, could have watched every movement and
expression of these women. Rachel, seated on the ground, was rocking
herself to and fro, her face hidden in her hands, and praying. Nehushta
knelt at her side, resting the weight of her body on her heels as only
an Eastern can, and stared sullenly at nothingness.

Presently Rachel, dropping her hands, looked at the tender sky and
sighed.

“Our last night on earth, Nou,” she said sadly. “It is strange to think
that we shall never again see the moon floating above us.”

“Why not, mistress? If all that we have been taught is true, we shall
see that moon, or others, for ever and ever, and if it is not true,
then neither light nor darkness will trouble us any more. However, for
my own part I don’t mean that either of us should die to-morrow.”

“How can you prevent it, Nou?” asked Rachel with a faint smile. “Lions
are no respecters of persons.”

“Yet, mistress, I think that they will respect my person, and yours,
too, for my sake.”

“What do you mean, Nou?”

“I mean that I do not fear the lions; they are country-folk of mine and
roared round my cradle. The chief, my father, was called Master of
Lions in our country because he could tame them. Why, when I was a
little child I have fed them and they fawned upon us like dogs.”

“Those lions are long dead, Nou, and the others will not remember.”

“I am not sure that they are dead; at least, blood will call to blood,
and their company will know the smell of the child of the Master of
Lions. Whoever is eaten, we shall escape.”

“I have no such hope, Nou. To-morrow we must die horribly, that King
Agrippa may do honour to his master, Cæsar.”

“If you think that, mistress, then let us die at once rather than be
rent limb from limb to give pleasure to a stinking mob. See, I have
poison hidden here in my hair. Let us drink of it and be done: it is
swift and painless.”

“Nay, Nou, it would not be right. I may lift no hand against my own
life, or if perchance I may, I have to think of another life.”

“If you die, the unborn child must die also. To-night or to-morrow,
what does it matter?”

“Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Who knows? To-morrow
Agrippa may be dead, not us, and then the child might live. It is in
the hand of God. Let God decide.”

“Lady,” answered Nehushta, setting her teeth, “for your sake I have
become a Christian, yes, and I believe. But I tell you this—while I
live no lion’s fangs shall tear that dear flesh of yours. First if need
be, I will stab you there in the arena, or if they take my knife from
me, then I will choke you, or dash out your brains against the posts.”

“It may be a sin, Nou; take no such risk upon your soul.”

“My soul! What do I care about my soul? You are my soul. Your mother
was kind to me, the poor slave-girl, and when you were an infant, I
rocked you upon my breast. I spread your bride-bed, and if need be, to
save you from worse things, I will lay you dead before me and myself
dead across your body. Then let God or Satan—I care not which—deal with
my soul. At least, I shall have done my best and died faithful.”

“You should not speak so,” sighed Rachel. “But, dear, I know it is
because you love me, and I wish to die as easily as may be and to join
my husband. Only if the child could have lived, as I think, all three
of us would have dwelt together eternally. Nay, not all three, all
four, for you are well-nigh as dear to me, Nou, as husband or as
child.”

“That cannot be, I do not wish that it should be, who am but a slave
woman, the dog beneath the table. Oh! if I could save you, then I would
be glad to show them how this daughter of my father can bear their
torments.”

The Libyan ceased, grinding her teeth in impotent rage. Then suddenly
she leant towards her mistress, kissed her fiercely on the cheek and
began to sob, slow, heavy sobs.

“Listen,” said Rachel. “The lions are roaring in their dens yonder.”

Nehushta lifted her head and hearkened as a hunter hearkens in the
desert. True enough, from near the great tower that ended the southern
wall of the amphitheatre, echoed short, coughing notes and fierce
whimperings, to be followed presently by roar upon roar, as lion after
lion joined in that fearful music, till the whole air shook with the
volume of their voices.

“Aha!” cried a keeper at the gate—not the Roman soldier who marched to
and fro unconcernedly, but a jailor, named Rufus, who was clad in a
padded robe and armed with a great knife. “Aha! listen to them, the
pretty kittens. Don’t be greedy, little ones—be patient. To-night you
will purr upon a full stomach.”

“Nine of them,” muttered Nehushta, who had counted the roars, “all
bearded and old, royal beasts. To hearken to them makes me young again.
Yes, yes, I smell the desert and see the smoke rising from my father’s
tents. As a child I hunted them, now they will hunt me; it is their
hour.”

“Give me air! I faint!” gasped Rachel, sinking against her.

With a guttural exclamation of pity Nehushta bent down. Placing her
strong arms beneath the slender form of her young mistress, and lifting
her as though she were a child, she carried her to the centre of the
court, where stood a fountain; for before it was turned to the purposes
of a jail once this place had been a palace. Here she set her mistress
on the ground with her back against the stonework, and dashed water in
her face till presently she was herself again.

While Rachel sat thus—for the place was cool and pleasant and she could
not sleep who must die that day—a wicket-gate was opened and several
persons, men, women, and children, were thrust through it into the
court.

“Newcomers from Tyre in a great hurry not to lose the lions’ party,”
cried the facetious warden of the gate. “Pass in, my Christian friends,
pass in and eat your last supper according to your customs. You will
find it over there, bread and wine in plenty. Eat, my hungry friends,
eat before you are eaten and enter into Heaven or—the stomach of the
lions.”

An old woman, the last of the party, for she could not walk fast,
turned round and pointed at the buffoon with her staff.

“Blaspheme not, you heathen dog!” she said, “or rather, blaspheme on
and go to your reward! I, Anna, who have the gift of prophecy, tell
you, renegade who were a Christian, and therefore are doubly guilty,
that _you_ have eaten your last meal—on earth.”

The man, a half-bred Syrian who had abandoned his faith for profit and
now tormented those who were once his brethren, uttered a furious curse
and snatched a knife from his girdle.

“You draw the knife? So be it, perish by the knife!” said Anna. Then
without heeding him further the old woman hobbled on after her
companions, leaving the man to slink away white to the lips with
terror. He had been a Christian and knew something of Anna and of this
“gift of prophecy.”

The path of these strangers led them past the fountain, where Rachel
and Nehushta rose to greet them as they came.

“Peace be with you,” said Rachel.

“In the name of Christ, peace,” they answered, and passed on towards
the arches where the other captives were gathered. Last of all, at some
distance behind the rest, came the white-haired woman, leaning on her
staff.

As she approached, Rachel turned to repeat her salutation, then uttered
a little cry and said:

“Mother Anna, do you not know me, Rachel, the daughter of Benoni?”

“Rachel!” she answered, starting. “Alas! child, how came you here?”

“By the paths that we Christians have to tread, mother,” said Rachel,
sadly. “But sit; you are weary. Nou, help her.”

Anna nodded, and slowly, for her limbs were stiff, sank down on to the
step of the fountain.

“Give me to drink, child,” she said, “for I have been brought upon a
mule from Tyre, and am athirst.”

Rachel made her hands into a cup, for she had no other, and held water
to Anna’s lips, which she drank greedily, emptying them many times.

“For this refreshment, God be praised. What said you? The daughter of
Benoni a Christian! Well, even here and now, for that God be praised
also. Strange that I should not have heard of it; but I have been in
Jerusalem these two years, and was brought back to Tyre last Sabbath as
a prisoner.”

“Yes, Mother, and since then I have become both wife and widow.”

“Whom did you marry, child?”

“Demas, the merchant. They killed him in the amphitheatre yonder at
Berytus six months ago,” and the poor woman began to sob.

“I heard of his end,” replied Anna. “It was a good and noble one, and
his soul rests in Heaven. He would not fight with the gladiators, so he
was beheaded by order of Agrippa. But cease weeping, child, and tell me
your story. We have little time for tears, who, perhaps, soon will have
done with them.”

Rachel dried her eyes.

“It is short and sad,” she said. “Demas and I met often and learned to
love each other. My father was no friend to him, for they were rivals
in trade, but in those days knowing no better, Demas followed the faith
of the Jews; therefore, because he was rich my father consented to our
marriage, and they became partners in their business. Afterwards,
within a month indeed, the Apostles came to Tyre, and we attended their
preaching—at first, because we were curious to learn the truth of this
new faith against which my father railed, for, as you know, he is of
the strictest sect of the Jews; and then, because our hearts were
touched. So in the end we believed, and were baptised, both on one
night, by the very hand of the brother of the Lord. The holy Apostles
departed, blessing us before they went, and Demas, who would play no
double part, told my father of what we had done. Oh! mother, it was
awful to see. He raved, shouted and cursed us in his rage, blaspheming
Him we worship. More, woe is me that I should have to tell it: When we
refused to become apostates he denounced us to the priests, and the
priests denounced us to the Romans, and we were seized and thrown into
prison; but my husband’s wealth, most of it except that which the
priests and Romans stole, stayed with my father. For many months we
were held in prison here in Cæsarea; then they took my husband to
Berytus, to be trained as a gladiator, and murdered him. Here I have
stayed since with this beloved servant, Nehushta, who also became a
Christian and shared our fate, and now, by the decree of Agrippa, it is
my turn and hers to die to-day.”

“Child, you should not weep for that; nay, you should be glad who at
once will find your husband and your Saviour.”

“Mother, I am glad; but, you see my state. It is for the child’s sake I
weep, that now never will be born. Had it won life even for an hour all
of us would have dwelt together in bliss until eternity. But it cannot
be—it cannot be.”

Anna looked at her with her piercing eyes.

“Have you, then, also the gift of prophecy, child, who are so young a
member of the Church, that you dare to say that this or that cannot be?
The future is in the hand of God. King Agrippa, your father, the
Romans, the cruel Jews, those lions that roar yonder, and we who are
doomed to feed them, are all in the hand of God, and that which He
wills shall befall, and no other thing. Therefore, let us praise Him
and rejoice, and take no thought for the morrow, unless it be to pray
that we may die and go hence to our Master, rather than live on in
doubts and terrors and tribulations.”

“You are right, mother,” answered Rachel, “and I will try to be brave,
whatever may befall; but my state makes me feeble. The spirit, truly,
is willing, but oh! the flesh is weak. Listen, they call us to partake
of the Sacrament of the Lord—our last on earth”; and rising, she began
to walk towards the arches.

Nehushta stayed to help Anna to her feet. When she judged her mistress
to be out of hearing she leaned down and whispered:

“Mother, you have the gift; it is known throughout the Church. Tell me,
will the child be born?”

The old woman fixed her eyes upon the heavens, then answered, slowly:

“The child will be born and live out its life, and I think that none of
us are doomed to die this day by the jaws of lions, though some of us
may die in another fashion. But I think also that your mistress goes
very shortly to join her husband. Therefore it was that I showed her
nothing of what came into my mind.”

“Then it is best that I should die also, and die I will.”

“Wherefore?”

“Because I go to wait upon my mistress.”

“Nay, Nehushta,” answered Anna, sternly, “you stay to guard her child,
whereof when all these earthly things are done you must give account to
her.”




CHAPTER II
THE VOICE OF A GOD


Of all the civilisations whose records lie open to the student, that of
Rome is surely one of the most wonderful. Nowhere, not even in old
Mexico, was high culture so completely wedded to the lowest barbarism.
Intellect Rome had in plenty; the noblest efforts of her genius are
scarcely to be surpassed; her law is the foundation of the best of our
codes of jurisprudence; art she borrowed but appreciated; her military
system is still the wonder of the world; her great men remain great
among a multitude of subsequent competitors. And yet how pitiless she
was! What a tigress! Amid all the ruins of her cities we find none of a
hospital, none, I believe, of an orphan school in an age that made many
orphans. The pious aspirations and efforts of individuals seem never to
have touched the conscience of the people. Rome incarnate had no
conscience; she was a lustful, devouring beast, made more bestial by
her intelligence and splendour.

King Agrippa in practice was a Roman. Rome was his model, her ideals
were his ideals. Therefore he built amphitheatres in which men were
butchered, to the exquisite delight of vast audiences. Therefore, also,
without the excuse of any conscientious motive, however insufficient or
unsatisfactory, he persecuted the weak because they were weak and their
sufferings would give pleasure to the strong or to those who chanced to
be the majority of the moment.

The season being hot it was arranged that the great games in honour of
the safety of Cæsar, should open each day at dawn and come to an end an
hour before noon. Therefore from midnight onwards crowds of spectators
poured into the amphitheatre, which, although it would seat over twenty
thousand, was not large enough to contain them all. An hour before the
dawn the place was full, and already late comers were turned back from
its gates. The only empty spaces were those reserved for the king, his
royal guests, the rulers of the city, with other distinguished
personages, and for the Christian company of old men, women and
children destined to the lions, who, it was arranged, were to sit in
full view of the audience until the time came for them to take their
share in the spectacle.

When Rachel joined the other captives she found that a long rough table
had been set beneath the arcades, and on it at intervals, pieces of
bread and cups and vases containing wine of the country that had been
purchased at a great price from the guards. Round this table the elders
or the infirm among the company were seated on a bench, while the rest
of the number, for whom there was not room, stood behind them. At its
head was an old man, a bishop among the Christians, one of the five
hundred who had seen the risen Lord and received baptism from the hands
of the Beloved Disciple. For some years he had been spared by the
persecutors of the infant Church on account of his age, dignity, and
good repute, but now at last fate seemed to have overtaken him.

The service was held; the bread and wine, mixed with water, were
consecrated with the same texts by which they are blessed to-day, only
the prayers were extempore. When all had eaten from the platters and
drunk from the rude cups, the bishop gave his blessing to the
community. Then he addressed them. This, he told them, was an occasion
of peculiar joy, a love-feast indeed, since all they who partook of it
were about to lay down the burden of the flesh and, their labours and
sorrows ended, to depart into bliss eternal. He called to their memory
the supper of the Passover which had taken place within the lifetime of
many of them, when the Author and Finisher of their faith had declared
to the disciples that He would drink no more wine till He drank it new
with them in His kingdom. Such a feast it was that lay spread before
them this night. Let them be thankful for it. Let them not quail in the
hour of trial. The fangs of the savage beasts, the shouts of the still
more savage spectators, the agony of the quivering flesh, the last
terror of their departing, what were these? Soon, very soon, they would
be done; the spears of the soldiers would despatch the injured, and
those among them whom it was ordained should escape, would be set free
by the command of the representative of Cæsar, that they might
prosecute the work till the hour came for them to pass on the torch of
redemption to other hands. Let them rejoice, therefore, and be very
thankful, and walk to the sacrifice as to a wedding feast. “Do you not
rejoice, my brethren?” he asked. With one voice they answered, “We
rejoice!” Yes, even the children answered thus.

Then they prayed again, and again with uplifted hands the old man
blessed them in the holy Triune Name.

Scarcely had this service, as solemn as it was simple, been brought to
an end when the head jailer, whose blasphemous jocosity since his
reproof by Anna was replaced by a mien of sullen venom, came forward
and commanded the whole band to march to the amphitheatre. Accordingly,
two by two, the bishop leading the way with the sainted woman Anna,
they walked to the gates. Here a guard of soldiers was waiting to
receive them, and under their escort they threaded the narrow, darkling
streets till they came to that door of the amphitheatre which was used
by those who were to take part in the games. Now, at a word from the
bishop, they began to chant a solemn hymn, and singing thus, were
thrust along the passages to the place prepared for them. This was not,
as they expected, a prison at the back of the amphitheatre, but, as has
been said, a spot between the enclosing wall and the podium, raised a
little above the level of the arena. Here, on the eastern side of the
building, they were to sit till their turn came to be driven by the
guards through a little wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving
beasts of prey would be loosed upon them.

It was now the hour before sunrise, and the moon having set, the vast
theatre was plunged in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray
torches and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the gorgeous,
but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa. This gloom seemed to oppress
the audience with which the place was crowded; at any rate none of them
shouted or sang, or even spoke loudly. They addressed each other in
muffled tones, with the result that the air seemed to be full of
mysterious whisperings. Had this poor band of condemned Christians
entered the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted with
ironical cries and tauntings of “Dogs’ meat!” and with requests that
they should work a miracle and let the people see them rise again from
the bellies of the lions. But now, as their solemn song broke upon the
silence, it was answered only by one great murmur, which seemed to
shape itself to the words, “the Christians! The doomed Christians!”

By the light of a single torch the band took their places. Then once
more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished, the bishop stood
up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the mighty
throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him. Strangely
enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech served to
while away the weary time of waiting.

“Men and brethren,” he began, in his thin, piercing notes, “princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumæa, of
Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an old
man destined and glad to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the
story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate, since
to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt.”

“Be silent!” cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, “and cease
preaching your accursed faith!”

“Let him alone,” answered other voices. “We will hear this story of
his. We say—let him alone.”

Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and
yet so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes
none cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away listener cried:

“Why must these people die who are better than we?”

“Friend,” answered the bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy
silence seemed to search out even the recesses of the great and crowded
place, “we must die because it is the will of King Agrippa, to whom God
has given power to destroy us. Mourn not for us because we perish
cruelly, since this is the day of our true birth, but mourn for King
Agrippa, at whose hands our blood will be required, and mourn, mourn
for yourselves, O people. The death that is near to us perchance is
nearer still to some of you; and how will you awaken who perish in your
sins? What if the sword of God should empty yonder throne? What if the
voice of God should call on him who fills it to make answer of his
deeds? Soon or late, O people, it will call on him and you to pass
hence, some naturally in your age, others by the sharp and dreadful
roads of sword, pestilence or famine. Already those woes which He whom
you crucified foretold, knock at your door, and within a few short
years not one of you who crowd this place in thousands will draw the
breath of life. Nothing will remain of you on earth save the fruit of
those deeds which you have done—these and your bones, no more. Repent
you, therefore, repent while there is time; for I, whom you have
doomed, I am bidden to declare that judgment is at hand. Yes, even now,
although you see him not, the Angel of the Lord hangs over you and
writes your names within his book. Now while there is time I would pray
for you and for your king. Farewell.”

As he spoke those words “the Angel of the Lord hangs over you,” so
great was the preacher’s power, and in that weary darkness so sharply
had he touched the imagination of his strange audience, that with a
sound like to the stir of rustling trees, thousands of faces were
turned upwards, as though in search of that dread messenger.

“Look, look!” screamed a hundred voices, while dim arms pointed to some
noiseless thing that floated high above them against the background of
the sky, which grew grey with the coming dawn. It appeared and
disappeared, appeared again, then seemed to pass downward in the
direction of Agrippa’s throne, and vanished.

“It is that magician’s angel,” cried one, and the multitudes groaned.

“Fool,” said another, “it was but a bird.”

“Then for Agrippa’s sake,” shrilled a new voice, “the gods send that it
was not an owl.”

Thereat some laughed, but the most were silent. They knew the story of
King Agrippa and the owl, and how it had been foretold that this spirit
in the form of a bird would appear to him again in the hour of his
death, as it had appeared to him in the hour of his triumph.[*]

[*] See Josephus, “Antiquities of the Jews,” Book XVII., Chap. VI.,
Sec. 7; and Book XIX., Chap. VIII., Sec. 2.


Just then from the palace to the north arose a sound of the blare of
trumpets. Now a herald, speaking on the summit of the great eastern
tower, called out that it was dawn above the mountains, and that King
Agrippa came with all his company, whereon the preaching of the old
Christian and his tale of a watching Vengeance were instantly
forgotten. Presently the glad, fierce notes of the trumpets drew
nearer, and in the grey of the daybreak, through the great bronze gates
of the Triumphal Way that were thrown open to greet him, advanced
Agrippa, wonderfully attired and preceded by his legionaries. At his
right walked Vibius Marsus, the Roman President of Syria, and on his
left Antiochus, King of Commagena, while after him followed other
kings, princes, and great men of his own and foreign lands.

Agrippa mounted his golden throne while the multitude roared a welcome,
and his company were seated around and behind him according to their
degree.

Once more the trumpets sounded, and the gladiators of different arms,
headed by the equites who fought on horseback, numbering in all more
than five hundred men, were formed up in the arena for the preliminary
march past—the salutation of those about to die to their emperor and
lord. Now, that they also might take their part in the spectacle, the
band of Christian martyrs were thrust through the door in the podium,
and to make them seem as many as possible in number, marshalled two by
two.

Then the march past began. Troop by troop, arrayed in their shining
armour and armed, each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the
gladiators halted in front of Agrippa’s throne, giving to him the
accustomed salutation of “Hail, King, we who are about to die, salute
thee,” to be rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the
approving audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley,
wretched-looking group, made up of old men, terrified children clinging
to their mothers, and ill-clad, dishevelled women. At the pitiful
sight, that very mob which a few short minutes before had hung upon the
words of the bishop, their leader, now, as they watched them hobbling
round the arena in the clear, low light of the dawning, burst into
peals of laughter and called out that each of them should be made to
lead his lion. Quite heedless of these scoffs and taunts, they trudged
on through the white sand that soon would be so red, until they came
opposite to the throne.

“Salute!” roared the audience.

The bishop held up his hand and all were silent. Then, in the thin
voice with which they had become familiar, he said:

“King, we who are about to die—forgive thee. May God do likewise.”

Now the multitude ceased laughing, and with an impatient gesture,
Agrippa motioned to the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly; but
Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk so fast as her
companions. Alone she reached the saluting-place after all had left it,
and halted there.

“Forward!” cried the officers. But she did not move nor did she speak.
Only leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the face of the
king Agrippa. Some impulse seemed to draw his eyes to hers. They met,
and it was noted that he turned pale. Then straightening herself with
difficulty upon her tottering feet, Anna raised her staff and pointed
with it to the golden canopy above the head of Herod. All stared
upward, but saw nothing, for the canopy was still in the shadow of the
velarium which covered all the outer edge of the cavea, leaving the
centre open to the sky. It would appear, however, that Agrippa did see
something, for he who had risen to declare the games open, suddenly
sank back upon his throne, and remained thus lost in thought. Then Anna
limped forward to join her company, who once more were driven through
the little gate in the wall of the arena.

For a second time, with an effort, Agrippa lifted himself from his
throne. As he rose the first level rays of sunrise struck full upon
him. He was a tall and noble-looking man, and his dress was glorious.
To the thousands who gazed upon him from the shadow, set in that point
of burning light he seemed to be clothed in a garment of glittering
silver. Silver was his crown, silver his vest, silver the wide robe
that flowed from his shoulders to the ground.

“In the name of Cæsar, to the glory of Cæsar, I declare these games
open!” he cried.

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, all the multitude rose
shouting: “The voice of a god! The voice of a god! The voice of the god
Agrippa!”

Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the glory of such worship thundered at
him from twenty thousand throats made him drunken. There for a while he
stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon his splendid form, while the
multitude roared his name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils spread
to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed and slowly he
waved his arms, as though in benediction of his worshippers. Perchance
there rose before his mind a vision of the wondrous event whereby he,
the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted to this giddy
pinnacle of power. Perchance for a moment he believed that he was
indeed divine, that nothing less than the blood and right of godhead
could thus have exalted him. At least he stood there, denying naught,
while the people adored him as Jehovah is adored of the Jews and Christ
is adored of the Christians.

Then of a sudden smote the Angel of the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable
pain seized upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but
mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.

“Alas!” he cried, “I am no god, but a man, and even now the common fate
of man is on me.”

As he spoke a great white owl slid from the roof of the canopy above
him and vanished through the unroofed centre of the cavea.

“Look! look! my people!” he cried again, “the spirit that brought me
good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I die!” Then, sinking
upon his throne, he who a moment gone had received the worship of a
god, writhed there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.

Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.

“Take me hence to die,” he moaned. Now a herald cried:

“The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed. To
your homes, O people.”

For a while the multitude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken. Then
a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a roar.

“The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have
bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill them!”

Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and
thousands of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs
sat. The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards, they
surged against them like water against a rock; but climb they could
not. Those in front began to scream, those behind pressed on. Some fell
and were trodden underfoot, others clambered upon their bodies, in turn
to fall and be trodden underfoot.

“Our death is upon us!” cried one of the Nazarenes.

“Nay, life remains to us,” answered Nehushta. “Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road,” and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began
to drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one
man only, the apostate jailer Rufus.

“Stand back!” he cried, lifting his spear.

Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell
upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The
knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming
for help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was
stamped out of him. Beyond lay the broad passage of the vomitorium.
They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with the thousands who
sought to escape the panic. Some perished, some were swept onwards,
among them Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell, but the fierce
strength of the Libyan saved her mistress, till at length they found
themselves on the broad terrace facing the seashore.

“Whither now?” gasped Rachel.

“Where shall I lead you?” answered Nehushta. “Do not stay. Be swift.”

“But the others?” said Rachel, glancing back at the fighting,
trampling, yelling mob.

“God guard them! We cannot.”

“Leave me,” moaned her mistress. “Save yourself, Nou; I am spent,” and
she sank down to her knees.

“But I am still strong,” muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning
woman in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying, “Way,
way for my lady, the noble Roman, who has swooned!”

And the multitude made way.




CHAPTER III
THE GRAIN STORE


Having passed the outer terraces of the amphitheatre in safety,
Nehushta turned down a side street, and paused in the shadow of the
wall to think what she should do. So far they were safe; but even if
her strength would stand the strain, it seemed impossible that she
should carry her mistress through the crowded city and avoid recapture.
For some months they had both of them been prisoners, and as it was the
custom of the inhabitants of Cæsarea, when they had nothing else to do,
to come to the gates of their jail, and, through the bars, to study
those within, or even, by permission of the guards, to walk among them,
their appearance was known to many. Doubtless, so soon as the
excitement caused by the illness of the king had subsided, soldiers
would be sent to hunt down the fugitives who had escaped from the
amphitheatre. More especially would they search for her, Nehushta, and
her mistress, since it would be known that one of them had stabbed the
warden of the gate, a crime for which they must expect to die by
torture. Also—where could they go who had no friends, since all
Christians had been expelled the city?

No, there was but one chance for them—to conceal themselves.

Nehushta looked round her for a hiding-place, and in this matter, as in
others on that day, fortune favoured them. This street in the old days,
when Cæsarea was called Strato’s Tower, had been built upon an inner
wall of the city, now long dismantled. At a distance of a few yards
from where Nehushta had stopped stood an ancient gateway, unused save
at times by beggars who slept under it, which led nowhere, for the
outer arch of it was bricked up. Into this gateway Nehushta bore her
mistress unobserved, to find to her relief that it was quite
untenanted, though a still smouldering fire and a broken amphora
containing clean water showed her that folk had slept there who could
find no better lodging. So far so good; but here it would be scarcely
safe to hide, as the tenants or others might come back. Nehushta looked
around. In the thick wall was a little archway, beneath which commenced
a stair. Setting Rachel on the ground, she ran up it, lightly as a cat.
At the top of thirty steps, many of them broken, she found an old and
massive door. With a sigh of disappointment, the Libyan turned to
descend again; then, by an afterthought, pushed at the door. To her
surprise it stirred. Again she pushed, and it swung open. Within was a
large chamber, lighted by loopholes pierced in the thickness of the
wall, for the use of archers. Now, however, it served no military
purpose, but was used as a storehouse by a merchant of grain, for there
in a corner lay a heap of many measures of barley, and strewn about the
floor were sacks of skin and other articles.

Nehushta examined the room. No hiding-place could be better—unless the
merchant chanced to come to visit his store. Well, that must be risked.
Down she sped, and with much toil and difficulty carried her still
swooning mistress up the steps and into the chamber, where she laid her
on a heap of sacks.

Again, by an afterthought, she ventured to descend, this time to fetch
the broken jar of water. Then she closed the door, setting it fast with
a piece of wood, and began to chafe Rachel’s hands and to sprinkle her
face from the jar. Presently the dark eyes opened and her mistress sat
up.

“Is it over, and is this Paradise?” she murmured.

“I should not call the place by that name, lady,” answered Nehushta,
drily, “though perhaps, in contrast with the hell that we have left,
some might think it so. Drink!” and she held the water to her lips.

Rachel obeyed her eagerly. “Oh! it is good,” she said. “But how came we
here out of that rushing crowd?”

Before she answered, muttering “After the mistress, the maid,” Nehushta
swallowed a deep draught of water in her turn, which, indeed, she
needed sorely. Then she told her all.

“Oh! Nou,” said Rachel, “how strong and brave you are! But for you I
should be dead.”

“But for God, you mean, mistress, for I hold that He sent that
knife-point home.”

“Did you kill the man?” asked Rachel.

“I think that he died by a dagger-thrust as Anna foretold,” she
answered evasively; “and that reminds me that I had better clean the
knife, since blood on the blade is evidence against its owner.” Then
drawing the dagger from its hiding-place she rubbed it with dust, which
she took from a loop-hole, and polished it bright with a piece of hide.

Scarcely was this task accomplished to Nehushta’s satisfaction when her
quick ears caught a sound.

“For your life, be silent,” she whispered, and laid her face sideways
to a crack in the cement floor and listened. Well might she listen, for
below were three soldiers searching for her and her mistress.

“The old fellow swore that he saw a Libyan woman carrying a lady down
this street,” said one of them, the petty officer in charge, to his
companion, “and there was but a single brown-skin in the lot; so if
they aren’t here I don’t know where they can be.”

“Well,” grumbled one of the soldiers, “this place is as empty as a
drum, so we may as well be going. There’ll be fun presently which I
don’t want to miss.”

“It was the black woman who knifed our friend Rufus, wasn’t it—in the
theatre there?” asked the third soldier.

“They say so; but as he was trodden as flat as a roof-board, and they
had to take him up in pieces, it is difficult to know the truth of that
matter. Anyhow his mates are anxious to get the lady, and I should be
sorry to die as she will, when they do, or her mistress either. They
have leave to finish them in their own fashion.”

“Hadn’t we best be going?” said the first soldier, who evidently was
anxious to keep some appointment.

“Hullo!” exclaimed the second, a sharp-eyed fellow, “there’s a stair;
we had better just look up it.”

“Not much use,” answered the officer. “That old thief Amram, the
corn-merchant, has a store there, and he isn’t one of the sort to leave
it unlocked. Still, just go and see.”

Then came the sound of footsteps on the stair, and presently a man
could be heard fumbling at the further side of the door. Rachel shut
her eyes and prayed; Nehushta, drawing the knife from her bosom, crept
towards the doorway like a tigress, and placed her left hand on the
stick that held it shut. Well it was that she did so, since presently
the soldier gave a savage push that might easily have caused the wood
to slip on the cemented floor. Now, satisfied that it was really
locked, he turned and went down the steps.

With a gasp of relief Nehushta once more set her ear to the crack.

“It’s fast enough,” reported the man, “but perhaps it might be as well
to get the key from Amram and have a look.”

“Friend,” said the officer, “I think that you must be in love with this
black lady; or is it her mistress whom you admire? I shall recommend
you for the post of Christian-catcher to the cohort. Now we’ll try that
house at the corner, and if they are not there, I am off to the palace
to see how his godship is getting on with that stomach-ache and whether
it has moved him to order payment of our arrears. If he hasn’t, I tell
you flatly that I mean to help myself to something, and so do the rest
of the lads, who are mad at the stopping of the games.”

“It would be much better to get that key from Amram and have a look
upstairs,” put in number two soldier reflectively.

“Then go to Amram, or to Pluto, and ask for the key of Hades for aught
I care!” replied his superior with irritation. “He lives about a league
off at the other end of the town.”

“I do not wish for the walk,” said the conscientious soldier; “but as
we are searching for these escaped Christians, by your leave, I do
think it would have been much better to have got that key from Amram
and peeped into the chamber upstairs.”

Thereon the temper of the officer, already ruffled by the events of the
morning and the long watch of the preceding night, gave way, and he
departed, consigning the Christians, escaped or recaptured, Amram and
the key, his subordinate, and even the royal Agrippa who did not pay
his debts, to every infernal god of every religion with which he was
acquainted.

Nehushta lifted her head from the floor.

“Thanks be to God! They are gone,” she said.

“But, Nou, will they not come back? Oh! I fear lest they should come
back.”

“I think not. That sharp-nosed rat has made the other angry, and I
believe that he will find him some harder task than the seeking of a
key from Amram. Still, there is danger that this Amram may appear
himself to visit his store, for in these days of festival he is sure to
be selling grain to the bakers.”

Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a key rattled, the door
was pushed sharply, and the piece of wood slipped and fell. Then the
hinges creaked, and Amram—none other—entered, and, closing the door
behind him, locked it, leaving the key in the lock.

Amram was a shrewd-faced, middle-aged Phœnician and, like most
Phœnicians of that day, a successful trader, this corn-store
representing only one branch of his business. For the rest he was clad
in a quiet-coloured robe and cap, and to all appearance unarmed.

Having locked the door, he walked to a little table, beneath which
stood a box containing his tablets whereon were entered the amounts of
corn bought and delivered, to come face to face with Nehushta.
Instantly she slid between him and the door.

“Who in the name of Moloch are you?” he asked, stepping back
astonished, to perceive as he did so, Rachel seated on the heap of
sacks; “and you,” he added. “Are you spirits, thieves, ladies in search
of a lodging, or—perchance those two Christians whom the soldiers are
looking for in yonder house?”

“We are the two Christians,” said Rachel desperately. “We fled from the
amphitheatre, and have taken refuge here, where they nearly found us.”

“This,” said Amram solemnly, “comes of not locking one’s office. Do not
misunderstand me; it was no fault of mine. A certain apprentice is to
blame, to whom I shall have a word to say. In fact, I think that I will
say it at once,” and he stepped towards the door.

“Indeed you will not,” interrupted Nehushta.

“And pray, my Libyan friend, how will you prevent me?”

“By putting a knife into your gizzard, as I did through that of the
renegade Rufus an hour or two ago! Ah! I see you have heard the story.”

Amram considered, then replied:

“And what if I also have a knife?”

“In that case,” said Nehushta, “draw it, and we will see which is the
better, man or woman. Merchant, your weapon is your pen. You have not a
chance with me, an Arab of Libya, and you know it.”

“Yes,” answered Amram, “I think I do; you desert folk are so reckless
and athletic. Also, to be frank, as you may have guessed, I am unarmed.
Now, what do you propose?”

“I propose that you get us safely out of Cæsarea, or, if you prefer it,
that we shall all die here in this grain-store, for, by whatever god
you worship, Phœnician, before a hand is laid upon my mistress or me,
this knife goes through your heart. I owe no love to your people, who
bought me, a king’s daughter, as a slave, and I shall be quite happy to
close my account with one of them. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, perfectly. Why show such temper? The affair is one of
business; let us discuss it in a business spirit. You wish to escape
from Cæsarea; I wish you to escape from my grain-store. Let me go out
and arrange the matter.”

“On a plank; not otherwise unless we accompany you,” answered Nehushta.
“Man, why do you waste words with us. Listen. This lady is the only
child of Benoni, the great merchant of Tyre. Doubtless you know him?”

“To my cost,” replied Amram, with a bow. “Three times has he
overreached me in various bargains.”

“Very well; then you know also that he is rich and will pay him
liberally who rescues his daughter from great peril.”

“He might do so, but I am not sure.”

“I am sure,” answered Nehushta, “and for this service my mistress here
will give you a bill for any reasonable sum drawn upon her father.”

“Yes, but the question is—will he honour it? Benoni is a prejudiced
man, a very prejudiced man, a Jew of the Jews, who—does not like
Christians.”

“I think that he will honour it, I believe that he will honour it; but
that risk is yours. See here, merchant, a doubtful draft is better than
a slit throat.”

“Quite so. The argument is excellent. But you desire to escape. If you
keep me here, how can I arrange the matter?”

“That is for you to consider. You do not leave this place except in our
company, and then at the first sign of danger I drive this knife home
between your shoulders. Meanwhile my mistress is ready to sign any
moderate draft upon her father.”

“It is not necessary. Under the circumstances I think that I will trust
to the generosity of my fellow trader Benoni. Meanwhile I assure you
that nothing will give me greater happiness than to fall in with your
views. Believe me, I have no prejudice against Christians, since those
of them whom I have met were always honest and paid their debts in
full. I do not wish to see you or your mistress eaten by lions or
tortured. I shall be very glad to think that you are following the
maxims of your peculiar faith to an extreme old age, anywhere, outside
the limits of my grain-store. The question is, how can I help you do
this? At present I see no way.”

“The question is—how will you manage to keep your life in you over the
next twelve hours?” answered Nehushta grimly. “Therefore I advise you
to find a way”; and to emphasise her words she turned, and, having made
sure that the door was locked, slipped its key into the bosom of her
dress.

Amram stared at her in undisguised admiration. “I would that I were
unmarried,” he said, “which is not the case,” and he sighed; “for then,
upon my word, I should be inclined to make a certain proposal to you——”

“Nehushta—that is my name——”

“Nehushta—exactly. Well, it is out of the question.”

“Quite.”

“Therefore I have a suggestion to make. To-night a ship of mine sails
for Tyre. Will you honour me by accepting a passage on her?”

“Certainly,” answered Nehushta, “provided that you accompany us.”

“It was not my intention to go to Tyre this voyage.”

“Then your intention can be changed. Look you, we are desperate, and
our lives are at stake. Your life is also at stake, and I swear to you,
by the Holy One we worship, that before any harm comes to my mistress
you shall die. Then what will your wealth and your schemes avail you in
the grave? It is a little thing we ask of you—to help two innocent
people to escape from this accursed city. Will you grant it? Or shall I
put this dagger through your throat? Answer, and at once, or I strike
and bury you in your own corn.”

Even in that light Amram turned visibly paler. “I accept your terms,”
he said. “At nightfall I will conduct you to the ship, which sails two
hours after sunset with the evening wind. I will accompany you to Tyre
and deliver the lady over to her father, trusting to his liberality for
my reward. Meanwhile, this place is hot. That ladder leads to the roof,
which is parapeted, so that those sitting or even standing there,
cannot be seen. Shall we ascend?”

“If you go first; and remember, should you attempt to call out, my
knife is always ready.”

“Of that I am quite aware—you have said so several times. I have passed
my words, and I do not go back upon my bargains. The stars are with
you, and, come what may, I obey them.”

Accordingly they ascended to the roof, Amram going first, Nehushta
following him, and Rachel bringing up the rear. On it, projecting
inward from the parapet, was a sloping shelter once made use of by the
look-out sentry in bad or hot weather. The change from the stifling
store below with its stench of ill-cured hides, to this lofty, shaded
spot, where the air moved freely, was so pleasant to Rachel, outworn as
she was with all she had gone through, that presently she fell asleep,
not to wake again till evening. Nehushta, however, who did not go to
sleep, and Amram, employed themselves in watching the events that
passed in the city below. From this height they could see the great
square surrounding the palace, and the strange scenes being enacted
therein. It was crowded by thousands of people, for the most part
seated on the ground, clad in garments of sack-cloth and throwing dust
upon the heads of themselves, their wives and children. From all this
multitude a voice of supplication rose to heaven, which, even at that
distance, reached the ears of Nehushta and her companion in a murmur of
sound, constant and confused.

“They pray that the king may live,” said Amram.

“And I pray that he may die,” answered Nehushta.

The merchant shrugged his shoulders. “I care nothing either way,
provided that the peace is not disturbed to the injury of trade. On the
whole, however, he is a good king who causes money to be spent, which
is what kings are for—in Judæa—where they are but feathers puffed up by
the breath of Cæsar, to fall if he cease to blow. But look!”

As he spoke, a figure appeared upon the steps of the palace who made
some communication to the crowd, whereon a great wail went up to the
very skies.

“You have your wish,” said Amram; “Herod is dead or dying, and now, I
suppose, as his son is but a child, that we shall be ruled by some
accursed thief of a Roman procurator with a pocket like a sack without
a bottom. Surely that old bishop of yours who preached in the
amphitheatre this morning, must have had a hint of what was coming,
from his familiar spirit; or perhaps he saw the owl and guessed its
errand. Moreover, I think that troubles are brewing for others besides
Herod, since the old man said as much.”

“What became of him and the rest?” asked Nehushta.

“Oh! a few were trampled to death, and others the Jews stirred up the
mob to stone, saying that they had bewitched the king, which they, who
were disappointed of the games, did gladly. Some, however, are said to
have escaped, and, like yourselves, lie in hiding.”

Nehushta glanced at her mistress, now fast asleep, her pale face
resting on her arm.

“The world is hard—for Christians,” she said.

“Friend, it is hard for all, as, were I to tell you my own story, even
you would admit,” and he sighed. “At least you Christians believe in
something beyond,” he went on; “for you death is but a bridge leading
to a glorious city, and I trust that you may be right. Is not your
mistress delicate?”

Nehushta nodded.

“She was never very strong, and sorrow has done its work with her. They
killed her husband at Berytus yonder, and—her trouble is very near.”

“Yes, yes, I heard that story, also that his blood is on the hands of
her own father, Benoni. Ah! who is so cruel as a bigot Jew? Not we
Phœnicians even, of whom they say such evil. Once I had a
daughter”—here his hard face softened—“but let be, let be! Look you,
the risk is great, but what I can do I will do to save her, and you
also, friend, since, Libyan or no, you are a faithful woman. Nay, do
not doubt me. I have given my word, and if I break it willingly, then
may I perish and be devoured of dogs. My ship is small and undecked. In
that she shall not sail, but a big galley weighs for Alexandria
to-night, calling at Apollonia and Joppa, and in it I will take you
passages, saying that the lady is a relative of mine and that you are
her slave. This is my advice to you—that you go straight to Egypt,
where there are many Christians who will protect you for a while.
Thence your mistress can write to her father, and if he will receive
her, return. If not, at least she will be safe, since no writ of Herod
runs in Alexandria, and there they do not love the Jews.”

“Your counsel seems good,” said Nehushta, “if she will consent to it.”

“She must consent who, indeed, is in no case to make other plans. Now
let me go. Before nightfall I will return again with food and clothing,
and lead you to the ship.”

Nehushta hesitated.

“I say to you, do not fear. Will you not trust me?”

“Yes,” answered Nehushta, “because I must. Nay, the words are not kind,
but we are sadly placed, and it is strange to find a true friend in one
whom I have threatened with a knife.”

“I understand,” said Amram gravely. “Let the issue prove me. Now
descend that you may lock the door behind me. When I return I will
stand in the open space yonder with a slave, making pretence to re-bind
a burst bundle of merchandise. Then come down and admit me without
fear.”

When the Phœnician had gone Nehushta sat by her sleeping mistress, and
waited with an anxious heart. Had she done wisely? Would Amram betray
them and send soldiers to conduct them, not to the ship, but to some
dreadful death? Well, if so, at least she would have time to kill her
mistress and herself, and thus escape the cruelties of men. Meanwhile
she could only pray; and pray she did in her fierce, half-savage
fashion, never for herself, but for her mistress whom she loved, and
for the child that, she remembered thankfully, Anna had foretold would
be born and live out its life. Then she remembered also that this same
holy woman had said that its mother’s hours would be few, and at the
thought Nehushta wept.




CHAPTER IV
THE BIRTH OF MIRIAM


The time passed slowly, but none came to disturb them. Three hours
after noon Rachel awoke, refreshed but hungry, and Nehushta had no food
to give her except raw grain, from which she turned. Clearly and in few
words she told her mistress all that had passed, asking her consent to
the plan.

“It seems good as another,” said Rachel with a little sigh, “and I
thank you for making it, Nou, and the Phœnician, if he is a true man.
Also I do not desire to meet my father—at least, for many years. How
can I, seeing the evil which he has brought upon me?”

“Do not speak of that,” interrupted Nehushta hastily, and for a long
while they were silent.

It was an hour before sunset, or a little less, when at length Nehushta
saw two persons walk on to the patch of open ground which she watched
continually—Amram and a slave who bore a bundle on his head. Just then
the rope which bound this bundle seemed to come loose; at least, at his
master’s command, the man set it down and they began to retie it, then
advanced slowly towards the archway. Now Nehushta descended, unlocked
the door and admitted Amram, who carried the bundle.

“Where is the slave?” she asked.

“Have no fear, friend; he is trusty and watches without, not knowing
why. Come, you must both of you be hungry, and I have food. Help me
loose this cord.”

Presently the package was undone, and within it appeared, first, two
flagons of old wine, then meats more tasty than Nehushta had seen for
months, then rich cloaks and other garments made in the Phœnician
fashion, and a robe of white with coloured edges, such as was worn by
the body-slaves of the wealthy among that people. Lastly—and this Amram
produced from his own person—there was a purse of gold, enough to
support them for many weeks. Nehushta thanked him with her eyes, and
was about to speak.

“There, say nothing,” he interrupted. “I passed my word, and I have
kept it, that is all. Also on this money I shall charge interest, and
your mistress can repay it in happier days. Now listen: I have taken
the passages, and an hour after sunset we will go aboard. Only I warn
you, do not let it be known that you are escaped Christians, for the
seamen think that such folk bring them bad luck. Come, help me carry
the food and wine. After you have eaten you can both of you retire here
and robe yourselves.”

Presently they were on the roof.

“Lady,” said Nehushta, “we did well to put faith in this man. He has
come back, and see what he has brought us.”

“The blessing of God be on you, sir, who help the helpless!” exclaimed
Rachel, looking hungrily at the tempting meats which she so sorely
needed.

“Drink,” said Amram cheerfully, as he poured wine and water into a cup;
“it will hearten you, and your faith does not forbid the use of the
grape, for have I not heard you styled the society of drunkards?”

“That is only one bad name among many, sir,” said Rachel, as she took
the cup.

Then they ate and were satisfied, and afterwards descended into the
corn-store to wash with the remainder of the water, and clothe
themselves from head to foot in the fragrant and beautiful garments
that might have been made for their wear, so well had Amram judged
their sizes and needs.

By the time that they were dressed the light was dying. Still, they
waited a while for the darkness; then, with a new hope shining through
their fears, crept silently into the street, where the slave, a sturdy,
well-armed fellow, watched for them.

“To the quay,” said Amram, and they walked forward, choosing those
thoroughfares that were most quiet. It was well for them that they did
this, for now it was known that Agrippa’s sickness was mortal, the most
of the soldiers were already in a state of mutiny, and, inflamed with
wine, paraded the market-places and larger streets, shouting and
singing obscene songs, and breaking into the liquor shops and private
houses, where they drank healths to Charon, who was about to bear away
their king in his evil bark. As yet, however, they had not begun
killing those against whom they had a grudge. This happened afterwards,
though it has nothing to do with our story.

Without trouble or molestation the party reached the quay, where a
small boat with two Phœnician rowers was waiting for them. In it they
embarked, except the slave, and were rowed out to the anchorage to
board a large galley which lay half a mile or more away. This they did
without difficulty, for the night was calm, although the air hung thick
and heavy, and jagged clouds, wind-breeders as they were called, lay
upon the horizon. On the lower deck of the galley stood its captain, a
sour-faced man, to whom Amram introduced his passengers, who were, as
he declared, relatives of his own proceeding to Alexandria.

“Good,” said the captain. “Show them to their cabin, for we sail as
soon as the wind rises.”

To the cabin they went accordingly, a comfortable place stored with all
that they could need; but as they passed to it Nehushta heard a sailor,
who held a lantern in his hand, say to his companion:

“That woman is very like one whom I saw in the amphitheatre this
morning when they gave the salute to King Agrippa.”

“The gods forbid it!” answered the other. “We want no Christians here
to bring evil fortune on us.”

“Christians or no Christians, there is a tempest brewing, if I
understand the signs of the weather,” muttered the first man.

In the cabin Amram bade his guests farewell.

“This is a strange adventure,” he said, “and one that I did not look
for. May it prove to the advantage of us all. At the least I have done
my best for your safety, and now we part.”

“You are a good man,” replied Rachel, “and whatever may befall us, I
pray again that God may bless you for your kindness to His servants. I
pray also that He may lead you to a knowledge of the truth as it was
declared by the Lord and Master Whom we serve, that your soul may win
salvation and eternal life.”

“Lady,” said Amram, “I know nothing of these doctrines, but I promise
you this: that I will look into them and see whether or no they commend
themselves to my reason. I love wealth, like all my people, but I am
not altogether a time-server, or a money-seeker. Lady, I have lost
those whom I desire to find again.”

“Seek and you will find.”

“I will seek,” he answered, “though, mayhap, I shall never find.”

Thus they parted.

Presently the night breeze began to flow off the land, the great sail
was hoisted, and with the help of oars, worked by slaves, the ship
cleared the harbour and set her course for Joppa. Two hours later the
wind failed so that they could proceed only by rowing over a dead and
oily sea, beneath a sky that was full of heavy clouds. Lacking any
stars to steer by, the captain wished to cast anchor, but as the water
proved too deep they proceeded slowly, till about an hour before dawn a
sudden gust struck them which caused the galley to lean over.

“The north wind! The black north wind!” shouted the steersman, and the
sailors echoed his cry dismally, for they knew the terrors of that wind
upon the Syrian coast. Then the gale began to rage. By daylight the
waves were running high as mountains and the wind hissed through the
rigging, driving them forward beneath a small sail. Nehushta crawled
out of the cabin, and, in the light of an angry dawn, saw far away the
white walls of a city built near the shore.

“Is not that Appolonia?” she asked of the captain.

“Yes,” he answered, “it is Appolonia sure enough, but we shall not
anchor there this voyage. Now it is Alexandria for us or nothing.”

So they rushed past Appolonia and forward, climbing the slopes of the
rising seas.

Thus things went on. About mid-day the gale became a hurricane, and do
what they would they were driven forward, till at length they saw the
breakers forming on the coast. Rachel lay sick and prostrate, but
Nehushta went out of the cabin to watch.

“Are we in danger?” she asked of a sailor.

“Yes, accursed Christian,” he replied, “and you have brought it on us
with your evil eye.”

Then Nehushta returned to the cabin where her mistress lay almost
senseless with sea-sickness. On board the ship the terror and confusion
grew. For a while they were able to beat out to sea until the mast was
carried away. Then the rudder broke, and, as the oars could not be
worked in that fearful tempest, the galley began to drive shorewards.
Night fell, and who can describe the awful hours that followed? All
control of the vessel being lost, she drove onwards whither the wind
and the waves took her. The crew, and even the oar-slaves, flew to the
wine with which she was partly laden, and strove to drown their terrors
in drink. Thus inflamed, twice some of them came to the cabin,
threatening to throw their passengers overboard. But Nehushta barred
the door and called through it that she was well armed and would kill
the first man who tried to lay a hand upon her. So they went away, and
after the second visit grew too drunken to be dangerous.

Again the dawn broke over the roaring, foaming sea and revealed the
fate that awaited them. Not a mile away lay the grey line of shore, and
between them and it a cruel reef on which the breakers raged. Towards
this reef they were driving fast. Now the men grew sober in their fear,
and began to build a large raft of oars and timber; also to make ready
the boat which the galley carried. Before all was done she struck beak
first, and was lifted on to a great flat rock, where she wallowed, with
the water seething round her. Then, knowing that their hour was come,
the crew made shift to launch the boat and raft on the lee side, and
began to clamber into them. Now Nehushta came out of the cabin and
prayed the captain to save them also, whereon he answered her with an
oath that this bad luck was because of them, and that if either she or
her mistress tried to enter the boat, they would stab them and cast
them into the sea as an offering to the storm-god.

So Nehushta struggled back to the cabin, and kneeling by the side of
her mistress, with tears told her that these black-hearted sailors had
left them alone upon the ship to drown. Rachel answered that she cared
little, but only desired to be free of her fear and misery.

As the words left her lips, Nehushta heard a sound of screaming, and
crawling to the bulwarks, looked forth to see a dreadful sight. The
boat and the raft, laden with a great number of men who were fighting
for places with each other, having loosed from the lee of the ship,
were come among the breakers, which threw them up as a child throws a
ball at play. Even while Nehushta gazed, their crafts were overturned,
casting them into the water, every one there to be dashed against the
rocks or drowned by the violence of the waves, so that not a man of all
that ship’s company came living to the shore.

Like tens of thousands of others on this coast in all ages, they
perished, every one of them—and that was the reward of their
wickedness.

Giving thanks to God, Who had brought them out of that danger against
their wills, Nehushta crept back to the cabin and told her mistress
what had passed.

“May they find pardon,” said Rachel, shuddering; “but as for us, it
will matter little whether we are drowned in the boat or upon the
galley.”

“I do not think that we shall drown,” answered Nehushta.

“How are we to escape it, Nou? The ship lies upon the rock, where the
great waves will batter her to pieces. Feel how she shakes beneath
their blows, and see the spray flying over us.”

“I do not know, mistress; but we shall not drown.”

Nehushta was right, for after they had remained fast a little longer
they were saved, thus: Suddenly the wind dropped, then it rose again in
a last furious squall, driving before it a very mountain of water. This
vast billow, as it rushed shorewards, caught the galley in its white
arms and lifted her not only off the rock whereon she lay, but over the
further reefs, to cast her down again upon a bed of sand and shells,
within a stone’s throw of the beach, where she remained fast, never to
shift more.

Now also, as though its work were done, the gale ceased, and, as is
common on the Syrian coast, the sea sank rapidly, so that by nightfall
it was calm again. Indeed, three hours before sunset, had both of them
been strong and well, they might have escaped to the land by wading.
But this was not to be, for now what Nehushta had feared befell, and
when she was least fitted to bear it, being worn out with anguish of
mind and weariness of body, pain took sudden hold of Rachel, of which
the end was that, before midnight, there, in that broken vessel upon a
barren coast where no man seemed to live, a daughter was born to her.

“Let me see the child,” said Rachel. So Nehushta showed it to her by
the light of a lamp which burned in the cabin.

It was a small child, but very white, with blue eyes and dark hair that
curled. Rachel gazed at it long and tenderly. Then she said, “Bring me
water while there is yet time.”

When the water was brought she dipped her trembling hand into it, and
made the sign of the Cross upon the babe’s forehead, baptising her with
the name of Miriam, after that of her own mother, to the service and
the company of Jesus the Christ.

“Now,” she said, “whether she live an hour or an hundred years, this
child is a Christian, and whatever befalls, should she come to the age
of understanding, see to it, Nou, who are henceforth the foster-mother
of her body and her soul, that she does not forget the rites and duties
of her faith. Lay this charge on her also as her father commanded, and
as I command, that should she be moved to marriage, she wed none who is
not a Christian. Tell her that such was the will of those who begat
her, and that if she be obedient to it, although they are dead, and as
it seems strengthless, yet shall their blessing be upon her all her
life’s days, and with it the blessing of the Lord she serves.”

“Oh!” moaned Nehushta, “why do you speak thus?”

“Because I am dying. Gainsay me not. I know it well. My life ebbs from
me. My prayers have been answered, and I was preserved to give this
infant birth; now I go to my appointed place and to one who waits for
me, and to the Lord in Whose care he is in Heaven, as we are in His
care on earth. Nay, do not mourn; it is no fault of yours, nor could
any physician’s skill have saved me, whose strength was spent in
suffering, and who for many months have walked the world, bearing in my
breast a broken heart. Give me of that wine to drink—and listen.”

Nehushta obeyed and Rachel went on: “So soon as my breath has left me,
take the babe and seek some village on the shore where it can be
nursed, for which service you have the means to pay. Then when she is
strong enough and it is convenient, travel, not to Tyre—for there my
father would bring up the child in the strictest rites and customs of
the Jews—but to the village of the Essenes upon the shores of the Dead
Sea. There find out my mother’s brother, Ithiel, who is of their
society, and present to him the tokens of my name and birth which still
hang about my neck, and tell him all the story, keeping nothing back.
He is not a Christian, but he is a good and gentle-hearted man who
thinks well of Christians, and is grieved at their persecution, since
he wrote to my father reproving him for his deeds towards us and, as
you know, strove, but in vain, to bring about our release from prison.
Say to him that I, his kinswoman, pray of him, as he will answer to
God, and in the name of the sister whom he loved, to protect my child
and you; to do nothing to turn her from her faith, and in all things to
deal with her as his wisdom shall direct—for so shall peace and
blessing come upon him.”

Thus spoke Rachel, but in short and broken words. Then she began to
pray, and, praying, fell asleep. When she woke again the dawn was
breaking. Signing to Nehushta to bring her the child, for now she could
no longer speak, she scanned it earnestly in the new-born light, then
placed her hand upon its head and blessed it. Nehushta she blessed
also, thanking her with her eyes and kissing her. Then again she seemed
to fall asleep, and presently, when Nehushta looked at her, Rachel was
dead.

Nehushta understood and gave a great and bitter cry, since to her after
the death of her first mistress, this woman had been all her life. As a
child she had nursed her; as a maiden shared her joys and sorrows; as a
wife and widow toiled day and night fiercely and faithfully to console
her in her desolation and to protect her in the dreadful dangers
through which she had passed. Now, to end it all, it was her lot to
receive her last breath and to take into her arms her new-born infant.

Then and there Nehushta swore that as she had done by the mother she so
would do by the child till the day when her labours ended. Were it not
for this child, indeed, they would have ended now, Christian though she
was, since she was crushed with bitter sorrow and her heart seemed void
of hope or joy. All her days had been hard—she who was born to great
place among her own wild people far away, and snatched thence to be a
slave, set apart by her race and blood from those into whose city she
was sold; she who would have naught to do with base men nor become the
plaything of those of higher birth; she who had turned Christian and
drunk deep of the tribulations of the faith; she who had centred all
her eager heart upon two beloved women, and lost them both. All her
days had been hard, and here and now, by the side of her dead mistress,
she would have ended them. But the child remained, and while it lived,
she would live. If it died, then perhaps she would die also.

Meanwhile Nehushta had no time for grief, since the babe must be fed,
and within twelve hours. Yet, as she could not bury her, and would not
throw her to the sharks, she was minded to give her mistress a royal
funeral after the custom of her own Libyan folk. Here was flame, and
what pyre could be grander than this great ship?

Lifting the body from its couch, Nehushta carried it to the deck and
laid it by the broken mast, closing the eyes and folding the hands.
Then she loosened from about the neck those tokens of which Rachel had
spoken, made some food and garments into a bundle, and, carrying the
lamp with her, went into the captain’s cabin amidships. Here a
money-box was open, and in it gold and some jewels which this man had
abandoned in his haste. These she took, adding them to her own store
and securing them about her. This done she fired the cabin, and passing
to the hold, broke a jar of oil and fired that also. Then she fled back
again, knelt by her dead mistress and kissed her, took the child,
wrapping it warmly in a shawl, and by the ladder of rope which the
sailors had used, let herself down into the quiet sea. Its waters did
not reach higher than her middle, and soon she was standing on the
shore and climbing the sandhills that lay beyond. At their summit she
turned to look, and lo! yonder where the galley was, already a great
pillar of fire shot up to heaven, for there was much oil in the hold
and it burnt furiously.

“Farewell!” she cried, “farewell!”

Then, weeping bitterly, Nehushta walked on inland.




CHAPTER V
MIRIAM IS ENTHRONED


Presently Nehushta found herself out of sight of the sea and among
cultivated land, for here were vines and fig trees grown in gardens
fenced with stone walls; also patches of ripening barley and of wheat
in the ear, much trodden down as though horses had been feeding there.
Beyond these gardens she came to a ridge, and saw beneath her a village
of many houses of green brick, some of which seemed to have been
destroyed by fire. Into this village she walked boldly, and there the
first sight that met her eyes was that of sundry dead bodies, upon
which dogs were feeding.

On she went up the main street, till she saw a woman peeping at her
over a garden wall.

“What has chanced here?” asked Nehushta, in the Syrian tongue.

“The Romans! the Romans! the Romans!” wailed the woman. “The head of
our village quarrelled with the tax-gatherers, and refused to pay his
dues to Cæsar. So the soldiers came a week ago and slaughtered nearly
all of us, and took such sheep and cattle as they could find, and with
them many of the young folk, to be sold as slaves, so that the rest are
left empty and desolate. Such are the things that chance in this
unhappy land. But, woman, who are you?”

“I am one shipwrecked!” answered Nehushta, “and I bear with me a
new-born babe—nay, the story is too long to tell you; but if in this
place there is any one who can nurse the babe, I will pay her well.”

“Give it me!” said the woman, in an eager whisper; “my child perished
in the slaughter; I ask no reward.”

Nehushta looked at her. Her eyes were wild, but she was still young and
healthy, a Syrian peasant.

“Have you a house?” she asked.

“Yes, it still stands, and my husband lives; we hid in a cave, but
alas! they slew the infant that was out with the child of a neighbour.
Quick, give me the babe.”

So Nehushta gave it to her, and thus Miriam was nurtured at the breast
of one whose offspring had been murdered because the head of the
village had quarrelled with a Roman tax-collector. Such was the world
in the days when Christ came to save it.

After she had suckled the child the woman led Nehushta to her house, a
humble dwelling that had escaped the fire, where they found the
husband, a wine-grower, mourning the death of his infant and the ruin
of his town. To him she told as much of her story as she thought well,
and proffered him a gold piece, which, so she swore, was one of ten she
had about her. He took it gladly, for now he was penniless, and
promised her lodging and protection, and the service of his wife as
nurse to the child for a month at least. So there Nehushta stayed,
keeping herself hid, and at the end of the month gave another gold
piece to her hosts, who were kindly folk that never dreamed of working
her evil or injustice. Seeing this, Nehushta found yet more money,
wherewith the man, blessing her, bought two oxen and a plough, and
hired labour to help him gather what remained of his harvest.

The shore where the infant was born upon the wrecked ship, was at a
distance of about a league from Joppa and two days’ journey from
Jerusalem, whence the Dead Sea could be reached in another two days.
When Nehushta had dwelt there for some six months, as the babe throve
and was hearty, she offered to pay the man and his wife three more
pieces of gold if they would travel with her to the neighbourhood of
Jericho, and, further, to purchase a mule and an ass for the journey,
which she would give to them when it was accomplished. The eyes of
these simple folk glistened at the prospect of so much wealth, and they
agreed readily, promising also to stay three months by Jericho, if need
were, till the child could be weaned. So a man was hired to guard the
house and vines, and they started in the late autumn, when the air was
cool and pleasant.

Of their journey nothing need be said, save that they accomplished it
without trouble, being too humble in appearance to attract the notice
of the thieves who swarmed upon the highways, or of the soldiers who
were set to catch the thieves.

Skirting Jerusalem, which they did not enter, on the sixth day they
descended into the valley of the Jordan, through the desolate hills by
which it is bordered. Camping that night outside the town, at daybreak
on the seventh morning they started, and by two hours after noon came
to the village of the Essenes. On its outskirts they halted, while
Nehushta and the nurse, bearing with them the child, that by now could
wave its arms and crow, advanced boldly into the village, where it
would appear men dwelt only—at least no women were to be seen—and asked
to be led to the Brother Ithiel.

The man to whom they spoke, who was robed in white, and engaged in
cooking outside a large building, averted his eyes in answering, as
though it were not lawful for him to look upon the face of a woman. He
said, very civilly, however, that Brother Ithiel was working in the
fields, whence he would not return till supper time.

Nehushta asked where these fields were, since she desired to speak with
him at once. The man answered that if they walked towards the green
trees that lined the banks of Jordan, which he pointed out to them,
they could not fail to find Ithiel, as he was ploughing in the
irrigated land with two white oxen, the only ones they had. Accordingly
they set out again, having the Dead Sea on their right, and travelled
for the half of a league through the thorn-scrub that grows in this
desert. Passing the scrub they came to lands which were well cultivated
and supplied with water from the Jordan by means of wheels and long
poles with a jar at one end and a weight at the other, which a man
could work, emptying the contents of the jar again and again into an
irrigation ditch.

In one of these fields they saw the two white oxen at their toil, and
behind them the labourer, a tall man of about fifty years of age,
bearded, and having a calm face and eyes that were very deep and quiet.
He was clad in a rough robe of camel’s hair, fastened about his middle
with a leathern girdle, and wore sandals on his feet. To him they went,
asking leave to speak with him, whereon he halted the oxen and greeted
them courteously, but, like the man in the village, turned his eyes
away from the faces of the women. Nehushta bade the nurse stand back
out of hearing, and, bearing the child in her arms, said:

“Sir, tell me, I pray you, if I speak to Ithiel, a priest of high rank
among this people of the Essenes, and brother to the dead lady Miriam,
wife of Benoni the Jew, a merchant of Tyre?”

At the mention of these names Ithiel’s face saddened, then grew calm
again.

“I am so called,” he answered; “and the lady Miriam is my sister, who
now dwells in the happy and eternal country beyond the ocean with all
the blessed”—for so the Essenes imagined that heaven to which they went
when the soul was freed from the vile body.

“The lady Miriam,” continued Nehushta, “had a daughter Rachel, whose
servant I was.”

“Was?” he interrupted, startled from his calm. “Has she then been put
to death by those fierce men and their king, as was as her husband
Demas?”

“Nay, sir, but she died in childbirth, and this is the babe she bore”;
and she held the sleeping little one towards him, at whom he gazed
earnestly, yes, and bent down and kissed it—since, although they saw so
few of them, the Essenes loved children.

“Tell me that sad story,” he said.

“Sir, I will both tell it and prove it to be true”; and Nehushta told
him all from the beginning to the end, producing to his sight the
tokens which she had taken from the breast of her mistress, and
repeating her last message to him word for word. When she had finished,
Ithiel turned away and mourned a while. Then, speaking aloud, he put up
a prayer to God for guidance—for without prayer these people would not
enter upon anything, however simple—and came back to Nehushta, who
stood by the oxen.

“Good and faithful woman,” he said, “who it would seem are not fickle
and light-hearted, or worse, like the multitude of your sex—perchance
because your dark skin shields you from their temptations—you have set
me in a cleft stick, and there I am held fast. Know that the rule of my
order is that we should have naught to do with females, young or old;
therefore how can I receive you or the child?”

“Of the rules of your order, sir, I know nothing,” answered Nehushta
sharply, since the words about the colour of her skin had not pleased
her; “but of the rules of nature I do know, and something of the rules
of God also, for, like my mistress and this infant, I am a Christian.
These tell me, all of them, that to cast out an orphan child who is of
your own blood, and whom a cruel fortune has thus brought to your door,
would be an evil act, and one for which you must answer to Him who is
above the rules of any order.”

“I may not wrangle, especially with a woman,” replied Ithiel, who
seemed ill at ease; “but if my first words are true, this is true also,
that those same rules enjoin upon us hospitality, and above all, that
we must not turn away the helpless or the destitute.”

“Clearly, then, sir, least of any must you turn away this child whose
blood is your blood, and whose dead mother sent her to you, that she
might not fall into the power of a grandfather who has dealt so cruelly
with those he should have cherished, to be brought up among Zealots as
a Jew and taught to make offering of living things, and be anointed
with the oil and blood of sacrifice.”

“No, no, the thought is horrible,” answered Ithiel, holding up his
hands. “It is better, far better that she should be a Christian than
one of that fanatic and blood-spilling faith.” This he said, because
among the Essenes the use of oil was held to be unclean. Also above all
things, they loathed the offering of life in sacrifice to God; who,
although they did not acknowledge Christ—perhaps because He was never
preached to them, who would listen to no new religion—practised the
most of His doctrines with the greatest strictness.

“The matter is too hard for me,” he went on. “I must lay it before a
full Court of the hundred curators, and what they decide, that will be
done. Still, this is our rule: to assist those who need and to show
mercy, to accord succour to such as deserve it, and to give food to
those in distress. Therefore, whatever the Court, which it will take
three days to summon, may decide, in the meanwhile I have the right to
give you, and those with you, shelter and provision in the guest-house.
As it chances, it is situated in that part of the village where dwell
the lowest of our brethren, who are permitted to marry, so there you
will find company of your own sex.”

“I shall be glad of it,” answered Nehushta drily. “Also I should call
them the highest of the brethren, since marriage is a law of God, which
God the Father has instituted, and God the Son has blessed.”

“I may not wrangle, I may not wrangle,” replied Ithiel, declining the
encounter; “but certainly, that is a lovely babe. Look. Its eyes are
open and they are beautiful as flowers”; and again he bent down and
kissed the child, then added with a groan of remorse, “Alas! sinner
that I am, I am defiled; I must purify myself and do penance.”

“Why?” asked Nehushta shortly.

“For two reasons: I have touched your dress, and I have given way to
earthly passion and embraced a child—twice. Therefore, according to our
rule, I am defiled.”

Then Nehushta could bear it no more.

“Defiled! you puppet of a foolish rule! It is the sweet babe that is
defiled! Look, you have fouled its garments with your grimy hand and
made it weep by pricking it with your beard. Would that your holy rule
taught you how to handle children and to respect honest women who are
their mothers, without whom there would be no Essenes.”

“I may not wrangle,” said Ithiel, nervously; for now woman was
appearing before him in a new light; not as an artful and a fickle, but
as an angry creature, reckless of tongue and not easy to be answered.
“These matters are for the decision of the curators. Have I not told
you so? Come, let us be going. I will drive the oxen, although it is
not time to loose them from the plough, and do you and your companion
walk at a distance behind me. No, not behind—in front, that I may see
that you do not drop the babe, or suffer it to come to any harm. Truly
it is sweet to look at, and, may God forgive me, I do not like to lose
sight of its face, which, it seems to me, resembles that of my sister
when she was also in arms.”

“Drop the babe!” began Nehushta; then understanding that this victim of
a rule already loved it dearly, and would suffer much before he parted
with it, pitying his weakness, she said only, “Be careful that you do
not frighten it with your great oxen, for you men who scorn women have
much to learn.”

Then, accompanied by the nurse, she stalked ahead in silence, while
Ithiel followed after at a distance, leading the cattle by the hide
loops about their horns, lest in their curiosity or eagerness to get
home, they should do some mischief to the infant or wake it from its
slumbers. In this way they proceeded to the lower part of the village,
till they came to a good house—empty as it chanced—where guests were
accommodated in the best fashion that this kind and homely folk could
afford. Here a woman was summoned, the wife of one of the lower order
of the Essenes, to whom Ithiel spoke, holding his hand before his eyes,
as though she were not good to look at. To her, from a distance, he
explained the case, bidding her to provide all things needful, and to
send a man to bring in the husband of the nurse with the beasts of
burden, and attend to his wants and theirs. Then, warning Nehushta to
be very careful of the infant and not to expose it to the sun, he
departed to report the matter to the curators, and to summon the great
Court.

“Are all of them like this?” asked Nehushta of the woman,
contemptuously.

“Yes, sister,” she answered, “fools, every one. Why, of my own husband
I see little; and although, being married, he ranks but low among them,
the man is forever telling me of the faults of our sex, and how they
are a snare set for the feet of the righteous, and given to the leading
of these same righteous astray, especially if they be not their own
husbands. At times I am tempted indeed to prove his words true. Oh! it
would not be difficult for all their high talk; I have learned as much
as that, for Nature is apt to make a mock of those who deny Nature, and
there is no parchment rule that a woman cannot bring to nothing. Yet,
since they mean well, laugh at them and let them be, say I. And now
come into the house, which is good, although did women manage it, it
would be better.”

So Nehushta went into that house with the nurse and her husband, and
there for several days dwelt in great comfort. Indeed, there was
nothing that she or the child, or those with them, could want which was
not provided in plenty. Messages reached her even, through the woman,
to ask if she would wish the rooms altered in any way, and when she
said that there was not light enough in that in which the child slept,
some of the elders of the Essenes arrived and pierced a new window in
the wall, working very hard to finish the task before sunset. Also even
the husband of the nurse was not allowed to attend to his own beasts,
which were groomed and fed for him, till at length he grew so weary of
doing nothing, that on the third day he went out to plough with the
Essenes and worked in the fields till dark.

It was on the fourth morning that the full Court gathered in the great
meeting-house, and Nehushta was summoned to appear before it, bringing
the babe with her. Thither she went accordingly, to find the place
filled with a hundred grave and reverend men, all clad in robes of the
purest white. In the lower part of that large chamber she sat alone
upon a chair, while before her upon benches ranged one above the other,
so that all could see, were gathered the hundred curators.

It seemed that Ithiel had already set out the case, since the President
at once began to question her on various points of her story, all of
which she was able to explain to the satisfaction of the Court. Then
they debated the matter among themselves, some of them arguing that as
the child was a female, as well as its nurse, neither of them could
properly be admitted to the care of the community, especially as both
were of the Christian faith, and it was stipulated that in this faith
they should remain. Others answered that hospitality was their first
duty, and that he would be weak indeed who was led aside from their
rule by a Libyan woman of middle age and an infant of a few months.
Further, that the Christians were a good people, and that there was
much in their doctrines which tallied with their own. Next, one made a
strange objection—namely, that if they adopted this child they would
learn to love it too much, who should love God and their order only. To
this another answered, Nay, they should love all mankind, and
especially the helpless.

“Mankind, not womankind,” was the reply; “for this infant will grow
into a woman.”

Now they desired Nehushta to retire that they might take the votes.
Before she went, however, holding up the child that all could see it as
it lay smiling in her arms, she implored them not to reject the prayer
of a dead woman, and so deprive this infant of the care of the relative
whom that departed lady had appointed to be its guardian, and of the
guidance and directing wisdom of their holy Order. Lastly, she reminded
them that if they thrust her out, she must carry the infant to its
grandfather, who, if he received it at all, would certainly bring it up
in the Jewish faith, and thereby, perhaps, cause it to lose its soul,
the weight of which sin would be upon their heads.

After this Nehushta was led away to another chamber and remained there
a long while, till at length she was brought back again by one of the
curators. On entering the great hall her eyes sought the face of
Ithiel, who had not been allowed to speak, since the matter having to
do with a great-niece of his own, it was held that his judgment might
be warped. Seeing that he smiled, and evidently was well pleased, she
knew her cause was won.

“Woman,” said the President, “by a great majority of this Court we have
come to an irrevocable decision upon the matter that has been laid
before it by our brother Ithiel. It is, for reasons which I need not
explain, that on this point our rule may be stretched so far as to
admit the child Miriam to our care, even though it be of the female
sex, which care is to endure until she comes to a full age of eighteen
years, when she must depart from among us. During this time no attempt
will be made to turn her from her parents’ faith in which she has been
baptised. A house will be given you to live in, and you will be
supplied with the best we have for the use of our ward Miriam and
yourself. Twice a week a deputation of the curators will visit the
house, and stay there for an hour to see that the health of the infant
is good, and that you are doing your duty by it, in which, if you fail,
you will be removed. It is prayed that you will not talk to these
curators on matters which do not concern the child. When she grows old
enough the maid Miriam will be admitted to our gatherings, and
instructed also by the most learned amongst us in all proper matters of
letters and philosophy, on which occasions you will sit at a distance
and not interfere unless your care is required.

“Now, that every one may know our decision, we will escort you back to
your house, and to show that we have taken the infant under our care,
our brother Ithiel will carry it while you walk behind and give him
such instruction in this matter as may be needful.”

Accordingly a great procession was formed, headed by the President and
ended by the priests. In the centre of the line marched Ithiel bearing
the babe Miriam, to his evident delight, and Nehushta, who instructed
him so vigorously that at length he grew confused and nearly let it
fall. Thereon, setting this detail of the judgment at defiance,
Nehushta snatched it from his arms, calling him a clumsy and ignorant
clown only fit to handle an ox. To this Ithiel made no answer, nor was
he at all wroth, but finished the journey walking behind her and
smiling foolishly.

Thus was the child Miriam, who afterwards came to be called the Queen
of the Essenes, royally escorted to her home. But little did these good
men know that it was not a house which they were giving her, but a
throne, built of the pure gold of their own gentle hearts.




CHAPTER VI
CALEB


It may be wondered whether any girl who was ever born into the world
could boast a stranger or a happier upbringing than Miriam. She was, it
is true, motherless, but by way of compensation Fate endowed her with
several hundred fathers, each of whom loved her as the apple of his
eye. She did not call them “Father” indeed, a term which under the
circumstances they thought incorrect. To her, one and all, they went by
the designation of “Uncle,” with their name added if she happened to
know it, if not as Uncle simply. It cannot be said, however, that
Miriam brought peace to the community of the Essenes. Indeed, before
she had done with them she rent it with deep and abiding jealousies, to
the intense but secret delight of Nehushta, who, although she became a
person of great importance among them as the one who had immediate
charge of their jewel, could never forgive them certain of their
doctrines or their habit of persistent interference.

The domiciliary visits which took place twice a week, and, by special
subsequent resolution passed in full Court, on the Sabbath also, were,
to begin with, the subject of much covert bitterness. At first a
standing committee was appointed to make these visits, of whom Ithiel
was one. Before two years had gone by, however, much murmuring arose in
the community upon this matter. It was pointed out in language that
became vehement—for an Essene—that so much power should not be left in
the hands of one fixed set of individuals, who might become careless or
prejudiced, or, worst of all, neglectful of the welfare of the child
who was the guest not of them only, but of the whole order. It was
demanded, therefore, that this committee should change automatically
every month, so that all might serve upon it in turn, Ithiel, as the
blood-relation of Miriam, remaining its only permanent member. This
proposal was opposed by the committee, but as no one else would vote
for them the desired alteration was made. Further, to be removed
temporarily, or for good, from its roster was thenceforth recognised as
one of the punishments of the order.

Indeed, the absurdities to which its existence gave rise, especially as
the girl grew in years, sweetness and beauty, cannot be numbered. Thus,
every visiting member must wash his whole person and clothe himself in
clean garments before he was allowed to approach the child, “lest he
should convey to her any sickness, or impure substance, or odour.” Then
there was much trouble because some members were discovered to be
ingratiating themselves with Miriam by secretly presenting her with
gifts of playthings, some of them of great beauty, which they fashioned
from wood, shells, or even hard stones. Moreover, they purveyed
articles of food such as they found the child loved; and this it was
that led to their detection, for, having eaten of them, she was ill.
Thereupon Nehushta, enraged, disclosed the whole plot, using the most
violent language, and, amidst murmurs of “Shame on them!” designating
the offenders by name. They were removed from their office, and it was
decreed that henceforth any gifts made to the child must be offered to
her by the committee as a whole, and not by a single individual, and
handed over in their name by Ithiel, her uncle.

Once, when she was seven years old, and the idol of every brother among
the Essenes, Miriam fell ill with a kind of fever which often strikes
children in the neighbourhood of Jericho and the Dead Sea. Among the
brethren were several skilful and famous physicians, who attended her
night and day. But still the fever could not be abated, and at last,
with tears, they announced that they feared for the child’s life. Then
indeed there was lamentation among the Essenes. For three days and
three nights did they wrestle in constant prayer to God that she might
be spared, many of them touching nothing but water during all that
time. Moreover, they sat about at a distance from her house, praying
and seeking tidings. If it was bad they beat their breasts, if good
they gave thanks. Never was the sickbed of a monarch watched with more
care or devotion than that of this little orphan, and never was a
recovery—for at length she did recover—received with greater
thankfulness and joy.

This was the truth. These pure and simple men, in obedience to the
strict rule they had adopted, were cut off from all the affections of
life. Yet, the foundation-stone of their doctrine being Love, they who
were human must love something, so they loved this child whom they
looked upon as their ward, and who, as there was none other of her age
and sex in their community, had no rival in their hearts. She was the
one joy of their laborious and ascetic hours; she represented all the
sweetness and youth of this self-renewing world, which to them was so
grey and sapless. Moreover, she was a lovely maid, who, wherever she
had been placed, would have bound all to her.

The years went by and the time came when, in obedience to the first
decree, Miriam must be educated. Long were the discussions which ensued
among the curators of the Essenes. At length three of the most learned
of their body were appointed to this task, and the teaching began. As
it chanced, Miriam proved an apt pupil, for her memory was good, and
she had a great desire to learn many things, more especially history
and languages, and all that has to do with nature. One of her tutors
was an Egyptian, who, brought up in the priests’ college at Thebes,
when on a journey to Judæa had fallen sick near Jericho, been nursed by
the Essenes and converted to their doctrine. From him Miriam learnt
much of their ancient civilisation, and even of the inner mysteries of
the Egyptian religion, and of its high and secret interpretations which
were known only to the priests. The second, Theophilus by name, was a
Greek who had visited Rome, and he taught her the tongues and
literature of those countries. The third, all his life long had studied
beasts and birds and insects, and the workings of nature, and the stars
and their movements, in which things he instructed her day by day,
taking her abroad with him that examples of each of them might be
before her eyes.

Lastly, when she grew older, there was a fourth master, who was an
artist. He taught Miriam how to model animals, and even men, in the
clay of the Jordan, and how to carve them out in marble, and something
of the use of pigments. Also this man, who was very clever, had a
knowledge of singing and instrumental music, which he imparted to her
in her odd hours. Thus it came about that Miriam grew learned and well
acquainted with many matters of which most girls of her day and years
had never even heard. Nor did she lack knowledge of the things of her
own faith, though in these the Essenes did not instruct her further
than its doctrines tallied with their own. Of the rest, Nehushta told
her something; moreover, on several occasions Christian travellers or
preachers visited this country to address the Essenes or the other Jews
who dwelt there. When they learned her case, these showed themselves
very eager to inform her of the Christian doctrine. Among them was one
old man who had heard the preaching of Jesus Christ, and been present
at His Crucifixion, to all of which histories the girl listened with
eagerness, remembering them to the last hour of her life.

Further, and perhaps this was the best part of her education, she lived
in the daily company of Nature. But a mile or two away spread the Dead
Sea, and along its melancholy and lifeless shores, fringed with the
white trunks of trees that had been brought down by Jordan, she would
often walk. Before her day by day loomed the mountains of Moab, while
behind her were the fantastic and mysterious sand-hills of the desert,
backed again by other mountains and that grey, tormented country which
stretches between Jericho and Jerusalem. Quite near at hand also ran
the broad and muddy Jordan, whose fertile banks were clothed in spring
with the most delicious greenery and haunted by kingfishers, cranes,
wildfowl, and many other birds. About these banks, too, stretching into
the desert land beyond, the flowers of the field grew by myriads, at
different periods of the year carpeting the whole earth with various
colours, brilliant as are those of the rainbow. These it was her
delight to gather, and even to cultivate in the garden of her house.

Thus wisdom, earthly and divine, was gathered in Miriam’s heart till
very soon its light began to shine through her eyes and face, making
them ever more tender and beautiful. Nor did she lack charm and grace
of person. From the first, in stature she was small and delicate, pale
also in complexion; but her dark hair was plenteous and curling, and
her eyes were large and of a deep and tender blue. Her hands and feet
were very slender, and her every gesture quick and agile as that of a
bird. Thus she grew up loving all things and beloved by all; for even
the flowers which she tended and the creatures that she fed, seemed in
her to find a friend.

Now of so much learning and all this system of solemn ordered hours,
Nehushta did not approve. For a while she bore with it, but when Miriam
was about eleven years of age, she spoke her mind to the Committee and
through them to the governing Court of Curators.

Was it right that a child should be brought up thus, she asked, and
turned into a grave old woman whilst, quite heedless of such things,
others of her age were occupied with youthful games? The end of it
might be that her brain would break and she would die or become crazy,
and then what good would so much wisdom do her? It was necessary that
she should have more leisure and other children with whom she could
associate.

“White-bearded hermits,” she added with point, “were not suitable as
sole companions to a little maid.”

Thereon followed much debate and consultation with the doctors, who
agreed that friends of her own years should be found for the child.
This, however, proved difficult, since among these Essenes were no
other girls. Therefore those friends must be of the male sex. Here too
were difficulties, as at that time, of the lads adopted by this
particular community which they were destined to join in after days,
there was but one of equal birth with Miriam. Now so far as concerned
their own order the Essenes thought little of social distinctions, or
even of the differences of blood and race. But Miriam was not of their
order; she was their guest, no more, to whom they stood in the place of
parents, and who would go from them out into the great world.
Therefore, notwithstanding their childlike simplicity, being, many of
them, men experienced in life, they did not think it right that she
should mix with those of lower breeding.

This one lad, Caleb by name, was born in the same year as Miriam, when
Cuspius Fadus became governor on the death of Agrippa. His father was a
Jew of very high rank named Hilliel, who, although he sided from time
to time with the Roman party, was killed by them, or perished among the
twenty thousand who were trampled to death at the Feast of the Passover
at Jerusalem, when Cumanus, the Procurator, ordered his soldiers to
attack the people. Thereon the Zealots, who considered him a traitor,
managed to get possession of all his property, so that his son Caleb,
whose mother was dead, was brought in a destitute condition by one of
her friends to Jericho. There, as she could not dispose of him
otherwise, he was given over to the Essenes, to be educated in their
doctrine, and, should he wish it, to enter their order when he reached
full age. This lad, it was now decreed, should become the playmate of
Miriam, a decision that pleased both of them very well.

Caleb was a handsome child with quick, dark eyes that watched
everything without seeming to watch, and black hair which curled upon
his shoulders. He was clever also and brave; but though he did his best
to control his temper, by nature very passionate and unforgiving.
Moreover, that which he desired he would have, if by any means it could
be obtained, and was faithful in his loves as in his hates. Of these
hates Nehushta was one. With all the skill of a Libyan, whose only book
is that of Nature and men’s faces, she read the boy’s heart at once and
said openly that he might come to be the first in any cause—if he did
not betray it—and that when God mixed his blood of the best, lest Cæsar
should find a rival He left out the salt of honesty and filled up the
cup with the wine of passion. When these sayings were repeated to Caleb
by Miriam, who thought them to be a jest fit to tease her playmate
with, he did not fly into one of his tempers, as she had hoped, but
only screwed up his eyelids after his fashion in certain moods, and
looked black as the rain-storm above Mount Nebo.

“Did you hear, Caleb?” asked Miriam, somewhat disappointed.

“Oh, yes! Lady Miriam,” for so he had been ordered to call her. “I
heard. Do you tell that old black woman that I will lead more causes
than she ever thought of, for I mean to be the first everywhere. Also
that whatever God left out of my cup, at least He mixed it with a good
memory.”

When Nehushta heard this, she laughed and said that it was true enough,
only he that tried to climb several ladders at once generally fell to
the ground, and that when a head had said good-bye to its shoulders,
the best of memories got lost between the two.

Miriam liked Caleb, but she never loved him as she did the old men, her
uncles, or Nehushta, who to her was more than all. Perhaps this may
have been because he never grew angry with her whatever she might say
or do, never even spoke to her roughly, but always waited on her
pleasure and watched for her wish. Still, of all companions he was the
best. If Miriam desired to walk by the Dead Sea, he would desire the
same. If she wanted to go fishing in the Jordan, he would make ready
the baits or net, and take the fishes off the hook—a thing she hated.
If she sought a rare flower, Caleb would hunt it out for days, although
she knew well that in himself he did not care for flowers, and when he
had found it, would mark the spot and lead her there in triumph. Also
there was this about him, as she was soon quick enough to learn: he
worshipped her. Whatever else might be false, that note in his nature
rang true. If one child could love another, then Caleb loved Miriam,
first with the love of children, then as a man loves a woman. Only—and
this was the sorrow of it—Miriam never loved Caleb. Had she done so
both their stories would have been very different. To her he was a
clever companion and no more.

What made the thing more strange was that he loved no one else, except,
mayhap, himself. In this way and in that the lad soon came to learn his
own history, which was sad enough, with the result that if he hated the
Romans who had invaded the country and trampled it beneath their heel,
still more did he hate those of the Jews who looked upon his father as
their enemy and had stolen all the lands and goods that were his by
right. As for the Essenes who reared and protected him, so soon as he
came to an age when he could weigh such matters, he held them in
contempt, and because of their continual habit of bathing themselves
and purifying their garments, called them the company of washer-women.
On him their doctrines left but a shallow mark. He thought, as he
explained to Miriam, that people who were in the world should take the
world as they found it, without dreaming ceaselessly of another world
to which, as yet, they did not belong; a sentiment that to some extent
Nehushta shared.

Wishing, with the zeal of the young, to make a convert, Miriam preached
to him the doctrine of Christianity, but without success. By blood
Caleb was a Jew of the Jews, and could not understand or admire a God
who would consent to be trodden under foot and crucified. The Messiah
he desired to follow must be a great conqueror, one who would overthrow
the Cæsars and take the throne of Cæsar, not a humble creature with his
mouth full of maxims. Like the majority of his own, and, indeed, of
every generation, to the last day of his life, Caleb was unable to
divine that mind is greater than matter, while spirit is greater than
mind; and that in the end, by many slow advances and after many
disasters seemingly irremediable, spirituality will conquer all. He
looked to a sword flashing from thrones, not to the word of truth
spoken by lowly lips in humble streets or upon the flanks of deserts,
trusting to the winds of Grace to bear it into the hearts of men and
thus regenerate their souls.

Such was Caleb, and these things are said of him here because the child
is father to the man.

Swiftly the years went by. There were tumults in Judæa and massacres in
Jerusalem. False prophets such as Theudas, who pretended that he could
divide Jordan, attracted thousands to their tinsel standards, to be
hewn down, poor folk! by the Roman legions. Cæsars rose and fell; the
great Temple was at length almost completed in its glory, and many
events happened which are remembered even to this day.

But in the little village of the Essenes by the grey shores of the Dead
Sea, nothing seemed to change, except that now and again an aged
brother died, and now and again a new brother was admitted. They rose
before daylight and offered their invocation to the sun; they went out
to toil in the fields and sowed their crops, to reap them in due
season, thankful if they were good, still thankful if they were bad.
They washed, they prayed, they mourned over the wickedness of the
world, and wove themselves white garments emblematic of a better. Also,
although of this Miriam knew nothing, they held higher and more secret
services wherein they invoked the presence of their “angels,” and by
arts of divination that were known to them, foretold the future, an
exercise which brought them little joy. But as yet, however evil might
be the omens, none came to molest their peaceful life, which ran
quietly towards the great catastrophe as often deep waters swirl to the
lip of a precipice.

At length when Miriam was seventeen years of age, the first stroke of
trouble fell upon them.

From time to time the high priests at Jerusalem, who hated the Essenes
as heretics, had made demands upon them that they should pay tithe for
the support of the sacrifices in the Temple. This they refused to do,
since all sacrifices were hateful to them. So things went on until the
day of the high priest Ananos, who sent armed men to the village of the
Essenes to take the tithes. These were refused to them, whereon they
broke open the granary and helped themselves, destroying a great deal
which they could not carry away. As it chanced, on that day Miriam,
accompanied by Nehushta, had visited Jericho. Returning in the
afternoon they passed through a certain torrent bed in which were many
rocks, and among them thickets of thorn trees. Here they were met by
Caleb, now a noble-looking youth very strong and active, who carried a
bow in his hand and on his back a sheath of six arrows.

“Lady Miriam,” he said, “well met. I have come to seek you, and to warn
you not to return by the road to-day, since on it you will meet
presently those thieves sent by the high priest to plunder the stores
of the Order, who, perhaps, will offer you insult or mischief, for they
are drunk with wine. Look, one of them has struck me,” and he pointed
to a bruise upon his shoulder and scowled.

“What then shall we do?” asked Miriam. “Go back to Jericho?”

“Nay, for there they will come too. Follow up this gully till you reach
the footpath a mile away, and by it walk to the village; so you will
miss these robbers.”

“That is a good plan,” said Nehushta. “Come, lady.”

“Whither are you going, Caleb?” asked Miriam, lingering, since she saw
that he did not mean to accompany them.

“I? Oh, I shall hide among the rocks near by till the men are passed,
and then go to seek that hyena which has been worrying the sheep. I
have tracked him down and may catch him as he comes from his hole at
sunset. That is why I have brought my bow and arrows.”

“Come,” broke in Nehushta impatiently, “come. The lad well knows how to
guard himself.”

“Be careful, Caleb, that you get no hurt from the hyena,” said Miriam,
doubtfully, as Nehushta seized her by the wrist and dragged her away.
“It is strange,” she added as they went, “that Caleb should choose this
evening to go hunting.”

“Unless I mistake, it is a human hyena whom he hunts,” answered
Nehushta shortly. “One of those men struck him, and he desires to wash
the wound with his blood.”

“Oh, surely not! Nou. That would be taking vengeance, and revenge is
evil.”

Nehushta shrugged her shoulders. “Caleb may think otherwise, as I do at
times. Wait, and we shall see.”

As it chanced, they did see something. The footpath by which they
returned to the village ran over a high ridge of ground, and from its
crest, although they were a mile or more away, in that clear desert air
they could easily discern the line of the high priest’s servants
straggling along, driving before them a score or so of mules, laden
with wine and other produce which they had stolen from the stores.
Presently the company of them descended into that gully along which the
road ran, whence a minute or two later rose a sound of distant
shouting. Then they appeared on the further side, running, or riding
their beasts hither and thither, as though in search of some one, while
four of them carried between them a man who seemed to be hurt, or dead.

“I think that Caleb has shot his hyena,” said Nehushta meaningly; “but
I have seen nothing, and if you are wise, you will say nothing. I do
not like Caleb, but I hate these Jewish thieves, and it is not for you
to bring your friend into trouble.”

Miriam looked frightened but nodded her head, and no more was said of
the matter.

That evening, as Miriam and Nehushta stood at the door of their house
in the cool, by the light of the full moon they saw Caleb advancing
towards them down the road, a sight that made Miriam glad at heart, for
she feared lest he might have come into trouble. Catching sight of
them, he asked permission to enter through the door, which he closed
behind them, so that now they stood in the little garden within the
wall.

“Well,” said Nehushta, “I see that you had a shot at your hyena; did
you kill it?”

“How do you know that?” he asked, looking at her suspiciously.

“A strange question to put to a Libyan woman who was brought up among
bowmen,” she replied. “You had six arrows in your quiver when we met
you, and now I count but five. Also your bow was newly waxed; and look,
the wax is rubbed where the shaft lay.”

“I shot at the beast, and, as I think, hit it. At least, I could not
find the arrow again, although I searched long.”

“Doubtless. You do not often miss. You have a good eye and a steady
hand. Well, the loss of a shaft will not matter, since I noticed, also,
that this one was differently barbed from the others, and double
feathered; a true Roman war-shaft, such as they do not make here. If
any find your wounded beast you will not get its hide, since it is
known that you do not use such arrows.” Then, with a smile that was
full of meaning, Nehushta turned and entered the house, leaving him
staring after her, half in wrath and half in wonder at her wit.

“What does she mean?” he asked Miriam, but in the voice of one who
speaks to himself.

“She thinks that you shot at a man, not at a beast,” replied Miriam;
“but I know well that you could not have done this, since that would be
against the rule of the Essenes.”

“Even the rule of the Essenes permits a man to protect himself and his
property from thieves,” he answered sulkily.

“Yes, to protect himself if he is attacked, and his property—if he has
any. But neither that faith nor mine permits him to avenge a blow.”

“I was one against many,” he answered boldly. “My life was on the
hazard: it was no coward’s act.”

“Were there, then, a troop of these hyenas?” asked Miriam, innocently.
“I thought you said it was a solitary beast that took the sheep.”

“It was a whole company of beasts who took the wine, and smote those in
charge of it as though they were street dogs.”

“Hyenas that took wine like the tame ape whom the boys make drunken
over yonder——”

“Why do you mock me,” broke in Caleb, “who must know the truth? Or if
you do not know it, here it is. That thief beat me with his staff, and
called me the son of a dog, and I swore that I would pay him back. Pay
him back I did, for the head of that shaft which Nehushta noted, stands
out a span beyond his neck. They never saw who shot it; they never saw
me at all, who thought at first that the man had fallen from his horse.
By the time they knew the truth I was away where they could not follow.
Now go and tell the story if you will, or let Nehushta, who hates me,
tell it, and give me over to be tortured by the servants of the high
priest, or crucified as a murderer by the Romans.”

“Neither Nehushta nor I saw this deed done, nor shall we bear witness
against you, Caleb, or judge you, who doubtless were provoked by
violent and lawless men. Yet, Caleb, you told me that you came out to
warn us, and it grieves me to learn that the true wish of your heart
was to take the life of a man.”

“It is false,” he answered angrily; “I said that I came to warn you,
and afterwards to kill a hyena. To make you safe—that was my first
thought, and until you were safe my enemy was safe also. Miriam, you
know it well.”

“Why should I know it? To you, Caleb, I think revenge is more than
friendship.”

“Perhaps; for I have few friends who am a penniless orphan brought up
by charity. But, Miriam, to me revenge is not more than—love.”

“Love,” she stammered, turning crimson to her hair and stepping back a
pace; “what do you mean, Caleb?”

“What I say, neither more nor less,” he answered sullenly. “As I have
worked one crime to-day, I may as well work two, and dare to tell the
lady Miriam, the Queen of the Essenes, that I love her, though she
loves not me—as yet.”

“This is madness,” faltered Miriam.

“Mayhap, but it is a madness which began when first I saw you—that was
soon after we learned to speak—a madness which will continue until I
cease to see you, and that shall be soon before I grow silent forever.
Listen, Miriam, and do not think my words only those of a foolish boy,
for all my life shall prove them. This love of mine is a thing with
which you must reckon. You love me not—therefore, even had I the power,
I would not force myself upon you against your will; only I warn you,
learn to love no other man, for then it shall go ill either with him or
with me. By this I swear it,” and, snatching her to him, Caleb kissed
her on the forehead, then let her go, saying, “Fear not. It is the
first and last time, except by your own will. Or if you fear, tell the
story to the Court of the Essenes, and—to Nehushta, who will right your
wrongs.”

“Caleb,” she gasped, stamping her foot upon the ground in anger,
“Caleb, you are more wicked than I dreamed, and,” she added, as though
to herself—“and greater!”

“Yes,” he answered, as he turned to go, “I think that you are right. I
am more wicked than you dreamed and—greater. Also, Miriam, I love you
as you will never be loved again. Farewell!”




CHAPTER VII
MARCUS


That night those of the curators who were engaged in prayer and fasting
were disturbed by the return of an officer of those Jews that had
robbed them, who complained violently that a man of his company had
been murdered by one of the Essenes. They asked how and when, and were
told that the man had been shot down with an arrow, in a gully upon the
road to Jericho, by a person unknown. They replied that robbers
sometimes met with robbers, and asked to see the arrow, which proved to
be of a Roman make, such as these men carried in their own quivers.
This the Essenes pointed out, and at length, growing angry at the
unreasonableness of a complaint made by persons of the worst character,
drove him and his escort from their doors, bidding them take their
story to the high priest Ananos, with the goods which they had stolen,
or, if they preferred it, to that still greater thief, the Roman
procurator, Albinus.

This they did not neglect to do, with the result that presently the
Essenes were commanded to send some of their head men to appear before
Albinus to answer the charges laid against them. Accordingly they
dispatched Ithiel and two others, who were kept waiting three months at
Jerusalem before they could even obtain a hearing. At length the cause
came on, and after some few minutes of talk was adjourned, being but a
petty matter. That same evening Ithiel was informed by an intermediary
that if his Order would pay a certain large sum of money to Albinus,
nothing more would be heard of the question. This the Essenes refused
to do, as it was against their principles, saying that they demanded
nothing but justice, which they were not prepared to buy. So they
spoke, being ignorant that one of their neophytes, Caleb, had in fact
aimed the fatal arrow.

Then Albinus, wearying of the business and finding that there was no
profit to be made out of the Essenes, commanded them to be gone, saying
that he would send an officer to make inquiry on the spot.

Another two months went by, and at length this officer arrived,
attended by an escort of twenty soldiers.

As it chanced, on a certain morning in the winter season, Miriam with
Nehushta was walking on the Jericho road, when suddenly they saw
approaching towards them this little body of armed men. Perceiving that
they were Romans, they turned out of the path to hide themselves among
the thorns of the desert. Thereon he who seemed to be the officer
spurred his horse forward to intercept them.

“Do not run—stand still,” said Nehushta to Miriam, “and show no sign of
fear.”

So Miriam halted and began to gather a few autumn flowers that still
bloomed among the bushes, till the shadow of the officer fell upon
her—that shadow in which she was destined to walk all her life-days.

“Lady,” said a pleasant voice in Greek, spoken with a somewhat foreign
accent—“lady, pardon, and I pray you, do not be alarmed. I am a
stranger to this part of the country, which I visit on official
business. Will you of your kindness direct me to the village of a
people called Essenes, who live somewhere in this desert?”

“Oh, sir!” answered Miriam, “do you, who come with Roman soldiers, mean
them any harm?”

“Not I. But why do you ask?”

“Because, sir, I am of their community.”

The officer stared at her—this beautiful, blue-eyed, white-skinned,
delicate-featured girl, whose high blood proclaimed itself in every
tone and gesture.

“You, lady, of the community of the Essenes! Surely then those priests
in Jerusalem lie more deeply than I thought. They told me that the
Essenes were old ascetics who worship Apollo, and could not bear so
much as the sight of a woman. And now you say you are an Essene—you, by
Bacchus! you!” and he looked at her with an admiration which, although
there was nothing brutal or even rude about it, was amusingly
undisguised.

“I am their guest,” she said.

“Their guest? Why, this is stranger still. If these spiritual
outlaws—the word is that old high priest’s, not mine—share their bread
and water with such guests, my sojourn among them will be happier than
I thought.”

“They brought me up, I am their ward,” Miriam explained again.

“In truth, my opinion of the Essenes rises, and I am convinced that
those priests slandered them. If they can shape so sweet a lady, surely
they must themselves be good and gentle”; and he bowed gravely, perhaps
to mark the compliment.

“Sir, they are both good and gentle,” answered Miriam; “but of this you
will be able to judge for yourself very shortly, seeing that they live
near at hand. If you will follow us over yonder rise we will show you
their village, whither we go.”

“By your leave, I will accompany you,” he said, dismounting before she
could answer; then added, “Pardon me for one moment—I must give some
orders,” and he called to a soldier, who, with his companions, had
halted at a little distance.

The man advanced saluting, and, turning aside, his captain began to
talk with him, so that now, for the first time, Miriam could study his
face. He was young—not more than five or six and twenty years of age—of
middle height, and somewhat slender, but active in movement and
athletic in build. Upon his head, which was round and not large, in
place of the helmet that hung at his saddle-bow, he wore a little cap,
steel lined and padded as a protection against the sun, and beneath it
she could see that his short, dark brown hair curled closely. Under the
tan caused by exposure to the heat, his skin was fair, and his grey
eyes, set rather wide apart, were quick and observant. For the rest,
his mouth was well-shaped, though somewhat large, and the chin
clean-shaved, prominent and determined. His air was that of a soldier
accustomed to command, but very genial, and, when he smiled, showing
his regular white teeth, even merry—the air of one with a kind and
generous heart.

Miriam looked at him, and in an instant was aware that she liked him
better than any man—that is any young man—she had ever seen. This,
however, was no great or exclusive compliment to the Roman, since of
such acquaintances she had but few, if, indeed, Caleb was not the only
one. However, of this she was sure, she liked him better than Caleb,
because, even then and there, comparing them in her thoughts, this
truth came home to her; with it, too, a certain sense of shame that the
newcomer should be preferred to the friend of her childhood, although
of late that friend had displeased her by showing too warm a
friendship.

Having given his instructions, the captain dismissed the orderly,
commanding him to follow at a distance with the men. Then saying,
“Lady, I am ready,” he began to walk forward, leading his horse by the
bridle.

“You will forgive me,” he added, “if I introduce myself more formally.
I am called Marcus, the son of Emilius—a name which was known in its
day,” and he sighed, “as I hope before I have done with it, mine will
be. At present I cannot boast that this is so, who, unless it should
please my uncle Caius to decease and leave me the great fortune he
squeezes out of the Spaniards—neither of which things he shows any
present intention of doing—am but a soldier of fortune: an officer
under the command of the excellent and most noble procurator Albinus,”
he added sarcastically. “For the rest,” he went on, “I have spent a
year in this interesting and turbulent but somewhat arid land of yours,
coming here from Egypt, and am now honoured with a commission to
investigate and make report on a charge laid at the door of your
virtuous guardians, the Essenes, of having murdered, or been privy to
the murder of, a certain rascally Jew, who, as I understand, was sent
with others to steal their goods. That, lady, is my style and history.
By way of exchange, will you be pleased to tell me yours?”

Miriam hesitated, not being sure whether she should enter on such
confidences at so short a notice. Thereon, Nehushta, who was untroubled
by doubts, and thought it politic to be quite open with this Roman, a
man in authority, answered for her.

“Lord, this maiden, whose servant I am, as I was that of her
grandmother and mother before her——”

“Surely you cannot be so old,” interrupted Marcus. He made it a rule to
be polite to all women, whatever their colour, having noticed that life
went more easily with those who were courteous to the sex.

Nehushta smiled a little as she answered—for at what age does a woman
learn to despise a compliment?—“Lord, they both died young”; then
repeated, “This maiden is the only child of the high-born Græco-Syrian
of Tyre, Demas, and his noble wife, Rachel——”

“I know Tyre,” he interrupted. “I was quartered there till two months
ago”; adding in a different tone, “I understand that this pair no
longer live.”

“They died,” said Nehushta sadly, “the father in the amphitheatre at
Berytus by command of the first Agrippa, and the mother when her child
was born.”

“In the amphitheatre at Berytus? Was he then a malefactor?”

“No, sir,” broke in Miriam proudly; “he was a Christian.”

“Oh! I understand. Well, they are ill-spoken of as enemies of the human
race, but for my part I have had to do with several Christians and
found them very good people, though visionary in their views.” Here a
doubt struck him and he said, “But, lady, I understand that you are an
Essene.”

“Nay, sir,” she replied in the same steady voice, “I also am a
Christian, who have been protected by the Essenes.”

He looked at her with pity and replied, “It is a dangerous profession
for one so young and fair.”

“Dangerous let it be,” she said; “at least it is mine from the
beginning to the end.”

Marcus bowed, perceiving that the subject was not to be pursued, and
said to Nehushta, “Continue the story, my friend.”

“Lord, the father of my lady’s mother is a very wealthy Jewish merchant
of Tyre, named Benoni.”

“Benoni,” he said, “I know him well, too well for a poor man!—a Jew of
the Jews, a Zealot, they say. At least he hates us Romans enough to be
one, although many is the dinner that I have eaten at his palace. He is
the most successful trader in all Tyre, unless it be his rival Amram,
the Phœnician, but a hard man, and as able as he is hard. Now I think
of it, he has no living children, so why does not your lady, his
grandchild, dwell with him rather than in this desert?”

“Lord, you have answered your own question. Benoni is a Jew of the
Jews; his granddaughter is a Christian, as I am also. Therefore when
her mother died, I brought her here to be taken care of by her uncle
Ithiel the Essene, and I do not think Benoni knows even that she lives.
Lord, perhaps I have said too much; but you must soon have heard the
story from the Essenes, and we trust to you, who chance to be Benoni’s
friend, to keep our secret from him.”

“You do not trust in vain; yet it seems sad that all the wealth and
station which are hers by right should thus be wasted.”

“Lord, rank and station are not everything; freedom of faith and person
are more than these. My lady lacks for nothing, and—this is all her
story.”

“Not quite, friend; you have not told me her name.”

“Lord, it is Miriam.”

“Miriam, Miriam,” he repeated, his slightly foreign accent dwelling
softly on the syllables. “It is a very pretty name, befitting such a——”
and he checked himself.

By now they were on the crest of the rise, and, stopping between two
clumps of thorn trees, Miriam broke in hastily:

“See, sir, there below lies the village of the Essenes; those green
trees to the left mark the banks of Jordan, whence we irrigate our
fields, while that grey stretch of water to the right, surrounded by a
wall of mountain, is the Dead Sea.”

“Is it so? Well, the green is pleasant in this desert, and those fields
look well cultivated. I hope to visit them some day, for I was brought
up in the country, and, although I am a soldier, still understand a
farm. As for the Dead Sea, it is even more dreary than I expected. Tell
me, lady, what is that large building yonder?”

“That,” she answered, “is the gathering hall of the Essenes.”

“And that?” he asked, pointing to a house which stood by itself.

“That is my home, where Nehushta and I dwell.”

“I guessed as much by the pretty garden.” Then he asked her other
questions, which she answered freely enough, for Miriam, although she
was half Jewish, had been brought up among men, and felt neither fear
nor shame in talking with them in a friendly and open fashion, as an
Egyptian or a Roman or a Grecian lady might have done.

While they were still conversing thus, of a sudden the bushes on their
path were pushed aside, and from between them emerged Caleb, of whom
she had seen but little of late. He halted and looked at them.

“Friend Caleb,” said Miriam, “this is the Roman captain Marcus, who
comes to visit the curators of the Order. Will you lead him and his
soldiers to the council hall and advise my uncle Ithiel and the others
of his coming, since it is time for us to go home?”

Caleb glared at her, or rather at the stranger, with sullen fury; then
he answered:

“Romans always make their own road; they do not need a Jew to guide
them,” and once more he vanished into the scrub on the further side of
the path.

“Your friend is not civil,” said Marcus, as he watched him go. “Indeed,
he has an inhospitable air. Now, if an Essene could do such a thing, I
should think that here is a man who might have drawn an arrow upon a
Jewish tax-gatherer,” and he looked inquiringly at Miriam.

“That lad!” put in Nehushta. “Why, he never shot anything larger than a
bird of prey.”

“Caleb,” added Miriam in excuse, “does not like strangers.”

“So I see,” answered Marcus; “and to be frank, lady, I do not like
Caleb. He has an eye like a knife-point.”

“Come, Nehushta,” said Miriam, “this is our road, and there runs that
of the captain and his company. Sir, farewell, and thank you for your
escort.”

“Lady, for this while farewell, and thank you for your guidance.”

Thus for that day they parted.

The dwelling which many years before had been built by the Essenes for
the use of their ward and her nurse, stood next to the large
guest-house. Indeed, it occupied a portion of the ground which
originally belonged to it, although now the plot was divided into two
gardens by an irrigation ditch and a live pomegranate fence, covered at
this season of the year with its golden globes of fruit. That evening,
as Miriam and Nehushta walked in the garden, they heard the familiar
voice of Ithiel calling to them from the other side of this fence, and
presently above it saw his kindly face and venerable white head.

“What is it, my uncle?” asked Miriam running to him.

“Only this, child; the noble Roman captain, Marcus, is to stay in the
guest-house during his visit to us, so do not be frightened if you hear
or see men moving about in this garden—If, indeed, Romans care to walk
in gardens. I am to bide here also, to play host to him and see that he
lacks nothing. Also I do not think that he will give you any trouble,
since, for a Roman, he seems both courteous and kindly.”

“I am not afraid, my uncle,” said Miriam; “indeed,” she added, blushing
a little in spite of herself, “Nehushta and I have already become
acquainted with this captain”; and she told him of their meeting beyond
the village.

“Nehushta, Nehushta,” said Ithiel reprovingly, “have I not said to you
that you should not walk so far afield without some of the brethren as
an escort? You might, perchance, have met thieves, or drunken men.”

“My lady wished to gather some flowers she sought,” answered Nehushta,
“as she has done without harm for many a year; and being armed, I did
not fear thieves, if such men are to be found where all are poor.”

“Well, well, as it chances, no harm has happened; but do not go out
unattended again, lest the soldiers should not be so courteous as their
captain. They will not trouble you by the way, since, with the
exception of a single guard, they camp yonder by the streamlet.
Farewell for this night, my child; we will meet to-morrow.”

Then Miriam went to rest and dreamed of the Roman captain, and that he,
she, and Nehushta made a journey together and met with many great
adventures, wherein Caleb played some strange part. In that dream the
captain Marcus protected them from all these dangers, till at length
they came to a calm sea, on which floated a single white ship wherein
they must embark, having the sign of the Cross woven in its sails. Then
she awoke and found that it was morning.

Of all the arts she had been taught, Miriam was fondest of that of
modelling in clay, for which she had a natural gift. Indeed, so great
had her skill become, that these models which she made, after they had
been baked with fire, were, at her wish, sold by the Essenes to any who
took a fancy to them. As to the money which they fetched, it was paid
into a fund to be distributed among the poor.

This art Miriam carried on in a reed-thatched shed in the garden,
where, by an earthen pipe, water was delivered into a stone basin,
which she used to damp her clay and cloths. Sometimes also, with the
help of masons and the master who had taught her, now a very old man,
she copied these models in marble, which the Essenes brought to her
from the ruins of a palace near Jericho. At the time that the Romans
came she was finishing a work more ambitious than any which she had
undertaken as yet; namely, a life-sized bust cut from the fragment of
an ancient column to the likeness of her great-uncle, Ithiel. On the
afternoon following the day that she met Marcus, clad in her white
working-robe, she was occupied in polishing this bust, with the
assistance of Nehushta, who handed her the cloths and grinding-powder.
Suddenly shadows fell upon her, and turning, she beheld Ithiel and the
Roman.

“Daughter,” said Ithiel, smiling at her confusion, “I have brought the
captain Marcus to see your work.”

“Oh, my uncle!” she replied indignantly, “am I in a state to receive
any captain?” and she held out her wet hands and pointed to her
garments begrimed with clay and powder. “Look at me.”

“I look,” said Ithiel innocently, “and see naught amiss.”

“And I look, lady,” added Marcus in his merry voice, “and see much to
admire. Would that more of your sex could be found thus delightfully
employed.”

“Alas, sir,” she replied, adroitly misunderstanding him, for Miriam did
not lack readiness, “in this poor work there is little to admire. I am
ashamed that you should look on the rude fashionings of a half-trained
girl, you who must have seen all those splendid statues of which I have
been told.”

“By the throne of Cæsar, lady,” he exclaimed in a voice that carried a
conviction of his earnestness, staring hard at the bust of Ithiel
before him, “as it chances, although I am not an artist, I do know
something of sculpture, since I have a friend who is held to be the
best of our day, and often for my sins have sat as model to him. Well,
I tell you this—never did the great Glaucus produce a bust like that.”

“I daresay not,” said Miriam smiling. “I daresay the great Glaucus
would go mad if he saw it.”

“He would—with envy. He would say that it was the work of one of the
glorious Greeks, and of no modern.”

“Sir,” said Ithiel reprovingly, “do not make a jest of the maid, who
does the best she can; it pains her and—is not fitting.”

“Friend Ithiel,” replied Marcus, turning quite crimson, “you must
indeed think that I lack manners who would come to the home of any
artist to mock his work. I say what I mean, neither more nor less. If
this bust were shown in Rome, together with yourself who sat for it,
the lady Miriam would find herself famous within a week. Yes,” and he
ran his eye quickly over various statuettes, some of them baked and
some in the raw clay, models, for the most part, of camels or other
animals or birds, “yes, and it is the same with all the rest: these are
the works of genius, no less.”

At this praise, to them so exaggerated, Miriam, pleased as she could
not help feeling, broke into clear laugher, which both Ithiel and
Nehushta echoed. Now, so wroth was he, the face of Marcus grew quite
pale and stern.

“It seems,” he said severely, “that it is not I who mock. Tell me,
lady, what do you with these things?” and he pointed to the statuettes.

“I, sir? I sell them; or at least my uncles do.”

“The money is given to the poor,” interposed Ithiel.

“Would it be rude to ask at what price?”

“Sometimes,” replied Ithiel with pride, “travellers have given me as
much as a silver shekel.[*] Once indeed, for a group of camels with
their Arabian drivers, I received four shekels; but that took my niece
three months to do.”

[*] About 2s. 6d. of English money.

“A shekel! Four shekels!” said Marcus in a voice of despair; “I will
buy them all—no, I will not, it would be robbery. And this bust?”

“That, sir, is not for sale; it is a gift to my uncle, or rather to my
uncles, to be set up in their court-room.”

An idea struck Marcus. “I am here for a few weeks,” he said. “Tell me,
lady, if your uncle Ithiel will permit it, at what price will you
execute a bust of myself of the same size and quality?”

“It would be dear,” said Miriam, smiling at the notion, “for the marble
costs something, and the tools, which wear out. Oh, it would be very
dear!” This she repeated, wondering what she could ask in her
charitable avarice. “It would be——” yes, she would venture it—“fifty
shekels!”

“I am poor enough,” replied Marcus quietly, “but I will give you two
hundred.”

“Two hundred!” gasped Miriam. “It is absurd. I could never accept two
hundred shekels for a piece of stonework. Then indeed you might say
that you had fallen among thieves on the banks of Jordan. No. If my
uncles will permit it and there is time, I will do my poor best for
fifty—only, sir, I advise you against it, since to win that bad
likeness you must sit for many weary hours.”

“So be it,” said Marcus. “As soon as I get to any civilised place I
will send you enough commissions to make the beggars in these parts
rich for life, and at a very different figure. Let us begin at once.”

“Sir, I have no leave.”

“The matter,” explained Ithiel, “must be laid before the Court of
Curators, which will decide upon it to-morrow. Meanwhile, as we are
talking here, I see no harm if my niece chooses to work a lump of clay,
which can be broken up later should the Court in its wisdom refuse your
request.”

“I hope for its own sake that the Court in its wisdom will not be such
a fool,” muttered Marcus to himself; adding aloud, “Lady, where shall I
place myself? You will find me the best of sitters. Have I not the
great Glaucus for a friend—until I show him this work of yours?”

“If you will, sir, be seated on that stool and be pleased to look
towards me.”

“I am your servant,” said Marcus, in a cheerful voice; and the sitting
began.




CHAPTER VIII
MARCUS AND CALEB


On the morrow, as he had promised, Ithiel brought this question of
whether or no Miriam was to be allowed to execute a bust of the
centurion, Marcus, before the Court of the Curators of the Essenes, who
were accustomed thus to consider questions connected with their ward’s
welfare in solemn conclave. There was a division of opinion. Some of
them saw no harm; others, more strait-laced, held that it was scarcely
correct that a Roman whose principles, doubtless, were lax, should be
allowed to sit to the lady whom they fondly called their child. Indeed,
it seemed dubious whether the leave would be given, until a curator,
with more worldly wisdom than the rest, suggested that as the captain
seemed desirous of having his picture taken in stone, under the
circumstances of his visit, which included a commission to make a
general report upon their society to the authorities, it might be
scarcely wise to deny his wish. Finally, a compromise was effected. It
was agreed that Miriam should be permitted to do the work, but only in
the presence of Ithiel and two other curators, one of them her own
instructor in art.

Thus it came about that when Marcus presented himself for the second
time, at an hour fixed by Ithiel, he found three white-bearded and
white-robed old gentlemen seated in a row in the workshop, and behind
them, a smile on her dusky face, Nehushta. As he entered they rose and
bowed to him, a compliment which he returned. Now Miriam appeared, to
whom he made his salutation.

“Are these,” he said, indicating the elders, “waiting their turn to be
modelled, or are they critics?”

“They are critics,” said Miriam drily, as she lifted the damp cloths
from the rude lump of clay.

Then the work began. As the three curators were seated in a line at the
end of the shed, and did not seem to think it right to leave their
chairs, they could see little of its details, and as they were early
risers and the afternoon was hot, soon they were asleep, every one of
them.

“Look at them,” said Marcus; “there is a subject for any artist.”

Miriam nodded, and taking three lumps of clay, working deftly and
silently, presently produced to his delighted sight rough but excellent
portraits of these admirable men, who, when they woke up, laughed at
them very heartily.

Thus things went on from day to day. Each afternoon the elders
attended, and each afternoon they sank to slumber in their comfortable
chairs, an example that Nehushta followed, or seemed to follow, leaving
Miriam and her model practically alone. As may be guessed, the model,
who liked conversation, did not neglect these opportunities. Few were
the subjects which the two of them failed to discuss. He told her of
all his life, which had been varied and exciting, omitting, it is true,
certain details; also of the wars in which he had served, and the
countries that he had visited. She in turn told him the simple story of
her existence among the Essenes, which he seemed to find of interest.
When these subjects were exhausted they discussed other things—the
matter of religion, for instance. Indeed, Miriam ventured to expound to
him the principles of her faith, to which he listened respectfully and
with attention.

“It sounds well,” he said at length with a sigh, “but how do such
maxims fit in with this world of ours? See now, lady, I am not old, but
already I have studied so many religions. First, there are the gods of
Greece and Rome, my own gods, you understand—well, the less said of
them the better. They serve, that is all. Then there are the gods of
Egypt, as to which I made inquiry, and of them I will say this: that
beneath the grotesque cloak of their worship seems to shine some spark
of a holy fire. Next come the gods of the Phœnicians, the fathers of a
hideous creed. After them the flame worshippers and other kindred
religions of the East. There remain the Jews, whose doctrine seems to
me a savage one; at least it involves bloodshed with the daily offering
of blood. Also they are divided, these Jews, for some are Pharisees,
some Sadducees, some Essenes. Lastly, there are you Christians, whose
faith is pure enough in theory, but whom all unite against in hate.
What is the worth of a belief in this crucified Preacher who promises
that He will raise those who trust in Him from the dead?”

“That you will find out when everything else has failed you,” answered
Miriam.

“Yes, it is a religion for those whom everything else has failed. When
that chances to the rest of us we commit suicide and sink from sight.”

“And we,” she said proudly, “rise to life eternal.”

“It may be so, lady, it may be so; but let us talk of something more
cheerful,” and he sighed. “At present, I hold that nothing is
eternal—except perhaps such art as yours.”

“Which will be forgotten in the first change of taste, or crumbled in
the first fire. But see, he is awake. Come here, my master, and work
this nostril, for it is beyond me.”

The old artist advanced and looked at the bust with admiration.

“Maid Miriam,” he said, “I used to have some skill in this art, and I
taught you its rudiments; but now, child, I am not fit to temper your
clay. Deal with the nostril as you will; I am but a hodman who bears
the bricks, you are the heaven-born architect. I will not meddle, I
will not meddle; yet perhaps——” and he made a suggestion.

“So?” said Miriam, touching the clay with her tool. “Oh, look! it is
right now. You are clever, my master.”

“It was always right. I may be clever, but you have genius, and would
have found the fault without any help from me.”

“Did I not say so?” broke in Marcus triumphantly.

“Sir,” replied Miriam, “you say a great deal, and much of it, I think,
you do not mean. Please be silent; at this moment I wish to study your
lips, and not your words.”

So the work went on. They did not always talk, for soon they found that
speech is not necessary to true companionship. Once Miriam began to
sing, and since she discovered that her voice pleased Marcus and
soothed the slumbers of the elders, she sang often; quaint, sad songs
of the desert and of the Jordan fishermen. Also she told him tales and
legends, and when she had done Nehushta told others—wild stories of
Libya, some of them very dark and bloody, others of magic, black or
white. Thus these afternoons passed happily enough, and the clay model
being finished, after the masons among the brethren had rough hewn it
for her, Miriam began to fashion it in marble.

There was one, however, for whom these days did not pass happily—Caleb.
From the time that he had seen Miriam walking side by side with Marcus
he hated the brilliant-looking Roman in whom, his instinct warned him,
he had found a dangerous rival. Oh, how he hated him! So much, indeed,
that even in the moment of first meeting he could not keep his rage and
envy in his heart, but suffered them to be written on his face, and to
shine like danger signals in his eyes, which, it may be remembered,
Marcus did not neglect to note.

Of Miriam Caleb had seen but little lately. She was not angry with him,
since his offence was of a nature which a woman can forgive, but in her
heart she feared him. Of a sudden, as it were, the curtain had been
drawn, and she had seen this young man’s secret spirit and learned that
it was a consuming fire. It had come home to her that every word he
spoke was true, that he who was orphaned and not liked even by the
gentle elders of the Essenes, loved but one being upon earth—herself,
whereas already his bosom seethed with many hates. She was sure also
that any man for whom she chanced to care, if such an one should ever
cross her path, would, as Caleb had promised, go in danger at his
hands, and the thought frightened her. Most of all did it frighten her
when she saw him glower upon Marcus, although in truth the Roman was
nothing to her. Yet, as she knew, Caleb had judged otherwise.

But if she saw little of him, of this Miriam was sure enough—that he
was seldom far from her, and that he found means to learn from day to
day how she spent her hours. Indeed, Marcus told her that wherever he
went he met that handsome young man with revengeful eyes, who she had
said was named Caleb. Therefore Miriam grew frightened and, as the
issue will show, not without cause.

One afternoon, while Miriam was at work upon the marble, and the three
elders were as usual sunk in slumber, Marcus said suddenly:

“I forgot. I have news for you, lady. I have found out who murdered
that Jewish thief whose end, amongst other things, I was sent to
investigate. It was your friend Caleb.”

Miriam started so violently that her chisel gave an unexpected effect
to one of Marcus’s curls.

“Hush!” she said, glancing towards the sleepers, one of whom had just
snored so loudly that he began to awake at the sound; then added in a
whisper, “They do not know, do they?”

He shook his head and looked puzzled.

“I must speak to you of this matter,” she went on with agitation, and
in the same whisper. “No, not now or here, but alone.”

“When and where you will,” answered Marcus, smiling, as if the prospect
of a solitary conversation with Miriam did not displease him, although
this evil-doing Caleb was to be its subject. “Name the time and place,
lady.”

By now the snoring elder was awake, and rising from his chair with a
great noise, which in turn roused the others. Nehushta also rose from
her seat and in doing so, as though by accident, overset a copper tray
on which lay metal tools.

“In the garden one hour after sunset. Nehushta will leave the little
lower door unlocked.”

“Good,” answered Marcus; then added in a loud voice, “Not so, lady. Ye
gods! what a noise! I think the curl improved by the slip. It looks
less as though it had been waxed after the Egyptian fashion. Sirs, why
do you disturb yourselves? I fear that to you this long waiting must be
as tedious as to me it seems unnecessary.”

The sun was down, and the last red glow had faded from the western sky,
which was now lit only by the soft light of a half-moon. All the world
lay bathed in peace and beauty; even the stern outlines of the
surrounding mountains seemed softened, and the pale waters of the Dead
Sea and the ashen face of the desert gleamed like silver new cast from
the mould. From the oleanders and lilies which bloomed along the edge
of the irrigation channels, and from the white flowers of the glossy,
golden-fruited orange trees, floated a perfume delicious to the sense,
while the silence was only broken from time to time by the bark of a
wandering dog or the howl of a jackal in the wilderness.

“A very pleasant night—to talk about Caleb,” reflected Marcus, who had
reached the appointed spot ten minutes before the time, as he strolled
from the narrow belt of trees that were planted along the high, outer
wall, into the more open part of the garden. Had Marcus chanced to
notice that this same Caleb, walking softly as a cat, and keeping with
great care in the shadow, had followed him through the little door
which he forgot to lock, and was now hidden among those very trees, he
might have remembered a proverb to the effect that snakes hide in the
greenest grass and the prettiest flowers have thorny stems. But he
thought of no such thing, who was lost in happy anticipations of a
moonlight interview with a lovely and cultured young lady, whose image,
to speak truth, had taken so deep a hold upon his fancy, that sometimes
he wondered how he would be able to banish it thence again. At present
he could think of no better means than that which at this moment he was
following with delight. Meetings in moonlit gardens tend proverbially
to disenchantment!

Presently Marcus caught the gleam of a white robe followed by a dark
one, flitting towards him through the dim and dewy garden, and at the
sight his heart stood still, then began to beat again in a disorderly
fashion. Had he known it, another heart a few yards behind him also
stood still, and then began to beat like that of a man in a violent
rage. It seems possible, also, that a third heart experienced unusual
sensations.

“I wish she had left the old lady behind,” muttered Marcus. “No, I
don’t, for then there are brutes who, if they knew, might blame her”;
and, luckily for himself, he walked forward a few paces to meet the
white robe, leaving the little belt of trees almost out of hearing.

Now Miriam stood before him, the moonlight shining on her delicate face
and in her tranquil eyes, which always reminded him of the blue depths
of heaven.

“Sir,” she began——

“Oh, I pray you,” he broke in, “cease from ceremony and call me
Marcus!”

“Captain Marcus,” she repeated, dwelling a little on the unfamiliar
name, “I beg that you will forgive me for disturbing you at so
unseasonable an hour.”

“Certainly I forgive you, Lady Miriam,” he replied, also dwelling on
her name and copying her accent in a fashion that made the grim-faced
Nehushta smile.

She waved her hand in deprecation. “The truth is, that this matter of
Caleb’s——”

“Oh, may all the infernal gods take Caleb! as I have reason to believe
they shortly will,” broke in Marcus angrily.

“But that is just what I wish to prevent; we have met here to talk of
Caleb.”

“Well, if you must—talk and let us be done with him. What about Caleb?”

Miriam clasped her hands. “What do you know of him, Captain Marcus?”

“Know? Why, just this: a spy I have in my troop has found out a country
fellow who was hunting for mushrooms or something—I forget what—in a
gully a mile away, and saw this interesting youth hide himself there
and shoot that Jewish plunderer with a bow and arrow. More—he has found
another man who saw the said Caleb an hour or two before help himself
to an arrow out of one of the Jew’s quivers, which arrow appears to be
identical with, or at any rate, similar to, that which was found in the
fellow’s gullet. Therefore, it seems that Caleb is guilty, and that it
will be my duty to-morrow to place him under arrest, and in due course
to convey him to Jerusalem, where the priests will attend to his little
business. Now, Lady Miriam, is your curiosity satisfied about Caleb?”

“Oh,” she said, “it cannot be, it must not be! The man had struck him
and he did but return a blow for a blow.”

“An arrow for a blow, you mean; the point of a spear for the push of
its handle. But, Lady Miriam, you seem to be very deep in the
confidence of Caleb. How do you come to know all this?”

“I don’t know, I only guess. I daresay, nay, I am sure, that Caleb is
quite innocent.”

“Why do you take such an interest in Caleb?” asked Marcus suspiciously.

“Because he was my friend and playmate from childhood.”

“Umph,” he answered, “a strange couple—a dove and a raven. Well, I am
glad that you did not catch his temper, or you would be more dangerous
even than you are. Now, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to spare Caleb. You, you, you—need not believe those
witnesses.”

“To think of it!” said Marcus, in mock horror. “To think that one whom
I thought so good can prove so immoral. Do you then wish to tempt me
from my duty?”

“Yes, I suppose so. At least the peasants round here are great liars.”

“Lady,” said Marcus, with stern conviction, “Caleb has improved upon
his opportunities as a playmate; he has been making love to you. I
thought so from the first.”

“Oh,” she answered, “how can you know that? Besides, he promised that
he would never do it again.”

“How can I know that? Why, because Caleb would have been a bigger fool
than I take him for if he had not. And if it rested with me, certainly
he never would do it again. Now be honest with me, if a woman can on
such a matter, and tell me true: are you in love with this Caleb?”

“I—I? In love with Caleb? Of course not. If you do not believe me, ask
Nehushta.”

“Thank you, I will be content with your own reply. You deny that you
are in love with him, and I incline to believe you; but, on the other
hand, I remember that you would naturally say this, since you might
think that any other answer would prejudice the cause of Caleb with
me.”

“With you! What can it matter to you, sir, whether or no I am in love
with Caleb, who, to tell you the truth, frightens me?”

“And that, I suppose, is why you plead so hard for him?”

“No,” she answered with a sudden sternness, “I plead hard for him as in
like case I would plead hard for you—because he has been my friend, and
if he did this deed he was provoked to it.”

“Well spoken,” said Marcus, gazing at her steadily. Indeed, she was
worth looking at as she stood there before him, her hands clasped, her
breast heaving, her sweet, pale face flushed with emotion and her
lovely eyes aswim with tears. Of a sudden as he gazed Marcus lost
control of himself. Passion for this maiden and bitter jealousy of
Caleb arose like twin giants in his heart and possessed him.

“You say you are not in love with Caleb,” he said. “Well, kiss me and I
will believe you.”

“How could such a thing prove my words?” she asked indignantly.

“I do not know and I do not care. Kiss me once and I will believe
further that the peasants of these parts are all liars. I feel myself
beginning to believe it.”

“And if I will not?”

“Then I am afraid I must refer the matter to a competent tribunal at
Jerusalem.”

“Nehushta, Nehushta, you have heard. What shall I do?”

“What shall you do?” said Nehushta drily. “Well, if you like to give
the noble Marcus a kiss, I shall not blame you overmuch or tell on you.
But if you do not wish it, then I think you would be a fool to put
yourself to shame to save Caleb.”

“Yet, I will do it—and to save Caleb only,” said Miriam with a sob, and
she bent towards him.

To her surprise Marcus drew back, placing his hand before his face.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I was a brute who wished to buy kisses in such
a fashion. I forgot myself; your beauty is to blame, and your sweetness
and everything that is yours. I pray,” he added humbly, “that you will
not think the worse of me, since we men are frail at times. And now,
because you ask me, though I have no right, I grant your prayer. Mayhap
those witnesses lied; at least, the man’s sin, if sin there be, can be
excused. He has naught to fear from me.”

“No,” broke in Nehushta, “but I think you have much to fear from him;
and I am sorry for that, my lord Marcus, for you have a noble heart.”

“It may be so; the future is on the knees of the gods, and that which
is fated will befall. My Lady Miriam, I, your humble servant and
friend, wish you farewell.”

“Farewell,” she answered. “Yes, Nehushta is right, you have a noble
heart”; and she looked at him in such a fashion that it flashed across
his mind that were he to proffer that request of his again, it might
not be refused. But Marcus would not do it. He had tasted of the joy of
self-conquest, who hitherto, after the manner of his age and race, had
denied himself little, and, as it seemed to him, a strange new power
was stirring in his heart—something purer, higher, nobler, than he had
known before. He would cherish it a while.

Of all that were spoken there in the garden, Caleb, the watcher, could
catch no word. The speakers did not raise their voices and they stood
at a distance, so that although he craned his head forward as far as he
dared in the shadow of the trees, sharp and trained as they were,
naught save a confused murmur reached his ears. But if these failed
him, his eyes fed full, so that he lost no move or gesture. It was a
passionate love scene, this was clear, for Nehushta stood at a little
distance with her back turned, while the pair poured out their sweet
speeches to each other. Then at length, as he had expected, came the
climax. Yes, oh! shameless woman—they were embracing. A mist fell upon
Caleb’s eyes, in which lights flashed like red-hot swords lifting and
smiting, the blood drummed in his ears as though his raging, jealous
heart would burst. He would kill that Roman now on the spot. Miriam
should never kiss him more—alive.

Already Caleb had drawn the short-sword from its hiding-place in his
ample robe; already he had stepped out from the shadow of the trees,
when of a sudden his reason righted itself like a ship that has been
laid over by a furious squall, and caution came back to him. If he did
this that faithless guardian, Nehushta, who without doubt had been
bought with Roman gold, would come to the assistance of her patron and
thrust her dagger through his back, as she well could do. Or should he
escape that dagger, one or other of them would raise the Essenes on
him, and he would be given over to justice. He wished to slay, not to
be slain. It would be sweet to kill the Roman, but if he himself were
laid dead across his body, leaving Miriam alive to pass to some other
man, what would he be advantaged? Presently they must cease from their
endearments; presently his enemy would return as he had come, and then
he might find his chance. He would wait, he would wait.

Look, they had parted; Miriam was gliding back to the house, and Marcus
came towards him, walking like a man in his sleep. Only Nehushta stood
where she was, her eyes fixed upon the ground as though she were
reasoning with herself. Still like a man in a dream, Marcus passed him
within touch of his outstretched hand. Caleb followed. Marcus opened
the door, went out of it, and pulled it to behind him. Caleb caught it
in his hand, slipped through and closed it. A few paces down the
wall—eight or ten perhaps—was another door, by which Marcus entered the
garden of the guest-house. As he turned to shut this, Caleb pushed in
after him, and they were face to face.

“Who are you?” asked the Roman, springing back.

Caleb, who by now was cool enough, closed the door and shot the bolt.
Then he answered, “Caleb, the son of Hilliel, who wishes a word with
you.”

“Ah!” said Marcus, “the very man, and, as usual, unless the light
deceives me, in an evil humour. Well, Caleb the son of Hilliel, what is
your business with me?”

“One of life and death, Marcus the son of Emilius,” he answered, in
such a tone that the Roman drew his sword and stood watching him.

“Be plain and brief, young man,” he said.

“I will be both plain and brief. I love that lady from whom you have
just parted, and you also love, or pretend to love, her. Nay, deny it
not; I have seen all, even to your kisses. Well, she cannot belong to
both of us, and I intend that in some future day she shall belong to me
if arm and eye do not fail me now. Therefore one of us must die
to-night.”

Marcus stepped back, overcome not with fear, but with astonishment.

“Insolent,” he said, “you lie! There were no kisses, and our talk was
of your neck, that I gave to her because she asked it, which is forfeit
for the murder of the Jew.”

“Indeed,” sneered Caleb. “Now, who would have thought that the noble
Captain Marcus would shelter thus behind a woman’s robe? For the rest,
my life is my own and no other’s to give or to receive. Guard yourself,
Roman, since I would kill you in fair fight. Had I another mind you
would be dead by now, never knowing the hand that struck you. Have no
fear; I am your equal, for my forefathers were nobles when yours were
savages.”

“Boy, are you mad,” asked Marcus, “to think that I, who have fought in
three wars, can fear a beardless youth, however fierce? Why, if I
feared you I have but to blow upon this whistle and my guards would
hale you hence to a felon’s death. For your own sake it is that I pray
you to consider. Setting aside my rank and yours, I will fight you if
you will, and now. Yet think. If I kill you there is an end, and if by
chance you should kill me, you will be hunted down as a double
murderer. As it is, I forgive you, because I know how bitter is the
jealousy of youth, and because you struck no assassin’s blow when you
might have done so safely. Therefore, I say, go in peace, knowing that
I shall not break my word.”

“Cease talking,” said Caleb, “and come out into the moonlight.”

“I am glad that is your wish,” replied Marcus. “Having done all I can
to save you, I will add that I think you a dangerous cub, of whom the
world, the lady Miriam and I alike will be well rid. Now, what weapon
have you? A short sword and no mail? Well, so have I. In this we are
well matched. Stay, I have a steel-lined cap, and you have none. There
it goes, to make our chances equal. Wind your cloak about your left arm
as I do. I have known worse shields. Good foothold, but an uncertain
light. Now, go!”

Caleb needed no encouragement. For one second they stood facing each
other, very types of the Eastern and Western world; the Roman—sturdy,
honest-eyed, watchful and fearless, his head thrown back, his feet
apart, his shield arm forward, his sword hand pressed to his side from
which the steel projected. Over against him was the Jew, crouched like
a tiger about to spring, his eyes half closed as though to concentrate
the light, his face working with rage, and every muscle quivering till
his whole flesh seemed to move upon his bones, like to that of a snake.
Suddenly, uttering a low cry, he sprang, and with that savage onslaught
the fight began and ended.

Marcus was ready; moreover, he knew what he would do. As the man came,
stepping swiftly to one side, he caught the thrust of Caleb’s sword in
the folded cloak, and since he did not wish to kill him, struck at his
hand. The blow fell upon Caleb’s first finger and severed it, cutting
the others also, so that it dropped to the ground with the sword that
they had held. Marcus put his foot upon the blade, and wheeled round.

“Young man,” he said sternly, “you have learnt your lesson and will
bear the mark of it till your death day. Now begone.”

The wretched Caleb ground his teeth. “It was to the death!” he said,
“it was to the death! You have conquered, kill me,” and with his bloody
hand he tore open his robe to make a path for the sword.

“Leave such talk to play-actors,” answered Marcus. “Begone, and be sure
of this—that if ever you try to bring treachery on me, or trouble on
the lady Miriam, I will kill you sure enough.”

Then with a sound that was half curse and half sob, Caleb turned and
slunk away. With a shrug of the shoulder Marcus also turned to go, when
he felt a shadow fall upon him, and swung round, to find Nehushta at
his side.

“And pray where did you come from, my Libyan friend?” he asked.

“Out of that pomegranate fence, my Roman lord, whence I have seen and
heard all that passed.”

“Indeed. Then I hope that you give me credit for good sword-play and
good temper.”

“The sword-play was well enough, though nothing to boast of with such a
madman for a foe. As for the temper, it was that of a fool.”

“Such,” soliloquised Marcus, “is the reward of virtue. But I am
curious. Why?”

“Because, my lord Marcus, this Caleb will grow into the most dangerous
man in Judæa, and to none more dangerous than to my lady Miriam and
yourself. You should have killed him while you had the chance, before
his turn comes to kill you.”

“Perhaps,” answered Marcus with a yawn; “but, friend Nehushta, I have
been associating with a Christian and have caught something of her
doctrines. That seems a fine sword. You had better keep it.
Good-night.”




CHAPTER IX
THE JUSTICE OF FLORUS


On the following morning, when the roll of the neophytes of the Essenes
was called, Caleb did not appear. Nor did he answer to his name on the
next day, or indeed ever again. None knew what had become of him until
a while after a letter was received addressed to the Curators of the
Court, in which he announced that, finding he had no vocation for an
Essenic career, he had taken refuge with friends of his late father, in
some place not stated. There, so far as the Essenes were concerned, the
matter ended. Indeed, as the peasant who was concealed in the gully
when the Jew was murdered had talked of what he had witnessed, even the
most simple-minded of the Essenes could suggest a reason for this
sudden departure. Nor did they altogether regret it, inasmuch as in
many ways Caleb had proved himself but an unsatisfactory disciple, and
already they were discussing the expediency of rejecting him from the
fellowship of their peaceful order. Had they known that when he
vanished he left behind him a drawn sword and one of his forefingers,
their opinion on this point might have been strengthened. But this they
did not know, although Miriam knew it through Nehushta.

A week went by, during which time Miriam and Marcus did not meet, as no
further sittings were arranged for the completion of the bust. In fact,
they were not needful, since she could work from the clay model, which
she did, till, labouring at it continually, the marble was done and
even polished. One morning as the artist was putting the last touches
to her labours, the door of the workshop was darkened and she looked up
to see Marcus, who, except for his helmet, was clad in full mail as
though about to start upon a journey. As it chanced, Miriam was alone
in the place, Nehushta having gone to attend to household affairs. Thus
for the first time they met with no other eyes to watch them.

At the sight of him she coloured, letting the cloth fall from her hand
which remained about the neck of the marble.

“I ask your pardon, Lady Miriam,” said Marcus, bowing gravely, “for
breaking in thus upon your privacy; but time presses with me so that I
lacked any to give notice to your guardians of my visit.”

“Are you leaving us?” she faltered.

“Yes, I am leaving you.”

Miriam turned aside and picked up the cloth, then answered, “Well, the
work is done, or will be in a few minutes; so if you think it worth the
trouble, take it.”

“That is my intention. The price I will settle with your uncles.”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, but if you will permit me, I should like to pack
it myself, so that it comes to no harm upon the journey. Also with your
leave I will retain the model, which by right belongs to you. I am not
pleased with this marble; I wish to make another.”

“The marble is perfect; but keep the model if you will. I am very glad
that you should keep it.”

She glanced at him, a question in her eyes, then looked away.

“When do you go?” she asked.

“Three hours after noon. My task is finished, my report—which is to the
effect that the Essenes are a most worthy and harmless people who
deserve to be encouraged, not molested—is written. Also I am called
hence in haste by a messenger who reached me from Jerusalem an hour
ago. Would you like to know why?”

“If it pleases you to tell me, yes.”

“I think that I told you of my uncle Caius, who was pro-consul under
the late emperor for the richest province of Spain, and—made use of his
opportunities.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the old man has been smitten with a mortal disease. For aught I
know he may be already dead, although the physicians seemed to think he
would live for another ten months, or perhaps a year. Being in this
case, suddenly he has grown fond of his relations, or rather relation,
for I am the only one, and expressed a desire to see me, to whom for
many years he has never given a single penny. He has even announced his
intention—by letter—of making me his heir ‘should he find me worthy,’
which, to succeed Caius, whatever my faults, indeed I am not, since of
all men, as I have told him in past days, I hold him the worst. Still,
he has forwarded a sum of money to enable me to journey to him in
haste, and with it a letter from the Cæsar, Nero, to the procurator
Albinus, commanding him to give me instant leave to go. Therefore,
lady, it seems wise that I should go.”

“Yes,” answered Miriam. “I know little of such things, but I think that
it is wise. Within two hours the bust shall be finished and packed,”
and she stretched out her hand in farewell.

Marcus took the hand and held it. “I am loth to part with you thus,” he
said suddenly.

“There is only one fashion of parting,” answered Miriam, striving to
withdraw her hand.

“Nay, there are many; and I hate them all—from you.”

“Sir,” she asked with gentle indignation, “is it worth your while to
play off these pretty phrases upon me? We have met for an hour; we
separate—for a lifetime.”

“I do not see the need of that. Oh, the truth may as well out. I wish
it least of all things.”

“Yet it is so. Come, let my hand go; the marble must be finished and
packed.”

The face of Marcus became troubled, as though he were reasoning with
himself, as though he wished to take her at her word and go, yet could
not.

“Is it ended?” asked Miriam presently, considering him with her quiet
eyes.

“I think not; I think it is but begun. Miriam, I love you.”

“Marcus,” she answered steadily, “I do not think I should be asked to
listen to such words.”

“Why not? They have always been thought honest between man and woman.”

“Perhaps, when they are meant honestly, which in this case can scarcely
be.”

He grew hot and red. “What do you mean? Do you suppose——”

“I suppose nothing, Captain Marcus.”

“Do you suppose,” he repeated, “that I would offer you less than the
place of wife?”

“Assuredly not,” she replied, “since to do so would be to insult you.
But neither do I suppose that you really meant to offer me that place.”

“Yet that was in my mind, Miriam.”

Her eyes grew soft, but she answered:

“Then, Marcus, I pray you, put it out of your mind, since between us
rolls a great sea.”

“Is it named Caleb?” he asked bitterly.

She smiled and shook her head. “You know well that it has no such
name.”

“Tell me of this sea.”

“It is easy. You are a Roman worshipping the Roman gods; I am a
Christian worshipping the God of the Christians. Therefore we are
forever separate.”

“Why? I do not understand. If we were married you might come to think
like me, or I might come to think like you. It is a matter of the
spirit and the future, not of the body and the present. Every day
Christians wed those who are not Christians; sometimes, even, they
convert them.”

“Yes, I know; but in my case this may not be—even if I wished that it
should be.”

“Why not?”

“Because both by the command of my murdered father and of her own
desire my mother laid it on me with her dying breath that I should take
to husband no man who was not of our faith.”

“And do you hold yourself to be bound by this command?”

“I do, without doubt and to the end.”

“However much you might chance to love a man who is not a Christian?”

“However much I might chance to love such a man.”

Marcus let fall her hand. “I think I had best go,” he said.

“Yes.”

Then came a pause while he seemed to be struggling with himself.

“Miriam, I cannot go.”

“Marcus, you must go.”

“Miriam, do you love me?”

“Marcus, may Christ forgive me, I do.”

“Miriam, how much?”

“Marcus, as much as a woman may love a man.”

“And yet,” he broke out bitterly, “you bid me begone because I am not a
Christian.”

“Because my faith is more than my love. I must offer my love upon the
altar of my faith—or, at the least,” she added hurriedly, “I am bound
by a rope that cannot be cut or broken. To break it would bring down
upon your head and mine the curse of Heaven and of my parents, who are
its inhabitants.”

“And if I became of your faith?”

Her whole face lit up, then suddenly its light died.

“It is too much to hope. This is not a question of casting incense on
an altar; it is a matter of a changed spirit and a new life. Oh! have
done. Why do you play with me?”

“A changed spirit and a new life. At the best that would take time.”

“Yes, time and thought.”

“And would you wait that time? Such beauty and such sweetness as are
yours will not lack for suitors.”

“I shall wait. I have told you that I love you; no other man will be
anything to me. I shall wed no other man.”

“You give all and take nothing; it is not just.”

“It is as God has willed. If it pleases God to touch your heart and to
preserve us both alive, then in days to come our lives may be one life.
Otherwise they must run apart till perchance we meet—in the eternal
morning.”

“Oh, Miriam, I cannot leave you thus! Teach me as you will.”

“Nay, go, Marcus, and teach yourself. Am I a bait to win your soul? The
path is not so easy, it is very difficult. Fare you well!”

“May I write to you from Rome?” he asked.

“Yes, why not, if by that time you should care to write, who then will
have recovered from this folly of the desert and an idle moon?”

“I shall write and I shall return, and we will talk of these matters;
so, most sweet, farewell.”

“Farewell, Marcus, and the love of God go with you.”

“What of your love?”

“My love is with you ever who have won my heart.”

“Then, Miriam, at least I have not lived in vain. Remember this always,
that much as I may worship you, I honour you still more,” and kneeling
before her he kissed first her hand, and next the hem of her robe. Then
he turned and went.

That night, watching from the roof of her house by the light of the
full moon, Miriam saw Marcus ride away at the head of his band of
soldiers. On the crest of a little ridge of ground outside the village
he halted, leaving them to go on, and turning his horse’s head looked
backward. Thus he stood awhile, the silver rays of the moon shining on
his bright armour and making him a point of light set between two vales
of shadow. Miriam could guess whither his eyes were turned and what was
in his heart. It seemed to her, even, that she could feel his loving
thought play upon her and that with the ear of his spirit he could
catch the answer of her own. Then suddenly he turned and was lost in
the gloom of the night.

Now that he was gone, quite gone, Miriam’s courage seemed to leave her,
and leaning her head upon the parapet she wept tears that were soft but
very bitter. Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a voice,
that of old Nehushta, spoke in her ear.

“Mourn not,” it said, “since him whom you lose in the night you may
find again in the daytime.”

“In no day that dawns from an earthly sun, I fear me, Nou. Oh, Nou! he
has gone, and taken my heart with him, leaving in its place a throbbing
pain which is more than I can bear.”

“He will come back; I tell you that he will come back,” she answered,
almost fiercely; “for your life and his are intertwined—yes, to the
end—a single cord bearing a double destiny. I know it; ask me not how;
but be comforted, for it is truth. Moreover, though it be sharp, your
pain is not more than you can bear, else it would never be laid upon
you.”

“But, Nou, if he does come back, what will it help me, who am built in
by this strict command of them that begat me, to break through which
would be to sin against and earn the curse of God and man?”

“I do not know; I only know this, that in that wall, as in others, a
door will be found. Trouble not for the future, but leave it in the
hand of Him Who shapes all futures. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. So He said. Accept the saying and be grateful. It is something
to have gained the love of such a one as this Roman, for, unless the
wisdom which I have gained through many years is at fault, he is true
and honest; and that man must be good at heart who can be reared in
Rome and in the worship of its gods and yet remain honest. Remember
these things, and I say be grateful, since there are many who go
through their lives knowing no such joy, even for an hour.”

“I will try, Nou,” said Miriam humbly, still staring at the ridge
whence Marcus had vanished.

“You will try, and you will succeed. Now there is another matter of
which I must speak to you. When the Essenes received us it was solemnly
decreed that if you lived to reach the full age of eighteen years you
must depart from among them. That hour struck for you nearly a year
ago, and, although you heard nothing of it, this decree was debated by
the Court. Now such decrees may not be broken, but it was argued that
the words ‘full age of eighteen years,’ meant and were intended to mean
until you reached your nineteenth birthday; that is—in a month from
now.”

“Then must we go, Nou?” asked Miriam in dismay, for she knew no other
world but this village in the desert, and no other friends than these
venerable men whom she called her uncles.

“It seems so, especially as it is now guessed that Caleb fought the
Captain Marcus upon your account. Oh! that tale is talked of—for one
thing, the young wild-cat left a claw behind him which the gardener
found.”

“I trust then it is known also that the fault was none of mine. But,
Nou, whither shall we go who have neither friends, nor home, nor
money?”

“I know not; but doubtless in this wall also there is a door. If the
worst comes to the worst, a Christian has many brothers; moreover, with
your skill in the arts you need never lack for a living in any great
city in the world.”

“It is true,” said Miriam, brightening; “that is, if I may believe
Marcus and my old master.”

“Also,” continued Nehushta, “I have still almost all the gold that the
Phœnician Amram gave us when I fled with your mother, and added to it
that which I took from the strong box of the captain of the galley on
the night when you were born. So have no fear, we shall not want; nor
indeed would the Essenes suffer such a thing. Now, child, you are
weary; go to rest and dream that you have your lover back again.”

It was with a heavy heart that Caleb, defeated and shamed, shook the
dust of the village of the Essenes off his feet. At dawn on the morning
after the night that he had fought the duel with Marcus, he also might
have been seen, a staff in his bandaged hand and a bag of provisions
over his shoulder, standing upon the little ridge and gazing towards
the house which sheltered Miriam. In love and war things had gone ill
with him, so ill that at the thought of his discomfiture he ground his
teeth. Miriam cared nothing for him; Marcus had defeated him at the
first encounter and given him his life; while, worst of all, these two
from whom he had endured so much loved each other. Few, perhaps, have
suffered more sharply than he suffered in that hour; for what agonies
are there like those of disappointed love and the shame of defeat when
endured in youth? With time most men grow accustomed to disaster and
rebuff. The colt that seems to break its heart at the cut of a whip,
will hobble at last to the knacker unmoved by a shower of blows.

While Caleb looked, the red rim of the sun rose above the horizon,
flooding the world with light and life. Now birds began to chirp, and
beasts to move; now the shadows fled away. Caleb’s impressionable
nature answered to this change. Hope stirred in his breast, even the
pain of his maimed hand was forgotten.

“I will win yet,” he shouted to the silent sky; “my troubles are done
with. I will shine like the sun; I will rule like the sun, and my
enemies shall wither beneath my power. It is a good omen. Now I am glad
that the Roman spared my life, that in a day to come I may take his—and
Miriam.”

Then he turned and trudged onward through the glorious sunlight,
watching his own shadow that stretched away before him.

“It goes far,” he said again; “this also is a very good omen.”

Caleb thought much on his way to Jerusalem; moreover he talked with all
whom he met, even with bandits and footpads whom his poverty could not
tempt, for he desired to learn how matters stood in the land. Arrived
in Jerusalem he sought out the home of that lady who had been his
mother’s friend and who gave him over, a helpless orphan, to the care
of the Essenes. He found that she was dead, but her son lived, a man of
kind heart and given to hospitality, who had heard his story and
sheltered him for his mother’s sake. When his hand was healed and he
procured some good clothes and a little money from his friend, without
saying anything of his purpose, Caleb attended the court of Gessius
Florus, the Roman procurator, at his palace, seeking an opportunity to
speak with him.

Thrice did he wait thus for hours at a time, on each occasion to be
driven away at last by the guards. On his fourth visit he was more
fortunate, for Florus, who had noted him before, asked why he stood
there so patiently. An officer replied that the man had a petition to
make.

“Let me hear it then,” said the governor. “I sit in this place to
administer justice by the grace and in the name of Cæsar.”

Accordingly, Caleb was summoned and found himself in the presence of a
small, dark-eyed, beetle-browed Roman with cropped hair, who looked
what he was—one of the most evil rulers that ever held power in Judæa.

“What do you seek, Jew?” he asked in a harsh voice.

“What I am assured I shall find at your hands, O most noble Florus,
justice against the Jews—pure justice”; words at which the courtiers
and guards tittered, and even Florus smiled.

“It is to be had at a price,” he replied.

“I am prepared to pay the price.”

“Then set out your case.”

So Caleb set it out. He told how many years before his father had been
accidentally slain in a tumult, and how he, the son, being but an
infant, certain Jews of the Zealots had seized and divided his estate
on the ground that his father was a partisan of the Romans, leaving
him, the son, to be brought up by charity—which estate, consisting of
tracts of rich lands and certain house property in Jerusalem and Tyre,
was still in their possession or in that of their descendants.

The black eyes of Florus glistened as he heard.

“Their names,” he said, snatching at his tablets. But as yet Caleb was
not minded to give the names. First, he intimated that he desired to
arrive at a 

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