Ben-Hur

to
THE WIFE OF MY YOUTH
who
still abides with me

Contents

BOOK FIRST

CHAPTER I

The Jebel es Zubleh is a mountain fifty miles and more in length, and so narrow
that its tracery on the map gives it a likeness to a caterpillar crawling from
the south to the north. Standing on its red-and-white cliffs, and looking off
under the path of the rising sun, one sees only the Desert of Arabia, where the
east winds, so hateful to vinegrowers of Jericho, have kept their playgrounds
since the beginning. Its feet are well covered by sands tossed from the
Euphrates, there to lie, for the mountain is a wall to the pasture-lands of
Moab and Ammon on the west—lands which else had been of the desert a
part.

The Arab has impressed his language upon everything south and east of Judea,
so, in his tongue, the old Jebel is the parent of numberless wadies which,
intersecting the Roman road—now a dim suggestion of what once it was, a
dusty path for Syrian pilgrims to and from Mecca—run their furrows,
deepening as they go, to pass the torrents of the rainy season into the Jordan,
or their last receptacle, the Dead Sea. Out of one of these wadies—or,
more particularly, out of that one which rises at the extreme end of the Jebel,
and, extending east of north, becomes at length the bed of the Jabbok
River—a traveller passed, going to the table-lands of the desert. To this
person the attention of the reader is first besought.

Judged by his appearance, he was quite forty-five years old. His beard, once of
the deepest black, flowing broadly over his breast, was streaked with white.
His face was brown as a parched coffee-berry, and so hidden by a red
kufiyeh (as the kerchief of the head is at this day called by the
children of the desert) as to be but in part visible. Now and then he raised
his eyes, and they were large and dark. He was clad in the flowing garments so
universal in the East; but their style may not be described more particularly,
for he sat under a miniature tent, and rode a great white dromedary.

It may be doubted if the people of the West ever overcome the impression made
upon them by the first view of a camel equipped and loaded for the desert.
Custom, so fatal to other novelties, affects this feeling but little. At the
end of long journeys with caravans, after years of residence with the Bedawin,
the Western-born, wherever they may be, will stop and wait the passing of the
stately brute. The charm is not in the figure, which not even love can make
beautiful; nor in the movement, the noiseless stepping, or the broad careen. As
is the kindness of the sea to a ship, so that of the desert to its creature. It
clothes him with all its mysteries; in such manner, too, that while we are
looking at him we are thinking of them: therein is the wonder. The animal which
now came out of the wady might well have claimed the customary homage. Its
color and height; its breadth of foot; its bulk of body, not fat, but overlaid
with muscle; its long, slender neck, of swanlike curvature; the head, wide
between the eyes, and tapering to a muzzle which a lady’s bracelet might
have almost clasped; its motion, step long and elastic, tread sure and
soundless—all certified its Syrian blood, old as the days of Cyrus, and
absolutely priceless. There was the usual bridle, covering the forehead with
scarlet fringe, and garnishing the throat with pendent brazen chains, each
ending with a tinkling silver bell; but to the bridle there was neither rein
for the rider nor strap for a driver. The furniture perched on the back was an
invention which with any other people than of the East would have made the
inventor renowned. It consisted of two wooden boxes, scarce four feet in
length, balanced so that one hung at each side; the inner space, softly lined
and carpeted, was arranged to allow the master to sit or lie half reclined;
over it all was stretched a green awning. Broad back and breast straps, and
girths, secured with countless knots and ties, held the device in place. In
such manner the ingenious sons of Cush had contrived to make comfortable the
sunburnt ways of the wilderness, along which lay their duty as often as their
pleasure.

When the dromedary lifted itself out of the last break of the wady, the
traveller had passed the boundary of El Belka, the ancient Ammon. It was
morning-time. Before him was the sun, half curtained in fleecy mist; before him
also spread the desert; not the realm of drifting sands, which was farther on,
but the region where the herbage began to dwarf; where the surface is strewn
with boulders of granite, and gray and brown stones, interspersed with
languishing acacias and tufts of camel-grass. The oak, bramble, and arbutus lay
behind, as if they had come to a line, looked over into the well-less waste and
crouched with fear.

And now there was an end of path or road. More than ever the camel seemed
insensibly driven; it lengthened and quickened its pace, its head pointed
straight towards the horizon; through the wide nostrils it drank the wind in
great draughts. The litter swayed, and rose and fell like a boat in the waves.
Dried leaves in occasional beds rustled underfoot. Sometimes a perfume like
absinthe sweetened all the air. Lark and chat and rock-swallow leaped to wing,
and white partridges ran whistling and clucking out of the way. More rarely a
fox or a hyena quickened his gallop, to study the intruders at a safe distance.
Off to the right rose the hills of the Jebel, the pearl-gray veil resting upon
them changing momentarily into a purple which the sun would make matchless a
little later. Over their highest peaks a vulture sailed on broad wings into
widening circles. But of all these things the tenant under the green tent saw
nothing, or, at least, made no sign of recognition. His eyes were fixed and
dreamy. The going of the man, like that of the animal, was as one being led.

For two hours the dromedary swung forward, keeping the trot steadily and the
line due east. In that time the traveller never changed his position, nor
looked to the right or left. On the desert, distance is not measured by miles
or leagues, but by the saat, or hour, and the manzil, or halt:
three and a half leagues fill the former, fifteen or twenty-five the latter;
but they are the rates for the common camel. A carrier of the genuine Syrian
stock can make three leagues easily. At full speed he overtakes the ordinary
winds. As one of the results of the rapid advance, the face of the landscape
underwent a change. The Jebel stretched along the western horizon, like a
pale-blue ribbon. A tell, or hummock of clay and cemented sand, arose
here and there. Now and then basaltic stones lifted their round crowns,
outposts of the mountain against the forces of the plain; all else, however,
was sand, sometimes smooth as the beaten beach, then heaped in rolling ridges;
here chopped waves, there long swells. So, too, the condition of the atmosphere
changed. The sun, high risen, had drunk his fill of dew and mist, and warmed
the breeze that kissed the wanderer under the awning; far and near he was
tinting the earth with faint milk-whiteness, and shimmering all the sky.

Two hours more passed without rest or deviation from the course. Vegetation
entirely ceased. The sand, so crusted on the surface that it broke into
rattling flakes at every step, held undisputed sway. The Jebel was out of view,
and there was no landmark visible. The shadow that before followed had now
shifted to the north, and was keeping even race with the objects which cast it;
and as there was no sign of halting, the conduct of the traveller became each
moment more strange.

No one, be it remembered, seeks the desert for a pleasure-ground. Life and
business traverse it by paths along which the bones of things dead are strewn
as so many blazons. Such are the roads from well to well, from pasture to
pasture. The heart of the most veteran sheik beats quicker when he finds
himself alone in the pathless tracts. So the man with whom we are dealing could
not have been in search of pleasure; neither was his manner that of a fugitive;
not once did he look behind him. In such situations fear and curiosity are the
most common sensations; he was not moved by them. When men are lonely, they
stoop to any companionship; the dog becomes a comrade, the horse a friend, and
it is no shame to shower them with caresses and speeches of love. The camel
received no such token, not a touch, not a word.

Exactly at noon the dromedary, of its own will, stopped, and uttered the cry or
moan, peculiarly piteous, by which its kind always protest against an overload,
and sometimes crave attention and rest. The master thereupon bestirred himself,
waking, as it were, from sleep. He threw the curtains of the houdah up,
looked at the sun, surveyed the country on every side long and carefully, as if
to identify an appointed place. Satisfied with the inspection, he drew a deep
breath and nodded, much as to say, “At last, at last!” A moment
after, he crossed his hands upon his breast, bowed his head, and prayed
silently. The pious duty done, he prepared to dismount. From his throat
proceeded the sound heard doubtless by the favorite camels of Job—Ikh!
ikh!—the signal to kneel. Slowly the animal obeyed, grunting the
while. The rider then put his foot upon the slender neck, and stepped upon the
sand.

CHAPTER II

The man as now revealed was of admirable proportions, not so tall as powerful.
Loosening the silken rope which held the kufiyeh on his head, he brushed the
fringed folds back until his face was bare—a strong face, almost negro in
color; yet the low, broad forehead, aquiline nose, the outer corners of the
eyes turned slightly upward, the hair profuse, straight, harsh, of metallic
lustre, and falling to the shoulder in many plaits, were signs of origin
impossible to disguise. So looked the Pharaohs and the later Ptolemies; so
looked Mizraim, father of the Egyptian race. He wore the kamis, a white cotton
shirt tight-sleeved, open in front, extending to the ankles and embroidered
down the collar and breast, over which was thrown a brown woollen cloak, now,
as in all probability it was then, called the aba, an outer garment with long
skirt and short sleeves, lined inside with stuff of mixed cotton and silk,
edged all round with a margin of clouded yellow. His feet were protected by
sandals, attached by thongs of soft leather. A sash held the kamis to his
waist. What was very noticeable, considering he was alone, and that the desert
was the haunt of leopards and lions, and men quite as wild, he carried no arms,
not even the crooked stick used for guiding camels; wherefore we may at least
infer his errand peaceful, and that he was either uncommonly bold or under
extraordinary protection.

The traveller’s limbs were numb, for the ride had been long and
wearisome; so he rubbed his hands and stamped his feet, and walked round the
faithful servant, whose lustrous eyes were closing in calm content with the cud
he had already found. Often, while making the circuit, he paused, and, shading
his eyes with his hands, examined the desert to the extremest verge of vision;
and always, when the survey was ended, his face clouded with disappointment,
slight, but enough to advise a shrewd spectator that he was there expecting
company, if not by appointment; at the same time, the spectator would have been
conscious of a sharpening of the curiosity to learn what the business could be
that required transaction in a place so far from civilized abode.

However disappointed, there could be little doubt of the stranger’s
confidence in the coming of the expected company. In token thereof, he went
first to the litter, and, from the cot or box opposite the one he had occupied
in coming, produced a sponge and a small gurglet of water, with which he washed
the eyes, face, and nostrils of the camel; that done, from the same depository
he drew a circular cloth, red-and white-striped, a bundle of rods, and a stout
cane. The latter, after some manipulation, proved to be a cunning device of
lesser joints, one within another, which, when united together, formed a centre
pole higher than his head. When the pole was planted, and the rods set around
it, he spread the cloth over them, and was literally at home—a home much
smaller than the habitations of emir and sheik, yet their counterpart in all
other respects. From the litter again he brought a carpet or square rug, and
covered the floor of the tent on the side from the sun. That done, he went out,
and once more, and with greater care and more eager eyes, swept the encircling
country. Except a distant jackal, galloping across the plain, and an eagle
flying towards the Gulf of Akaba, the waste below, like the blue above it, was
lifeless.

He turned to the camel, saying low, and in a tongue strange to the desert,
“We are far from home, O racer with the swiftest winds—we are far
from home, but God is with us. Let us be patient.”

Then he took some beans from a pocket in the saddle, and put them in a bag made
to hang below the animal’s nose; and when he saw the relish with which
the good servant took to the food, he turned and again scanned the world of
sand, dim with the glow of the vertical sun.

“They will come,” he said, calmly. “He that led me is leading
them. I will make ready.”

From the pouches which lined the interior of the cot, and from a willow basket
which was part of its furniture, he brought forth materials for a meal:
platters close-woven of the fibres of palms; wine in small gurglets of skin;
mutton dried and smoked; stoneless shami, or Syrian pomegranates; dates of El
Shelebi, wondrous rich and grown in the nakhil, or palm orchards, of Central
Arabia; cheese, like David’s “slices of milk;” and leavened
bread from the city bakery—all which he carried and set upon the carpet
under the tent. As the final preparation, about the provisions he laid three
pieces of silk cloth, used among refined people of the East to cover the knees
of guests while at table—a circumstance significant of the number of
persons who were to partake of his entertainment—the number he was
awaiting.

All was now ready. He stepped out: lo! in the east a dark speck on the face of
the desert. He stood as if rooted to the ground; his eyes dilated; his flesh
crept chilly, as if touched by something supernatural. The speck grew; became
large as a hand; at length assumed defined proportions. A little later, full
into view swung a duplication of his own dromedary, tall and white, and bearing
a houdah, the travelling litter of Hindostan. Then the Egyptian crossed his
hands upon his breast, and looked to heaven.

“God only is great!” he exclaimed, his eyes full of tears, his soul
in awe.

The stranger drew nigh—at last stopped. Then he, too, seemed just waking.
He beheld the kneeling camel, the tent, and the man standing prayerfully at the
door. He crossed his hands, bent his head, and prayed silently; after which, in
a little while, he stepped from his camel’s neck to the sand, and
advanced towards the Egyptian, as did the Egyptian towards him. A moment they
looked at each other; then they embraced—that is, each threw his right
arm over the other’s shoulder, and the left round the side, placing his
chin first upon the left, then upon the right breast.

“Peace be with thee, O servant of the true God!” the stranger said.

“And to thee, O brother of the true faith!—to thee peace and
welcome,” the Egyptian replied, with fervor.

The new-comer was tall and gaunt, with lean face, sunken eyes, white hair and
beard, and a complexion between the hue of cinnamon and bronze. He, too, was
unarmed. His costume was Hindostani; over the skull-cap a shawl was wound in
great folds, forming a turban; his body garments were in the style of the
Egyptian’s, except that the aba was shorter, exposing wide flowing
breeches gathered at the ankles. In place of sandals, his feet were clad in
half-slippers of red leather, pointed at the toes. Save the slippers, the
costume from head to foot was of white linen. The air of the man was high,
stately, severe. Visvamitra, the greatest of the ascetic heroes of the Iliad of
the East, had in him a perfect representative. He might have been called a Life
drenched with the wisdom of Brahma—Devotion Incarnate. Only in his eyes
was there proof of humanity; when he lifted his face from the Egyptian’s
breast, they were glistening with tears.

“God only is great!” he exclaimed, when the embrace was finished.

“And blessed are they that serve him!” the Egyptian answered,
wondering at the paraphrase of his own exclamation. “But let us
wait,” he added, “let us wait; for see, the other comes
yonder!”

They looked to the north, where, already plain to view, a third camel, of the
whiteness of the others, came careening like a ship. They waited, standing
together—waited until the new-comer arrived, dismounted, and advanced
towards them.

“Peace to you, O my brother!” he said, while embracing the Hindoo.

And the Hindoo answered, “God’s will be done!”

The last comer was all unlike his friends: his frame was slighter; his
complexion white; a mass of waving light hair was a perfect crown for his small
but beautiful head; the warmth of his dark-blue eyes certified a delicate mind,
and a cordial, brave nature. He was bareheaded and unarmed. Under the folds of
the Tyrian blanket which he wore with unconscious grace appeared a tunic,
short-sleeved and low-necked, gathered to the waist by a band, and reaching
nearly to the knee; leaving the neck, arms, and legs bare. Sandals guarded his
feet. Fifty years, probably more, had spent themselves upon him, with no other
effect, apparently, than to tinge his demeanor with gravity and temper his
words with forethought. The physical organization and the brightness of soul
were untouched. No need to tell the student from what kindred he was sprung; if
he came not himself from the groves of Athene’, his ancestry did.

When his arms fell from the Egyptian, the latter said, with a tremulous voice,
“The Spirit brought me first; wherefore I know myself chosen to be the
servant of my brethren. The tent is set, and the bread is ready for the
breaking. Let me perform my office.”

Taking each by the hand, he led them within, and removed their sandals and
washed their feet, and he poured water upon their hands, and dried them with
napkins.

Then, when he had laved his own hands, he said, “Let us take care of
ourselves, brethren, as our service requires, and eat, that we may be strong
for what remains of the day’s duty. While we eat, we will each learn who
the others are, and whence they come, and how they are called.”

He took them to the repast, and seated them so that they faced each other.
Simultaneously their heads bent forward, their hands crossed upon their
breasts, and, speaking together, they said aloud this simple grace:

“Father of all—God!—what we have here is of thee; take our
thanks and bless us, that we may continue to do thy will.”

With the last word they raised their eyes, and looked at each other in wonder.
Each had spoken in a language never before heard by the others; yet each
understood perfectly what was said. Their souls thrilled with divine emotion;
for by the miracle they recognized the Divine Presence.

CHAPTER III

To speak in the style of the period, the meeting just described took place in
the year of Rome 747. The month was December, and winter reigned over all the
regions east of the Mediterranean. Such as ride upon the desert in this season
go not far until smitten with a keen appetite. The company under the little
tent were not exceptions to the rule. They were hungry, and ate heartily; and,
after the wine, they talked.

“To a wayfarer in a strange land nothing is so sweet as to hear his name
on the tongue of a friend,” said the Egyptian, who assumed to be
president of the repast. “Before us lie many days of companionship. It is
time we knew each other. So, if it be agreeable, he who came last shall be
first to speak.”

Then, slowly at first, like one watchful of himself, the Greek began:

“What I have to tell, my brethren, is so strange that I hardly know where
to begin or what I may with propriety speak. I do not yet understand myself.
The most I am sure of is that I am doing a Master’s will, and that the
service is a constant ecstasy. When I think of the purpose I am sent to fulfil,
there is in me a joy so inexpressible that I know the will is
God’s.”

The good man paused, unable to proceed, while the others, in sympathy with his
feelings, dropped their gaze.

“Far to the west of this,” he began again, “there is a land
which may never be forgotten; if only because the world is too much its debtor,
and because the indebtedness is for things that bring to men their purest
pleasures. I will say nothing of the arts, nothing of philosophy, of eloquence,
of poetry, of war: O my brethren, hers is the glory which must shine forever in
perfected letters, by which He we go to find and proclaim will be made known to
all the earth. The land I speak of is Greece. I am Gaspar, son of Cleanthes the
Athenian.

“My people,” he continued, “were given wholly to study, and
from them I derived the same passion. It happens that two of our philosophers,
the very greatest of the many, teach, one the doctrine of a Soul in every man,
and its Immortality; the other the doctrine of One God, infinitely just. From
the multitude of subjects about which the schools were disputing, I separated
them, as alone worth the labor of solution; for I thought there was a relation
between God and the soul as yet unknown. On this theme the mind can reason to a
point, a dead, impassable wall; arrived there, all that remains is to stand and
cry aloud for help. So I did; but no voice came to me over the wall. In
despair, I tore myself from the cities and the schools.”

At these words a grave smile of approval lighted the gaunt face of the Hindoo.

“In the northern part of my country—in Thessaly,” the Greek
proceeded to say, “there is a mountain famous as the home of the gods,
where Theus, whom my countrymen believe supreme, has his abode; Olympus is its
name. Thither I betook myself. I found a cave in a hill where the mountain,
coming from the west, bends to the southeast; there I dwelt, giving myself up
to meditation—no, I gave myself up to waiting for what every breath was a
prayer—for revelation. Believing in God, invisible yet supreme, I also
believed it possible so to yearn for him with all my soul that he would take
compassion and give me answer.”

“And he did—he did!” exclaimed the Hindoo, lifting his hands
from the silken cloth upon his lap.

“Hear me, brethren,” said the Greek, calming himself with an
effort. “The door of my hermitage looks over an arm of the sea, over the
Thermaic Gulf. One day I saw a man flung overboard from a ship sailing by. He
swam ashore. I received and took care of him. He was a Jew, learned in the
history and laws of his people; and from him I came to know that the God of my
prayers did indeed exist; and had been for ages their lawmaker, ruler, and
king. What was that but the Revelation I dreamed of? My faith had not been
fruitless; God answered me!”

“As he does all who cry to him with such faith,” said the Hindoo.

“But, alas!” the Egyptian added, “how few are there wise
enough to know when he answers them!”

“That was not all,” the Greek continued. “The man so sent to
me told me more. He said the prophets who, in the ages which followed the first
revelation, walked and talked with God, declared he would come again. He gave
me the names of the prophets, and from the sacred books quoted their very
language. He told me, further, that the second coming was at hand—was
looked for momentarily in Jerusalem.”

The Greek paused, and the brightness of his countenance faded.

“It is true,” he said, after a little—“it is true the
man told me that as God and the revelation of which he spoke had been for the
Jews alone, so it would be again. He that was to come should be King of the
Jews. ‘Had he nothing for the rest of the world?’ I asked.
‘No,’ was the answer, given in a proud voice—‘No, we
are his chosen people.’ The answer did not crush my hope. Why should such
a God limit his love and benefaction to one land, and, as it were, to one
family? I set my heart upon knowing. At last I broke through the man’s
pride, and found that his fathers had been merely chosen servants to keep the
Truth alive, that the world might at last know it and be saved. When the Jew
was gone, and I was alone again, I chastened my soul with a new
prayer—that I might be permitted to see the King when he was come, and
worship him. One night I sat by the door of my cave trying to get nearer the
mysteries of my existence, knowing which is to know God; suddenly, on the sea
below me, or rather in the darkness that covered its face, I saw a star begin
to burn; slowly it arose and drew nigh, and stood over the hill and above my
door, so that its light shone full upon me. I fell down, and slept, and in my
dream I heard a voice say:

“‘O Gaspar! Thy faith hath conquered! Blessed art thou! With two
others, come from the uttermost parts of the earth, thou shalt see Him that is
promised, and be a witness for him, and the occasion of testimony in his
behalf. In the morning arise, and go meet them, and keep trust in the Spirit
that shall guide thee.’

“And in the morning I awoke with the Spirit as a light within me
surpassing that of the sun. I put off my hermit’s garb, and dressed
myself as of old. From a hiding-place I took the treasure which I had brought
from the city. A ship went sailing past. I hailed it, was taken aboard, and
landed at Antioch. There I bought the camel and his furniture. Through the
gardens and orchards that enamel the banks of the Orontes, I journeyed to
Emesa, Damascus, Bostra, and Philadelphia; thence hither. And so, O brethren,
you have my story. Let me now listen to you.”

CHAPTER IV

The Egyptian and the Hindoo looked at each other; the former waved his hand;
the latter bowed, and began:

“Our brother has spoken well. May my words be as wise.”

He broke off, reflected a moment, then resumed:

“You may know me, brethren, by the name of Melchior. I speak to you in a
language which, if not the oldest in the world, was at least the soonest to be
reduced to letters—I mean the Sanscrit of India. I am a Hindoo by birth.
My people were the first to walk in the fields of knowledge, first to divide
them, first to make them beautiful. Whatever may hereafter befall, the four
Vedas must live, for they are the primal fountains of religion and useful
intelligence. From them were derived the Upa-Vedas, which, delivered by Brahma,
treat of medicine, archery, architecture, music, and the four-and-sixty
mechanical arts; the Ved-Angas, revealed by inspired saints, and devoted to
astronomy, grammar, prosody, pronunciation, charms and incantations, religious
rites and ceremonies; the Up-Angas, written by the sage Vyasa, and given to
cosmogony, chronology, and geography; therein also are the Ramayana and the
Mahabharata, heroic poems, designed for the perpetuation of our gods and
demi-gods. Such, O brethren, are the Great Shastras, or books of sacred
ordinances. They are dead to me now; yet through all time they will serve to
illustrate the budding genius of my race. They were promises of quick
perfection. Ask you why the promises failed? Alas! the books themselves closed
all the gates of progress. Under pretext of care for the creature, their
authors imposed the fatal principle that a man must not address himself to
discovery or invention, as Heaven had provided him all things needful. When
that condition became a sacred law, the lamp of Hindoo genius was let down a
well, where ever since it has lighted narrow walls and bitter waters.

“These allusions, brethren, are not from pride, as you will understand
when I tell you that the Shastras teach a Supreme God called Brahm; also, that
the Puranas, or sacred poems of the Up-Angas, tell us of Virtue and Good Works,
and of the Soul. So, if my brother will permit the saying”—the
speaker bowed deferentially to the Greek—“ages before his people
were known, the two great ideas, God and the Soul, had absorbed all the forces
of the Hindoo mind. In further explanation let me say that Brahm is taught, by
the same sacred books, as a Triad—Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Of these,
Brahma is said to have been the author of our race; which, in course of
creation, he divided into four castes. First, he peopled the worlds below and
the heavens above; next, he made the earth ready for terrestrial spirits; then
from his mouth proceeded the Brahman caste, nearest in likeness to himself,
highest and noblest, sole teachers of the Vedas, which at the same time flowed
from his lips in finished state, perfect in all useful knowledge. From his arms
next issued the Kshatriya, or warriors; from his breast, the seat of life, came
the Vaisya, or producers—shepherds, farmers, merchants; from his foot, in
sign of degradation, sprang the Sudra, or serviles, doomed to menial duties for
the other classes—serfs, domestics, laborers, artisans. Take notice,
further, that the law, so born with them, forbade a man of one caste becoming a
member of another; the Brahman could not enter a lower order; if he violated
the laws of his own grade, he became an outcast, lost to all but outcasts like
himself.”

At this point, the imagination of the Greek, flashing forward upon all the
consequences of such a degradation, overcame his eager attention, and he
exclaimed, “In such a state, O brethren, what mighty need of a loving
God!”

“Yes,” added the Egyptian, “of a loving God like ours.”

The brows of the Hindoo knit painfully; when the emotion was spent, he
proceeded, in a softened voice.

“I was born a Brahman. My life, consequently, was ordered down to its
least act, its last hour. My first draught of nourishment; the giving me my
compound name; taking me out the first time to see the sun; investing me with
the triple thread by which I became one of the twice-born; my induction into
the first order—were all celebrated with sacred texts and rigid
ceremonies. I might not walk, eat, drink, or sleep without danger of violating
a rule. And the penalty, O brethren, the penalty was to my soul! According to
the degrees of omission, my soul went to one of the heavens—Indra’s
the lowest, Brahma’s the highest; or it was driven back to become the
life of a worm, a fly, a fish, or a brute. The reward for perfect observance
was Beatitude, or absorption into the being of Brahm, which was not existence
as much as absolute rest.”

The Hindoo gave himself a moment’s thought; proceeding, he said:
“The part of a Brahman’s life called the first order is his student
life. When I was ready to enter the second order—that is to say, when I
was ready to marry and become a householder—I questioned everything, even
Brahm; I was a heretic. From the depths of the well I had discovered a light
above, and yearned to go up and see what all it shone upon. At last—ah,
with what years of toil!—I stood in the perfect day, and beheld the
principle of life, the element of religion, the link between the soul and
God—Love!”

The shrunken face of the good man kindled visibly, and he clasped his hands
with force. A silence ensued, during which the others looked at him, the Greek
through tears. At length he resumed:

“The happiness of love is in action; its test is what one is willing to
do for others. I could not rest. Brahm had filled the world with so much
wretchedness. The Sudra appealed to me, so did the countless devotees and
victims. The island of Ganga Lagor lies where the sacred waters of the Ganges
disappear in the Indian Ocean. Thither I betook myself. In the shade of the
temple built there to the sage Kapila, in a union of prayers with the disciples
whom the sanctified memory of the holy man keeps around his house, I thought to
find rest. But twice every year came pilgrimages of Hindoos seeking the
purification of the waters. Their misery strengthened my love. Against its
impulse to speak I clenched my jaws; for one word against Brahm or the Triad or
the Shastras would doom me; one act of kindness to the outcast Brahmans who now
and then dragged themselves to die on the burning sands—a blessing said,
a cup of water given—and I became one of them, lost to family, country,
privileges, caste. The love conquered! I spoke to the disciples in the temple;
they drove me out. I spoke to the pilgrims; they stoned me from the island. On
the highways I attempted to preach; my hearers fled from me, or sought my life.
In all India, finally, there was not a place in which I could find peace or
safety—not even among the outcasts, for, though fallen, they were still
believers in Brahm. In my extremity, I looked for a solitude in which to hide
from all but God. I followed the Ganges to its source, far up in the Himalayas.
When I entered the pass at Hurdwar, where the river, in unstained purity, leaps
to its course through the muddy lowlands, I prayed for my race, and thought
myself lost to them forever. Through gorges, over cliffs, across glaciers, by
peaks that seemed star-high, I made my way to the Lang Tso, a lake of
marvellous beauty, asleep at the feet of the Tise Gangri, the Gurla, and the
Kailas Parbot, giants which flaunt their crowns of snow everlastingly in the
face of the sun. There, in the centre of the earth, where the Indus, Ganges,
and Brahmapootra rise to run their different courses; where mankind took up
their first abode, and separated to replete the world, leaving Balk, the mother
of cities, to attest the great fact; where Nature, gone back to its primeval
condition, and secure in its immensities, invites the sage and the exile, with
promise of safety to the one and solitude to the other—there I went to
abide alone with God, praying, fasting, waiting for death.”

Again the voice fell, and the bony hands met in a fervent clasp.

“One night I walked by the shores of the lake, and spoke to the listening
silence, ‘When will God come and claim his own? Is there to be no
redemption?’ Suddenly a light began to glow tremulously out on the water;
soon a star arose, and moved towards me, and stood overhead. The brightness
stunned me. While I lay upon the ground, I heard a voice of infinite sweetness
say, ‘Thy love hath conquered. Blessed art thou, O son of India! The
redemption is at hand. With two others, from far quarters of the earth, thou
shalt see the Redeemer, and be a witness that he hath come. In the morning
arise, and go meet them; and put all thy trust in the Spirit which shall guide
thee.’

“And from that time the light has stayed with me; so I knew it was the
visible presence of the Spirit. In the morning I started to the world by the
way I had come. In a cleft of the mountain I found a stone of vast worth, which
I sold in Hurdwar. By Lahore, and Cabool, and Yezd, I came to Ispahan. There I
bought the camel, and thence was led to Bagdad, not waiting for caravans. Alone
I traveled, fearless, for the Spirit was with me, and is with me yet. What
glory is ours, O brethren! We are to see the Redeemer—to speak to
him—to worship him! I am done.”

CHAPTER V

The vivacious Greek broke forth in expressions of joy and congratulations;
after which the Egyptian said, with characteristic gravity:

“I salute you, my brother. You have suffered much, and I rejoice in your
triumph. If you are both pleased to hear me, I will now tell you who I am, and
how I came to be called. Wait for me a moment.”

He went out and tended the camels; coming back, he resumed his seat.

“Your words, brethren, were of the Spirit,” he said, in
commencement; “and the Spirit gives me to understand them. You each spoke
particularly of your countries; in that there was a great object, which I will
explain; but to make the interpretation complete, let me first speak of myself
and my people. I am Balthasar the Egyptian.”

The last words were spoken quietly, but with so much dignity that both
listeners bowed to the speaker.

“There are many distinctions I might claim for my race,” he
continued; “but I will content myself with one. History began with us. We
were the first to perpetuate events by records kept. So we have no traditions;
and instead of poetry, we offer you certainty. On the facades of palaces and
temples, on obelisks, on the inner walls of tombs, we wrote the names of our
kings, and what they did; and to the delicate papyri we intrusted the wisdom of
our philosophers and the secrets of our religion—all the secrets but one,
whereof I will presently speak. Older than the Vedas of Para-Brahm or the
Up-Angas of Vyasa, O Melchior; older than the songs of Homer or the metaphysics
of Plato, O my Gaspar; older than the sacred books or kings of the people of
China, or those of Siddartha, son of the beautiful Maya; older than the Genesis
of Mosche the Hebrew—oldest of human records are the writings of Menes,
our first king.” Pausing an instant, he fixed his large eves kindly upon
the Greek, saying, “In the youth of Hellas, who, O Gaspar, were the
teachers of her teachers?”

The Greek bowed, smiling.

“By those records,” Balthasar continued, “we know that when
the fathers came from the far East, from the region of the birth of the three
sacred rivers, from the centre of the earth—the Old Iran of which you
spoke, O Melchior—came bringing with them the history of the world before
the Flood, and of the Flood itself, as given to the Aryans by the sons of Noah,
they taught God, the Creator and the Beginning, and the Soul, deathless as God.
When the duty which calls us now is happily done, if you choose to go with me,
I will show you the sacred library of our priesthood; among others, the Book of
the Dead, in which is the ritual to be observed by the soul after Death has
despatched it on its journey to judgment. The ideas—God and the Immortal
Soul—were borne to Mizraim over the desert, and by him to the banks of
the Nile. They were then in their purity, easy of understanding, as what God
intends for our happiness always is; so, also, was the first worship—a
song and a prayer natural to a soul joyous, hopeful, and in love with its
Maker.”

Here the Greek threw up his hands, exclaiming, “Oh! the light deepens
within me!”

“And in me!” said the Hindoo, with equal fervor.

The Egyptian regarded them benignantly, then went on, saying, “Religion
is merely the law which binds man to his Creator: in purity it has but these
elements—God, the Soul, and their Mutual Recognition; out of which, when
put in practise, spring Worship, Love, and Reward. This law, like all others of
divine origin—like that, for instance, which binds the earth to the
sun—was perfected in the beginning by its Author. Such, my brothers, was
the religion of the first family; such was the religion of our father Mizraim,
who could not have been blind to the formula of creation, nowhere so
discernible as in the first faith and the earliest worship. Perfection is God;
simplicity is perfection. The curse of curses is that men will not let truths
like these alone.”

He stopped, as if considering in what manner to continue.

“Many nations have loved the sweet waters of the Nile,” he said
next; “the Ethiopian, the Pali-Putra, the Hebrew, the Assyrian, the
Persian, the Macedonian, the Roman—of whom all, except the Hebrew, have
at one time or another been its masters. So much coming and going of peoples
corrupted the old Mizraimic faith. The Valley of Palms became a Valley of Gods.
The Supreme One was divided into eight, each personating a creative principle
in nature, with Ammon-Re at the head. Then Isis and Osiris, and their circle,
representing water, fire, air, and other forces, were invented. Still the
multiplication went on until we had another order, suggested by human
qualities, such as strength, knowledge, love, and the like.”

“In all which there was the old folly!” cried the Greek,
impulsively. “Only the things out of reach remain as they came to
us.”

The Egyptian bowed, and proceeded:

“Yet a little further, O my brethren, a little further, before I come to
myself. What we go to will seem all the holier of comparison with what is and
has been. The records show that Mizraim found the Nile in possession of the
Ethiopians, who were spread thence through the African desert; a people of
rich, fantastic genius, wholly given to the worship of nature. The Poetic
Persian sacrificed to the sun, as the completest image of Ormuzd, his God; the
devout children of the far East carved their deities out of wood and ivory; but
the Ethiopian, without writing, without books, without mechanical faculty of
any kind, quieted his soul by the worship of animals, birds, and insects,
holding the cat sacred to Re, the bull to Isis, the beetle to Pthah. A long
struggle against their rude faith ended in its adoption as the religion of the
new empire. Then rose the mighty monuments that cumber the river-bank and the
desert—obelisk, labyrinth, pyramid, and tomb of king, blent with tomb of
crocodile. Into such deep debasement, O brethren, the sons of the Aryan
fell!”

Here, for the first time, the calmness of the Egyptian forsook him: though his
countenance remained impassive, his voice gave way.

“Do not too much despise my countrymen,” he began again.
“They did not all forget God. I said awhile ago, you may remember, that
to papyri we intrusted all the secrets of our religion except one; of that I
will now tell you. We had as king once a certain Pharaoh, who lent himself to
all manner of changes and additions. To establish the new system, he strove to
drive the old entirely out of mind. The Hebrews then dwelt with us as slaves.
They clung to their God; and when the persecution became intolerable, they were
delivered in a manner never to be forgotten. I speak from the records now.
Mosche, himself a Hebrew, came to the palace, and demanded permission for the
slaves, then millions in number, to leave the country. The demand was in the
name of the Lord God of Israel. Pharaoh refused. Hear what followed. First, all
the water, that in the lakes and rivers, like that in the wells and vessels,
turned to blood. Yet the monarch refused. Then frogs came up and covered all
the land. Still he was firm. Then Mosche threw ashes in the air, and a plague
attacked the Egyptians. Next, all the cattle, except of the Hebrews, were
struck dead. Locusts devoured the green things of the valley. At noon the day
was turned into a darkness so thick that lamps would not burn. Finally, in the
night all the first-born of the Egyptians died; not even Pharaoh’s
escaped. Then he yielded. But when the Hebrews were gone he followed them with
his army. At the last moment the sea was divided, so that the fugitives passed
it dry-shod. When the pursuers drove in after them, the waves rushed back and
drowned horse, foot, charioteers, and king. You spoke of revelation, my
Gaspar—”

The blue eyes of the Greek sparkled.

“I had the story from the Jew,” he cried. “You confirm it, O
Balthasar!”

“Yes, but through me Egypt speaks, not Mosche. I interpret the marbles.
The priests of that time wrote in their way what they witnessed, and the
revelation has lived. So I come to the one unrecorded secret. In my country,
brethren, we have, from the day of the unfortunate Pharaoh, always had two
religions—one private, the other public; one of many gods, practised by
the people; the other of one God, cherished only by the priesthood. Rejoice
with me, O brothers! All the trampling by the many nations, all the harrowing
by kings, all the inventions of enemies, all the changes of time, have been in
vain. Like a seed under the mountains waiting its hour, the glorious Truth has
lived; and this—this is its day!”

The wasted frame of the Hindoo trembled with delight, and the Greek cried
aloud,

“It seems to me the very desert is singing.”

From a gurglet of water near-by the Egyptian took a draught, and proceeded:

“I was born at Alexandria, a prince and a priest, and had the education
usual to my class. But very early I became discontented. Part of the faith
imposed was that after death upon the destruction of the body, the soul at once
began its former progression from the lowest up to humanity, the highest and
last existence; and that without reference to conduct in the mortal life. When
I heard of the Persian’s Realm of Light, his Paradise across the bridge
Chinevat, where only the good go, the thought haunted me; insomuch that in the
day, as in the night, I brooded over the comparative ideas Eternal
Transmigration and Eternal Life in Heaven. If, as my teacher taught, God was
just, why was there no distinction between the good and the bad? At length it
became clear to me, a certainty, a corollary of the law to which I reduced pure
religion, that death was only the point of separation at which the wicked are
left or lost, and the faithful rise to a higher life; not the nirvana of
Buddha, or the negative rest of Brahma, O Melchior; nor the better condition in
hell, which is all of Heaven allowed by the Olympic faith, O Gaspar; but
life—life active, joyous, everlasting—LIFE WITH GOD! The discovery
led to another inquiry. Why should the Truth be longer kept a secret for the
selfish solace of the priesthood? The reason for the suppression was gone.
Philosophy had at least brought us toleration. In Egypt we had Rome instead of
Rameses. One day, in the Brucheium, the most splendid and crowded quarter of
Alexandria, I arose and preached. The East and West contributed to my audience.
Students going to the Library, priests from the Serapeion, idlers from the
Museum, patrons of the race-course, countrymen from the Rhacotis—a
multitude—stopped to hear me. I preached God, the Soul, Right and Wrong,
and Heaven, the reward of a virtuous life. You, O Melchior, were stoned; my
auditors first wondered, then laughed. I tried again; they pelted me with
epigrams, covered my God with ridicule, and darkened my Heaven with mockery.
Not to linger needlessly, I fell before them.”

The Hindoo here drew a long sigh, as he said, “The enemy of man is man,
my brother.”

Balthasar lapsed into silence.

“I gave much thought to finding the cause of my failure, and at last
succeeded,” he said, upon beginning again. “Up the river, a
day’s journey from the city, there is a village of herdsmen and
gardeners. I took a boat and went there. In the evening I called the people
together, men and women, the poorest of the poor. I preached to them exactly as
I had preached in the Brucheium. They did not laugh. Next evening I spoke
again, and they believed and rejoiced, and carried the news abroad. At the
third meeting a society was formed for prayer. I returned to the city then.
Drifting down the river, under the stars, which never seemed so bright and so
near, I evolved this lesson: To begin a reform, go not into the places of the
great and rich; go rather to those whose cups of happiness are empty—to
the poor and humble. And then I laid a plan and devoted my life. As a first
step, I secured my vast property, so that the income would be certain, and
always at call for the relief of the suffering. From that day, O brethren, I
travelled up and down the Nile, in the villages, and to all the tribes,
preaching One God, a righteous life, and reward in Heaven. I have done
good—it does not become me to say how much. I also know that part of the
world to be ripe for the reception of Him we go to find.”

A flush suffused the swarthy cheek of the speaker; but he overcame the feeling,
and continued:

“The years so given, O my brothers, were troubled by one
thought—When I was gone, what would become of the cause I had started?
Was it to end with me? I had dreamed many times of organization as a fitting
crown for my work. To hide nothing from you, I had tried to effect it, and
failed. Brethren, the world is now in the condition that, to restore the old
Mizraimic faith, the reformer must have a more than human sanction; he must not
merely come in God’s name, he must have the proofs subject to his word;
he must demonstrate all he says, even God. So preoccupied is the mind with
myths and systems; so much do false deities crowd every place—earth, air,
sky; so have they become of everything a part, that return to the first
religion can only be along bloody paths, through fields of persecution; that is
to say, the converts must be willing to die rather than recant. And who in this
age can carry the faith of men to such a point but God himself? To redeem the
race—I do not mean to destroy it—to REDEEM the race, he must make
himself once more manifest; HE MUST COME IN PERSON.”

Intense emotion seized the three.

“Are we not going to find him?” exclaimed the Greek.

“You understand why I failed in the attempt to organize,” said the
Egyptian, when the spell was past. “I had not the sanction. To know that
my work must be lost made me intolerably wretched. I believed in prayer, and to
make my appeals pure and strong, like you, my brethren, I went out of the
beaten ways, I went where man had not been, where only God was. Above the fifth
cataract, above the meeting of rivers in Sennar, up the Bahr el Abiad, into the
far unknown of Africa, I went. There, in the morning, a mountain blue as the
sky flings a cooling shadow wide over the western desert, and, with its
cascades of melted snow, feeds a broad lake nestling at its base on the east.
The lake is the mother of the great river. For a year and more the mountain
gave me a home. The fruit of the palm fed my body, prayer my spirit. One night
I walked in the orchard close by the little sea. ‘The world is dying.
When wilt thou come? Why may I not see the redemption, O God?’ So I
prayed. The glassy water was sparkling with stars. One of them seemed to leave
its place, and rise to the surface, where it became a brilliancy burning to the
eyes. Then it moved towards me, and stood over my head, apparently in
hand’s reach. I fell down and hid my face. A voice, not of the earth,
said, ‘Thy good works have conquered. Blessed art thou, O son of Mizraim!
The redemption cometh. With two others, from the remotenesses of the world,
thou shalt see the Saviour, and testify for him. In the morning arise, and go
meet them. And when ye have all come to the holy city of Jerusalem, ask of the
people, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in
the East and are sent to worship him. Put all thy trust in the Spirit which
will guide thee.’

“And the light became an inward illumination not to be doubted, and has
stayed with me, a governor and a guide. It led me down the river to Memphis,
where I made ready for the desert. I bought my camel, and came hither without
rest, by way of Suez and Kufileh, and up through the lands of Moab and Ammon.
God is with us, O my brethren!”

He paused, and thereupon, with a prompting not their own, they all arose, and
looked at each other.

“I said there was a purpose in the particularity with which we described
our people and their histories,” so the Egyptian proceeded. “He we
go to find was called ‘King of the Jews;’ by that name we are
bidden to ask for him. But, now that we have met, and heard from each other, we
may know him to be the Redeemer, not of the Jews alone, but of all the nations
of the earth. The patriarch who survived the Flood had with him three sons, and
their families, by whom the world was repeopled. From the old Aryana-Vaejo, the
well-remembered Region of Delight in the heart of Asia, they parted. India and
the far East received the children of the first; the descendant of the
youngest, through the North, streamed into Europe; those of the second
overflowed the deserts about the Red Sea, passing into Africa; and though most
of the latter are yet dwellers in shifting tents, some of them became builders
along the Nile.”

By a simultaneous impulse the three joined hands.

“Could anything be more divinely ordered?” Balthasar continued.
“When we have found the Lord, the brothers, and all the generations that
have succeeded them, will kneel to him in homage with us. And when we part to
go our separate ways, the world will have learned a new lesson—that
Heaven may be won, not by the sword, not by human wisdom, but by Faith, Love,
and Good Works.”

There was silence, broken by sighs and sanctified with tears; for the joy that
filled them might not be stayed. It was the unspeakable joy of souls on the
shores of the River of Life, resting with the Redeemed in God’s presence.

Presently their hands fell apart, and together they went out of the tent. The
desert was still as the sky. The sun was sinking fast. The camels slept.

A little while after, the tent was struck, and, with the remains of the repast,
restored to the cot; then the friends mounted, and set out single file, led by
the Egyptian. Their course was due west, into the chilly night. The camels
swung forward in steady trot, keeping the line and the intervals so exactly
that those following seemed to tread in the tracks of the leader. The riders
spoke not once.

By-and-by the moon came up. And as the three tall white figures sped, with
soundless tread, through the opalescent light, they appeared like specters
flying from hateful shadows. Suddenly, in the air before them, not farther up
than a low hill-top flared a lambent flame; as they looked at it, the
apparition contracted into a focus of dazzling lustre. Their hearts beat fast;
their souls thrilled; and they shouted as with one voice, “The Star! the
Star! God is with us!”

CHAPTER VI

In an aperture of the western wall of Jerusalem hang the “oaken
valves” called the Bethlehem or Joppa Gate. The area outside of them is
one of the notable places of the city. Long before David coveted Zion there was
a citadel there. When at last the son of Jesse ousted the Jebusite, and began
to build, the site of the citadel became the northwest corner of the new wall,
defended by a tower much more imposing than the old one. The location of the
gate, however, was not disturbed, for the reasons, most likely, that the roads
which met and merged in front of it could not well be transferred to any other
point, while the area outside had become a recognized market-place. In
Solomon’s day there was great traffic at the locality, shared in by
traders from Egypt and the rich dealers from Tyre and Sidon. Nearly three
thousand years have passed, and yet a kind of commerce clings to the spot. A
pilgrim wanting a pin or a pistol, a cucumber or a camel, a house or a horse, a
loan or a lentil, a date or a dragoman, a melon or a man, a dove or a donkey,
has only to inquire for the article at the Joppa Gate. Sometimes the scene is
quite animated, and then it suggests, What a place the old market must have
been in the days of Herod the Builder! And to that period and that market the
reader is now to be transferred.

Following the Hebrew system, the meeting of the wise men described in the
preceding chapters took place in the afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the
third month of the year; that is to say, on the twenty-fifth day of December.
The year was the second of the 193d Olympiad, or the 747th of Rome; the
sixty-seventh of Herod the Great, and the thirty-fifth of his reign; the fourth
before the beginning of the Christian era. The hours of the day, by Judean
custom, begin with the sun, the first hour being the first after sunrise; so,
to be precise; the market at the Joppa Gate during the first hour of the day
stated was in full session, and very lively. The massive valves had been wide
open since dawn. Business, always aggressive, had pushed through the arched
entrance into a narrow lane and court, which, passing by the walls of the great
tower, conducted on into the city. As Jerusalem is in the hill country, the
morning air on this occasion was not a little crisp. The rays of the sun, with
their promise of warmth, lingered provokingly far up on the battlements and
turrets of the great piles about, down from which fell the crooning of pigeons
and the whir of the flocks coming and going.

As a passing acquaintance with the people of the Holy City, strangers as well
as residents, will be necessary to an understanding of some of the pages which
follow, it will be well to stop at the gate and pass the scene in review.
Better opportunity will not offer to get sight of the populace who will
afterwhile go forward in a mood very different from that which now possesses
them.

The scene is at first one of utter confusion—confusion of action, sounds,
colors, and things. It is especially so in the lane and court. The ground there
is paved with broad unshaped flags, from which each cry and jar and hoof-stamp
arises to swell the medley that rings and roars up between the solid impending
walls. A little mixing with the throng, however, a little familiarity with the
business going on, will make analysis possible.

Here stands a donkey, dozing under panniers full of lentils, beans, onions, and
cucumbers, brought fresh from the gardens and terraces of Galilee. When not
engaged in serving customers, the master, in a voice which only the initiated
can understand, cries his stock. Nothing can be simpler than his
costume—sandals, and an unbleached, undyed blanket, crossed over one
shoulder and girt round the waist. Near-by, and far more imposing and
grotesque, though scarcely as patient as the donkey, kneels a camel, raw-boned,
rough, and gray, with long shaggy tufts of fox-colored hair under its throat,
neck, and body, and a load of boxes and baskets curiously arranged upon an
enormous saddle. The owner is an Egyptian, small, lithe, and of a complexion
which has borrowed a good deal from the dust of the roads and the sands of the
desert. He wears a faded tarbooshe, a loose gown, sleeveless, unbelted, and
dropping from the neck to the knee. His feet are bare. The camel, restless
under the load, groans and occasionally shows his teeth; but the man paces
indifferently to and fro, holding the driving-strap, and all the time
advertising his fruits fresh from the orchards of the Kedron—grapes,
dates, figs, apples, and pomegranates.

At the corner where the lane opens out into the court, some women sit with
their backs against the gray stones of the wall. Their dress is that common to
the humbler classes of the country—a linen frock extending the full
length of the person, loosely gathered at the waist, and a veil or wimple broad
enough, after covering the head, to wrap the shoulders. Their merchandise is
contained in a number of earthen jars, such as are still used in the East for
bringing water from the wells, and some leathern bottles. Among the jars and
bottles, rolling upon the stony floor, regardless of the crowd and cold, often
in danger but never hurt, play half a dozen half-naked children, their brown
bodies, jetty eyes, and thick black hair attesting the blood of Israel.
Sometimes, from under the wimples, the mothers look up, and in the vernacular
modestly bespeak their trade: in the bottles “honey of grapes,” in
the jars “strong drink.” Their entreaties are usually lost in the
general uproar, and they fare illy against the many competitors: brawny fellows
with bare legs, dirty tunics, and long beards, going about with bottles lashed
to their backs, and shouting “Honey of wine! Grapes of En-Gedi!”
When a customer halts one of them, round comes the bottle, and, upon lifting
the thumb from the nozzle, out into the ready cup gushes the deep-red blood of
the luscious berry.

Scarcely less blatant are the dealers in birds—doves, ducks, and
frequently the singing bulbul, or nightingale, most frequently pigeons; and
buyers, receiving them from the nets, seldom fail to think of the perilous life
of the catchers, bold climbers of the cliffs; now hanging with hand and foot to
the face of the crag, now swinging in a basket far down the mountain fissure.

Blent with peddlers of jewelry—sharp men cloaked in scarlet and blue,
top-heavy under prodigious white turbans, and fully conscious of the power
there is in the lustre of a ribbon and the incisive gleam of gold, whether in
bracelet or necklace, or in rings for the finger or the nose—and with
peddlers of household utensils, and with dealers in wearing-apparel, and with
retailers of unguents for anointing the person, and with hucksters of all
articles, fanciful as well as of need, hither and thither, tugging at halters
and ropes, now screaming, now coaxing, toil the venders of
animals—donkeys, horses, calves, sheep, bleating kids, and awkward
camels; animals of every kind except the outlawed swine. All these are there;
not singly, as described, but many times repeated; not in one place, but
everywhere in the market.

Turning from this scene in the lane and court, this glance at the sellers and
their commodities, the reader has need to give attention, in the next place, to
visitors and buyers, for which the best studies will be found outside the
gates, where the spectacle is quite as varied and animated; indeed, it may be
more so, for there are superadded the effects of tent, booth, and sook, greater
space, larger crowd, more unqualified freedom, and the glory of the Eastern
sunshine.

CHAPTER VII

Let us take our stand by the gate, just out of the edge of the
currents—one flowing in, the other out—and use our eyes and ears
awhile.

In good time! Here come two men of a most noteworthy class.

“Gods! How cold it is!” says one of them, a powerful figure in
armor; on his head a brazen helmet, on his body a shining breastplate and
skirts of mail. “How cold it is! Dost thou remember, my Caius, that vault
in the Comitium at home which the flamens say is the entrance to the lower
world? By Pluto! I could stand there this morning, long enough at least to get
warm again!”

The party addressed drops the hood of his military cloak, leaving bare his head
and face, and replies, with an ironic smile, “The helmets of the legions
which conquered Mark Antony were full of Gallic snow; but thou—ah, my
poor friend!—thou hast just come from Egypt, bringing its summer in thy
blood.”

And with the last word they disappear through the entrance. Though they had
been silent, the armor and the sturdy step would have published them Roman
soldiers.

From the throng a Jew comes next, meager of frame, round-shouldered, and
wearing a coarse brown robe; over his eyes and face, and down his back, hangs a
mat of long, uncombed hair. He is alone. Those who meet him laugh, if they do
not worse; for he is a Nazarite, one of a despised sect which rejects the books
of Moses, devotes itself to abhorred vows, and goes unshorn while the vows
endure.

As we watch his retiring figure, suddenly there is a commotion in the crowd, a
parting quickly to the right and left, with exclamations sharp and decisive.
Then the cause comes—a man, Hebrew in feature and dress. The mantle of
snow-white linen, held to his head by cords of yellow silk, flows free over his
shoulders; his robe is richly embroidered, a red sash with fringes of gold
wraps his waist several times. His demeanor is calm; he even smiles upon those
who, with such rude haste, make room for him. A leper? No, he is only a
Samaritan. The shrinking crowd, if asked, would say he is a mongrel—an
Assyrian—whose touch of the robe is pollution; from whom, consequently,
an Israelite, though dying, might not accept life. In fact, the feud is not of
blood. When David set his throne here on Mount Zion, with only Judah to support
him, the ten tribes betook themselves to Shechem, a city much older, and, at
that date, infinitely richer in holy memories. The final union of the tribes
did not settle the dispute thus begun. The Samaritans clung to their tabernacle
on Gerizim, and, while maintaining its superior sanctity, laughed at the irate
doctors in Jerusalem. Time brought no assuagement of the hate. Under Herod,
conversion to the faith was open to all the world except the Samaritans; they
alone were absolutely and forever shut out from communion with Jews.

As the Samaritan goes in under the arch of the gate, out come three men so
unlike all whom we have yet seen that they fix our gaze, whether we will or
not. They are of unusual stature and immense brawn; their eyes are blue, and so
fair is their complexion that the blood shines through the skin like blue
pencilling; their hair is light and short; their heads, small and round, rest
squarely upon necks columnar as the trunks of trees. Woollen tunics, open at
the breast, sleeveless and loosely girt, drape their bodies, leaving bare arms
and legs of such development that they at once suggest the arena; and when
thereto we add their careless, confident, insolent manner, we cease to wonder
that the people give them way, and stop after they have passed to look at them
again. They are gladiators—wrestlers, runners, boxers, swordsmen;
professionals unknown in Judea before the coming of the Roman; fellows who,
what time they are not in training, may be seen strolling through the
king’s gardens or sitting with the guards at the palace gates; or
possibly they are visitors from Cæsarea, Sebaste, or Jericho; in which Herod,
more Greek than Jew, and with all a Roman’s love of games and bloody
spectacles, has built vast theaters, and now keeps schools of fighting-men,
drawn, as is the custom, from the Gallic provinces or the Slavic tribes on the
Danube.

“By Bacchus!” says one of them, drawing his clenched hand to his
shoulder, “their skulls are not thicker than eggshells.”

The brutal look which goes with the gesture disgusts us, and we turn happily to
something more pleasant.

Opposite us is a fruit-stand. The proprietor has a bald head, a long face, and
a nose like the beak of a hawk. He sits upon a carpet spread upon the dust; the
wall is at his back; overhead hangs a scant curtain, around him, within
hand’s reach and arranged upon little stools, lie osier boxes full of
almonds, grapes, figs, and pomegranates. To him now comes one at whom we cannot
help looking, though for another reason than that which fixed our eyes upon the
gladiators; he is really beautiful—a beautiful Greek. Around his temples,
holding the waving hair, is a crown of myrtle, to which still cling the pale
flowers and half ripe berries. His tunic, scarlet in color, is of the softest
woollen fabric; below the girdle of buff leather, which is clasped in front by
a fantastic device of shining gold, the skirt drops to the knee in folds heavy
with embroidery of the same royal metal; a scarf, also woollen, and of mixed
white and yellow, crosses his throat and falls trailing at his back; his arms
and legs, where exposed, are white as ivory, and of the polish impossible
except by perfect treatment with bath, oil, brushes, and pincers.

The dealer, keeping his seat, bends forward, and throws his hands up until they
meet in front of him, palm downwards and fingers extended.

“What hast thou, this morning, O son of Paphos?” says the young
Greek, looking at the boxes rather than at the Cypriote. “I am hungry.
What hast thou for breakfast?”

“Fruits from the Pedius—genuine—such as the singers of
Antioch take of mornings to restore the waste of their voices,” the
dealer answers, in a querulous nasal tone.

“A fig, but not one of thy best, for the singers of Antioch!” says
the Greek. “Thou art a worshiper of Aphrodite, and so am I, as the myrtle
I wear proves; therefore I tell thee their voices have the chill of a Caspian
wind. Seest thou this girdle?—a gift of the mighty Salome—”

“The king’s sister!” exclaims the Cypriote, with another
salaam.

“And of royal taste and divine judgment. And why not? She is more Greek
than the king. But—my breakfast! Here is thy money—red coppers of
Cyprus. Give me grapes, and—”

“Wilt thou not take the dates also?”

“No, I am not an Arab.”

“Nor figs?”

“That would be to make me a Jew. No, nothing but the grapes. Never waters
mixed so sweetly as the blood of the Greek and the blood of the grape.”

The singer in the grimed and seething market, with all his airs of the court,
is a vision not easily shut out of mind by such as see him; as if for the
purpose, however, a person follows him challenging all our wonder. He comes up
the road slowly, his face towards the ground; at intervals he stops, crosses
his hands upon his breast, lengthens his countenance, and turns his eyes
towards heaven, as if about to break into prayer. Nowhere, except in Jerusalem,
can such a character be found. On his forehead, attached to the band which
keeps the mantle in place, projects a leathern case, square in form; another
similar case is tied by a thong to the left arm; the borders of his robe are
decorated with deep fringe; and by such signs—the phylacteries, the
enlarged borders of the garment, and the savor of intense holiness pervading
the whole man—we know him to be a Pharisee, one of an organization (in
religion a sect, in politics a party) whose bigotry and power will shortly
bring the world to grief.

The densest of the throng outside the gate covers the road leading off to
Joppa. Turning from the Pharisee, we are attracted by some parties who, as
subjects of study, opportunely separate themselves from the motley crowd. First
among them a man of very noble appearance—clear, healthful complexion;
bright black eyes; beard long and flowing, and rich with unguents; apparel
well-fitting, costly, and suitable for the season. He carries a staff, and
wears, suspended by a cord from his neck, a large golden seal. Several servants
attend him, some of them with short swords stuck through their sashes; when
they address him, it is with the utmost deference. The rest of the party
consists of two Arabs of the pure desert stock; thin, wiry men, deeply bronzed,
and with hollow cheeks, and eyes of almost evil brightness; on their heads red
tarbooshes; over their abas, and wrapping the left shoulder and the body so as
to leave the right arm free, brown woollen haicks, or blankets. There is loud
chaffering, for the Arabs are leading horses and trying to sell them; and, in
their eagerness, they speak in high, shrill voices. The courtly person leaves
the talking mostly to his servants; occasionally he answers with much dignity;
directly, seeing the Cypriote, he stops and buys some figs. And when the whole
party has passed the portal, close after the Pharisee, if we betake ourselves
to the dealer in fruits, he will tell, with a wonderful salaam, that the
stranger is a Jew, one of the princes of the city, who has travelled, and
learned the difference between the common grapes of Syria and those of Cyprus,
so surpassingly rich with the dews of the sea.

And so, till towards noon, sometimes later, the steady currents of business
habitually flow in and out of the Joppa Gate, carrying with them every variety
of character; including representatives of all the tribes of Israel, all the
sects among whom the ancient faith has been parcelled and refined away, all the
religious and social divisions, all the adventurous rabble who, as children of
art and ministers of pleasure, riot in the prodigalities of Herod, and all the
peoples of note at any time compassed by the Cæsars and their predecessors,
especially those dwelling within the circuit of the Mediterranean.

In other words, Jerusalem, rich in sacred history, richer in connection with
sacred prophecies—the Jerusalem of Solomon, in which silver was as
stones, and cedars as the sycamores of the vale—had come to be but a copy
of Rome, a center of unholy practises, a seat of pagan power. A Jewish king one
day put on priestly garments, and went into the Holy of Holies of the first
temple to offer incense, and he came out a leper; but in the time of which we
are reading, Pompey entered Herod’s temple and the same Holy of Holies,
and came out without harm, finding but an empty chamber, and of God not a sign.

CHAPTER VIII

The reader is now besought to return to the court described as part of the
market at the Joppa Gate. It was the third hour of the day, and many of the
people had gone away; yet the press continued without apparent abatement. Of
the new-comers, there was a group over by the south wall, consisting of a man,
a woman, and a donkey, which requires extended notice.

The man stood by the animal’s head, holding a leading-strap, and leaning
upon a stick which seemed to have been chosen for the double purpose of goad
and staff. His dress was like that of the ordinary Jews around him, except that
it had an appearance of newness. The mantle dropping from his head, and the
robe or frock which clothed his person from neck to heel, were probably the
garments he was accustomed to wear to the synagogue on Sabbath days. His
features were exposed, and they told of fifty years of life, a surmise
confirmed by the gray that streaked his otherwise black beard. He looked around
him with the half-curious, half-vacant stare of a stranger and provincial.

The donkey ate leisurely from an armful of green grass, of which there was an
abundance in the market. In its sleepy content, the brute did not admit of
disturbance from the bustle and clamor about; no more was it mindful of the
woman sitting upon its back in a cushioned pillion. An outer robe of dull
woollen stuff completely covered her person, while a white wimple veiled her
head and neck. Once in a while, impelled by curiosity to see or hear something
passing, she drew the wimple aside, but so slightly that the face remained
invisible.

At length the man was accosted.

“Are you not Joseph of Nazareth?”

The speaker was standing close by.

“I am so called,” answered Joseph, turning gravely around;
“And you—ah, peace be unto you! my friend, Rabbi Samuel!”

“The same give I back to you.” The Rabbi paused, looking at the
woman, then added, “To you, and unto your house and all your helpers, be
peace.”

With the last word, he placed one hand upon his breast, and inclined his head
to the woman, who, to see him, had by this time withdrawn the wimple enough to
show the face of one but a short time out of girlhood. Thereupon the
acquaintances grasped right hands, as if to carry them to their lips; at the
last moment, however, the clasp was let go, and each kissed his own hand, then
put its palm upon his forehead.

“There is so little dust upon your garments,” the Rabbi said,
familiarly, “that I infer you passed the night in this city of our
fathers.”

“No,” Joseph replied, “as we could only make Bethany before
the night came, we stayed in the khan there, and took the road again at
daybreak.”

“The journey before you is long, then—not to Joppa, I hope.”

“Only to Bethlehem.”

The countenance of the Rabbi, theretofore open and friendly, became lowering
and sinister, and he cleared his throat with a growl instead of a cough.

“Yes, yes—I see,” he said. “You were born in Bethlehem,
and wend thither now, with your daughter, to be counted for taxation, as
ordered by Cæsar. The children of Jacob are as the tribes in Egypt
were—only they have neither a Moses nor a Joshua. How are the mighty
fallen!”

Joseph answered, without change of posture or countenance,

“The woman is not my daughter.”

But the Rabbi clung to the political idea; and he went on, without noticing the
explanation, “What are the Zealots doing down in Galilee?”

“I am a carpenter, and Nazareth is a village,” said Joseph,
cautiously. “The street on which my bench stands is not a road leading to
any city. Hewing wood and sawing plank leave me no time to take part in the
disputes of parties.”

“But you are a Jew,” said the Rabbi, earnestly. “You are a
Jew, and of the line of David. It is not possible you can find pleasure in the
payment of any tax except the shekel given by ancient custom to Jehovah.”

Joseph held his peace.

“I do not complain,” his friend continued, “of the amount of
the tax—a denarius is a trifle. Oh no! The imposition of the tax is the
offense. And, besides, what is paying it but submission to tyranny? Tell me, is
it true that Judas claims to be the Messiah? You live in the midst of his
followers.”

“I have heard his followers say he was the Messiah,” Joseph
replied.

At this point the wimple was drawn aside, and for an instant the whole face of
the woman was exposed. The eyes of the Rabbi wandered that way, and he had time
to see a countenance of rare beauty, kindled by a look of intense interest;
then a blush overspread her cheeks and brow, and the veil was returned to its
place.

The politician forgot his subject.

“Your daughter is comely,” he said, speaking lower.

“She is not my daughter,” Joseph repeated.

The curiosity of the Rabbi was aroused; seeing which, the Nazarene hastened to
say further, “She is the child of Joachim and Anna of Bethlehem, of whom
you have at least heard, for they were of great repute—”

“Yes,” remarked the Rabbi, deferentially, “I know them. They
were lineally descended from David. I knew them well.”

“Well, they are dead now,” the Nazarene proceeded. “They died
in Nazareth. Joachim was not rich, yet he left a house and garden to be divided
between his daughters Marian and Mary. This is one of them; and to save her
portion of the property, the law required her to marry her next of kin. She is
now my wife.”

“And you were—”

“Her uncle.”

“Yes, yes! And as you were both born in Bethlehem, the Roman compels you
to take her there with you to be also counted.”

The Rabbi clasped his hands, and looked indignantly to heaven, exclaiming,
“The God of Israel still lives! The vengeance is his!”

With that he turned and abruptly departed. A stranger near by, observing
Joseph’s amazement, said, quietly, “Rabbi Samuel is a zealot. Judas
himself is not more fierce.”

Joseph, not wishing to talk with the man, appeared not to hear, and busied
himself gathering in a little heap the grass which the donkey had tossed
abroad; after which he leaned upon his staff again, and waited.

In another hour the party passed out the gate, and, turning to the left, took
the road into Bethlehem. The descent into the valley of Hinnom was quite
broken, garnished here and there with straggling wild olive-trees. Carefully,
tenderly, the Nazarene walked by the woman’s side, leading-strap in hand.
On their left, reaching to the south and east round Mount Zion, rose the city
wall, and on their right the steep prominences which form the western boundary
of the valley.

Slowly they passed the Lower Pool of Gihon, out of which the sun was fast
driving the lessening shadow of the royal hill; slowly they proceeded, keeping
parallel with the aqueduct from the Pools of Solomon, until near the site of
the country-house on what is now called the Hill of Evil Counsel; there they
began to ascend to the plain of Rephaim. The sun streamed garishly over the
stony face of the famous locality, and under its influence Mary, the daughter
of Joachim, dropped the wimple entirely, and bared her head. Joseph told the
story of the Philistines surprised in their camp there by David. He was tedious
in the narrative, speaking with the solemn countenance and lifeless manner of a
dull man. She did not always hear him.

Wherever on the land men go, and on the sea ships, the face and figure of the
Jew are familiar. The physical type of the race has always been the same; yet
there have been some individual variations. “Now he was ruddy, and withal
of a beautiful countenance, and goodly to look to.” Such was the son of
Jesse when brought before Samuel. The fancies of men have been ever since ruled
by the description. Poetic license has extended the peculiarities of the
ancestor to his notable descendants. So all our ideal Solomons have fair faces,
and hair and beard chestnut in the shade, and of the tint of gold in the sun.
Such, we are also made believe, were the locks of Absalom the beloved. And, in
the absence of authentic history, tradition has dealt no less lovingly by her
whom we are now following down to the native city of the ruddy king.

She was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice, and manner belonged to the
period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion
more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were
full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness, and trust;
the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes; and,
in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish
brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The
throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist
in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of
feature and person were added others more indefinable—an air of purity
which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think
much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to
heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her
breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one
listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances,
Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as
with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.

So they skirted the great plain, and at length reached the elevation Mar Elias;
from which, across a valley, they beheld Bethlehem, the old, old House of
Bread, its white walls crowning a ridge, and shining above the brown scumbling
of leafless orchards. They paused there, and rested, while Joseph pointed out
the places of sacred renown; then they went down into the valley to the well
which was the scene of one of the marvellous exploits of David’s strong
men. The narrow space was crowded with people and animals. A fear came upon
Joseph—a fear lest, if the town were so thronged, there might not be
house-room for the gentle Mary. Without delay, he hurried on, past the pillar
of stone marking the tomb of Rachel, up the gardened slope, saluting none of
the many persons he met on the way, until he stopped before the portal of the
khan that then stood outside the village gates, near a junction of roads.

CHAPTER IX

To understand thoroughly what happened to the Nazarene at the khan, the reader
must be reminded that Eastern inns were different from the inns of the Western
world. They were called khans, from the Persian, and, in simplest form, were
fenced enclosures, without house or shed, often without a gate or entrance.
Their sites were chosen with reference to shade, defence, or water. Such were
the inns that sheltered Jacob when he went to seek a wife in Padan-Aram. Their
like may been seen at this day in the stopping-places of the desert. On the
other hand, some of them, especially those on the roads between great cities,
like Jerusalem and Alexandria, were princely establishments, monuments to the
piety of the kings who built them. In ordinary, however, they were no more than
the house or possession of a sheik, in which, as in headquarters, he swayed his
tribe. Lodging the traveller was the least of their uses; they were markets,
factories, forts; places of assemblage and residence for merchants and artisans
quite as much as places of shelter for belated and wandering wayfarers. Within
their walls, all the year round, occurred the multiplied daily transactions of
a town.

The singular management of these hostelries was the feature likely to strike a
Western mind with most force. There was no host or hostess; no clerk, cook, or
kitchen; a steward at the gate was all the assertion of government or
proprietorship anywhere visible. Strangers arriving stayed at will without
rendering account. A consequence of the system was that whoever came had to
bring his food and culinary outfit with him, or buy them of dealers in the
khan. The same rule held good as to his bed and bedding, and forage for his
beasts. Water, rest, shelter, and protection were all he looked for from the
proprietor, and they were gratuities. The peace of synagogues was sometimes
broken by brawling disputants, but that of the khans never. The houses and all
their appurtenances were sacred: a well was not more so.

The khan at Bethlehem, before which Joseph and his wife stopped, was a good
specimen of its class, being neither very primitive nor very princely. The
building was purely Oriental; that is to say, a quadrangular block of rough
stones, one story high, flat-roofed, externally unbroken by a window, and with
but one principal entrance—a doorway, which was also a gateway, on the
eastern side, or front. The road ran by the door so near that the chalk dust
half covered the lintel. A fence of flat rocks, beginning at the northeastern
corner of the pile, extended many yards down the slope to a point from whence
it swept westwardly to a limestone bluff; making what was in the highest degree
essential to a respectable khan—a safe enclosure for animals.

In a village like Bethlehem, as there was but one sheik, there could not well
be more than one khan; and, though born in the place, the Nazarene, from long
residence elsewhere, had no claim to hospitality in the town. Moreover, the
enumeration for which he was coming might be the work of weeks or months; Roman
deputies in the provinces were proverbially slow; and to impose himself and
wife for a period so uncertain upon acquaintances or relations was out of the
question. So, before he drew nigh the great house, while he was yet climbing
the slope, in the steep places toiling to hasten the donkey, the fear that he
might not find accommodations in the khan became a painful anxiety; for he
found the road thronged with men and boys who, with great ado, were taking
their cattle, horses, and camels to and from the valley, some to water, some to
the neighboring caves. And when he was come close by, his alarm was not allayed
by the discovery of a crowd investing the door of the establishment, while the
enclosure adjoining, broad as it was, seemed already full.

“We cannot reach the door,” Joseph said, in his slow way.
“Let us stop here, and learn, if we can, what has happened.”

The wife, without answering, quietly drew the wimple aside. The look of fatigue
at first upon her face changed to one of interest. She found herself at the
edge of an assemblage that could not be other than a matter of curiosity to
her, although it was common enough at the khans on any of the highways which
the great caravans were accustomed to traverse. There were men on foot, running
hither and thither, talking shrilly and in all the tongues of Syria; men on
horseback screaming to men on camels; men struggling doubtfully with fractious
cows and frightened sheep; men peddling bread and wine; and among the mass a
herd of boys apparently in chase of a herd of dogs. Everybody and everything
seemed to be in motion at the same time. Possibly the fair spectator was too
weary to be long attracted by the scene; in a little while she sighed, and
settled down on the pillion, and, as if in search of peace and rest, or in
expectation of some one, looked off to the south, and up to the tall cliffs of
the Mount of Paradise, then faintly reddening under the setting sun.

While she was thus looking, a man pushed his way out of the press, and,
stopping close by the donkey, faced about with an angry brow. The Nazarene
spoke to him.

“As I am what I take you to be, good friend—a son of
Judah—may I ask the cause of this multitude?”

The stranger turned fiercely; but, seeing the solemn countenance of Joseph, so
in keeping with his deep, slow voice and speech, he raised his hand in
half-salutation, and replied,

“Peace be to you, Rabbi! I am a son of Judah, and will answer you. I
dwell in Beth-Dagon, which, you know, is in what used to be the land of the
tribe of Dan.”

“On the road to Joppa from Modin,” said Joseph.

“Ah, you have been in Beth-Dagon,” the man said, his face softening
yet more. “What wanderers we of Judah are! I have been away from the
ridge—old Ephrath, as our father Jacob called it—for many years.
When the proclamation went abroad requiring all Hebrews to be numbered at the
cities of their birth— That is my business here, Rabbi.”

Joseph’s face remained stolid as a mask, while he remarked, “I have
come for that also—I and my wife.”

The stranger glanced at Mary and kept silence. She was looking up at the bald
top of Gedor. The sun touched her upturned face, and filled the violet depths
of her eyes, and upon her parted lips trembled an aspiration which could not
have been to a mortal. For the moment, all the humanity of her beauty seemed
refined away: she was as we fancy they are who sit close by the gate in the
transfiguring light of Heaven. The Beth-Dagonite saw the original of what,
centuries after, came as a vision of genius to Sanzio the divine, and left him
immortal.

“Of what was I speaking? Ah! I remember. I was about to say that when I
heard of the order to come here, I was angry. Then I thought of the old hill,
and the town, and the valley falling away into the depths of Cedron; of the
vines and orchards, and fields of grain, unfailing since the days of Boaz and
Ruth, of the familiar mountains—Gedor here, Gibeah yonder, Mar Elias
there—which, when I was a boy, were the walls of the world to me; and I
forgave the tyrants and came—I, and Rachel, my wife, and Deborah and
Michal, our roses of Sharon.”

The man paused again, looking abruptly at Mary, who was now looking at him and
listening. Then he said, “Rabbi, will not your wife go to mine? You may
see her yonder with the children, under the leaning olive-tree at the bend of
the road. I tell you”—he turned to Joseph and spoke
positively—“I tell you the khan is full. It is useless to ask at
the gate.”

Joseph’s will was slow, like his mind; he hesitated, but at length
replied, “The offer is kind. Whether there be room for us or not in the
house, we will go see your people. Let me speak to the gate-keeper myself. I
will return quickly.”

And, putting the leading-strap in the stranger’s hand, he pushed into the
stirring crowd.

The keeper sat on a great cedar block outside the gate. Against the wall behind
him leaned a javelin. A dog squatted on the block by his side.

“The peace of Jehovah be with you,” said Joseph, at last
confronting the keeper.

“What you give, may you find again; and, when found, be it many times
multiplied to you and yours,” returned the watchman, gravely, though
without moving.

“I am a Bethlehemite,” said Joseph, in his most deliberate way.
“Is there not room for—”

“There is not.”

“You may have heard of me—Joseph of Nazareth. This is the house of
my fathers. I am of the line of David.”

These words held the Nazarene’s hope. If they failed him, further appeal
was idle, even that of the offer of many shekels. To be a son of Judah was one
thing—in the tribal opinion a great thing; to be of the house of David
was yet another; on the tongue of a Hebrew there could be no higher boast. A
thousand years and more had passed since the boyish shepherd became the
successor of Saul and founded a royal family. Wars, calamities, other kings,
and the countless obscuring processes of time had, as respects fortune, lowered
his descendants to the common Jewish level; the bread they ate came to them of
toil never more humble; yet they had the benefit of history sacredly kept, of
which genealogy was the first chapter and the last; they could not become
unknown, while, wherever they went In Israel, acquaintance drew after it a
respect amounting to reverence.

If this were so in Jerusalem and elsewhere, certainly one of the sacred line
might reasonably rely upon it at the door of the khan of Bethlehem. To say, as
Joseph said, “This is the house of my fathers,” was to say the
truth most simply and literally; for it was the very house Ruth ruled as the
wife of Boaz, the very house in which Jesse and his ten sons, David the
youngest, were born, the very house in which Samuel came seeking a king, and
found him; the very house which David gave to the son of Barzillai, the
friendly Gileadite; the very house in which Jeremiah, by prayer, rescued the
remnant of his race flying before the Babylonians.

The appeal was not without effect. The keeper of the gate slid down from the
cedar block, and, laying his hand upon his beard, said, respectfully,
“Rabbi, I cannot tell you when this door first opened in welcome to the
traveller, but it was more than a thousand years ago; and in all that time
there is no known instance of a good man turned away, save when there was no
room to rest him in. If it has been so with the stranger, just cause must the
steward have who says no to one of the line of David. Wherefore, I salute you
again; and, if you care to go with me, I will show you that there is not a
lodging-place left in the house; neither in the chambers, nor in the lewens,
nor in the court—not even on the roof. May I ask when you came?”

“But now.”

The keeper smiled.

“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born among
you, and thou shalt love him as thyself.’ Is not that the law,
Rabbi?”

Joseph was silent.

“If it be the law, can I say to one a long time come, ‘Go thy way;
another is here to take thy place?’”

Yet Joseph held his peace.

“And, if I said so, to whom would the place belong? See the many that
have been waiting, some of them since noon.”

“Who are all these people?” asked Joseph, turning to the crowd.
“And why are they here at this time?”

“That which doubtless brought you, Rabbi—the decree of the
Cæsar”—the keeper threw an interrogative glance at the Nazarene,
then continued—“brought most of those who have lodging in the
house. And yesterday the caravan passing from Damascus to Arabia and Lower
Egypt arrived. These you see here belong to it—men and camels.”

Still Joseph persisted.

“The court is large,” he said.

“Yes, but it is heaped with cargoes—with bales of silk, and pockets
of spices, and goods of every kind.”

Then for a moment the face of the applicant lost its stolidity; the lustreless,
staring eyes dropped. With some warmth he next said, “I do not care for
myself, but I have with me my wife, and the night is cold—colder on these
heights than in Nazareth. She cannot live in the open air. Is there not room in
the town?”

“These people”—the keeper waved his hand to the throng before
the door—“have all besought the town, and they report its
accommodations all engaged.”

Again Joseph studied the ground, saying, half to himself, “She is so
young! if I make her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her.”

Then he spoke to the keeper again.

“It may be you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem,
and, like myself, of the line of David.”

“Yes, I knew them. They were good people. That was in my youth.”

This time the keeper’s eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly he
raised his head.

“If I cannot make room for you,” he said, “I cannot turn you
away. Rabbi, I will do the best I can for you. How many are of your
party?”

Joseph reflected, then replied, “My wife and a friend with his family,
from Beth-Dagon, a little town over by Joppa; in all, six of us.”

“Very well. You shall not lie out on the ridge. Bring your people, and
hasten; for, when the sun goes down behind the mountain, you know the night
comes quickly, and it is nearly there now.”

“I give you the blessing of the houseless traveller; that of the
sojourner will follow.”

So saying, the Nazarene went back joyfully to Mary and the Beth-Dagonite. In a
little while the latter brought up his family, the women mounted on donkeys.
The wife was matronly, the daughters were images of what she must have been in
youth; and as they drew nigh the door, the keeper knew them to be of the humble
class.

“This is she of whom I spoke,” said the Nazarene; “and these
are our friends.”

Mary’s veil was raised.

“Blue eyes and hair of gold,” muttered the steward to himself,
seeing but her. “So looked the young king when he went to sing before
Saul.”

Then he took the leading-strap from Joseph, and said to Mary, “Peace to
you, O daughter of David!” Then to the others, “Peace to you
all!” Then to Joseph, “Rabbi, follow me.”

The party were conducted into a wide passage paved with stone, from which they
entered the court of the khan. To a stranger the scene would have been curious;
but they noticed the lewens that yawned darkly upon them from all sides, and
the court itself, only to remark how crowded they were. By a lane reserved in
the stowage of the cargoes, and thence by a passage similar to the one at the
entrance, they emerged into the enclosure adjoining the house, and came upon
camels, horses, and donkeys, tethered and dozing in close groups; among them
were the keepers, men of many lands; and they, too, slept or kept silent watch.
They went down the slope of the crowded yard slowly, for the dull carriers of
the women had wills of their own. At length they turned into a path running
towards the gray limestone bluff overlooking the khan on the west.

“We are going to the cave,” said Joseph, laconically.

The guide lingered till Mary came to his side.

“The cave to which we are going,” he said to her, “must have
been a resort of your ancestor David. From the field below us, and from the
well down in the valley, he used to drive his flocks to it for safety; and
afterwards, when he was king, he came back to the old house here for rest and
health, bringing great trains of animals. The mangers yet remain as they were
in his day. Better a bed on the floor where he has slept than one in the
court-yard or out by the roadside. Ah, here is the house before the
cave!”

This speech must not be taken as an apology for the lodging offered. There was
no need of apology. The place was the best then at disposal. The guests were
simple folks, by habits of life easily satisfied. To the Jew of that period,
moreover, abode in caverns was a familiar idea, made so by every-day
occurrences, and by what he heard of Sabbaths in the synagogues. How much of
Jewish history, how many of the many exciting incidents in that history, had
transpired in caves! Yet further, these people were Jews of Bethlehem, with
whom the idea was especially commonplace; for their locality abounded with
caves great and small, some of which had been dwelling-places from the time of
the Emim and Horites. No more was there offence to them in the fact that the
cavern to which they were being taken had been, or was, a stable. They were the
descendants of a race of herdsmen, whose flocks habitually shared both their
habitations and wanderings. In keeping with a custom derived from Abraham, the
tent of the Bedawin yet shelters his horses and children alike. So they obeyed
the keeper cheerfully, and gazed at the house, feeling only a natural
curiosity. Everything associated with the history of David was interesting to
them.

The building was low and narrow, projecting but a little from the rock to which
it was joined at the rear, and wholly without a window. In its blank front
there was a door, swung on enormous hinges, and thickly daubed with ochreous
clay. While the wooden bolt of the lock was being pushed back, the women were
assisted from their pillions. Upon the opening of the door, the keeper called
out,

“Come in!”

The guests entered, and stared about them. It became apparent immediately that
the house was but a mask or covering for the mouth of a natural cave or grotto,
probably forty feet long, nine or ten high, and twelve or fifteen in width. The
light streamed through the doorway, over an uneven floor, falling upon piles of
grain and fodder, and earthenware and household property, occupying the centre
of the chamber. Along the sides were mangers, low enough for sheep, and built
of stones laid in cement. There were no stalls or partitions of any kind. Dust
and chaff yellowed the floor, filled all the crevices and hollows, and
thickened the spider-webs, which dropped from the ceiling like bits of dirty
linen; otherwise the place was cleanly, and, to appearance, as comfortable as
any of the arched lewens of the khan proper. In fact, a cave was the model and
first suggestion of the lewen.

“Come in!” said the guide. “These piles upon the floor are
for travellers like yourselves. Take what of them you need.”

Then he spoke to Mary.

“Can you rest here?”

“The place is sanctified,” she answered.

“I leave you then. Peace be with you all!”

When he was gone, they busied themselves making the cave habitable.

CHAPTER X.

At a certain hour in the evening the shouting and stir of the people in and
about the khan ceased; at the same time, every Israelite, if not already upon
his feet, arose, solemnized his face, looked towards Jerusalem, crossed his
hands upon his breast, and prayed; for it was the sacred ninth hour, when
sacrifices were offered in the temple on Moriah, and God was supposed to be
there. When the hands of the worshippers fell down, the commotion broke forth
again; everybody hastened to bread, or to make his pallet. A little later, the
lights were put out, and there was silence, and then sleep.

About midnight some one on the roof cried out, “What light is that in the
sky? Awake, brethren, awake and see!”

The people, half asleep, sat up and looked; then they became wide-awake, though
wonder-struck. And the stir spread to the court below, and into the lewens;
soon the entire tenantry of the house and court and enclosure were out gazing
at the sky.

And this was what they saw. A ray of light, beginning at a height immeasurably
beyond the nearest stars, and dropping obliquely to the earth; at its top, a
diminishing point; at its base, many furlongs in width; its sides blending
softly with the darkness of the night, its core a roseate electrical splendor.
The apparition seemed to rest on the nearest mountain southeast of the town,
making a pale corona along the line of the summit. The khan was touched
luminously, so that those upon the roof saw each other’s faces, all
filled with wonder.

Steadily, through minutes, the ray lingered, and then the wonder changed to awe
and fear; the timid trembled; the boldest spoke in whispers.

“Saw you ever the like?” asked one.

“It seems just over the mountain there. I cannot tell what it is, nor did
I ever see anything like it,” was the answer.

“Can it be that a star has burst and fallen?” asked another, his
tongue faltering.

“When a star falls, its light goes out.”

“I have it!” cried one, confidently. “The shepherds have seen
a lion, and made fires to keep him from the flocks.”

The men next the speaker drew a breath of relief, and said, “Yes, that is
it! The flocks were grazing in the valley over there to-day.”

A bystander dispelled the comfort.

“No, no! Though all the wood in all the valleys of Judah was brought
together in one pile and fired, the blaze would not throw a light so strong and
high.”

After that there was silence on the house-top, broken but once again while the
mystery continued.

“Brethren!” exclaimed a Jew of venerable mien, “what we see
is the ladder our father Jacob saw in his dream. Blessed be the Lord God of our
fathers!”

CHAPTER XI

A mile and a half, it may be two miles, southeast of Bethlehem, there is a
plain separated from the town by an intervening swell of the mountain. Besides
being well sheltered from the north winds, the vale was covered with a growth
of sycamore, dwarf-oak, and pine trees, while in the glens and ravines
adjoining there were thickets of olive and mulberry; all at this season of the
year invaluable for the support of sheep, goats, and cattle, of which the
wandering flocks consisted.

At the side farthest from the town, close under a bluff, there was an extensive
marah, or sheepcot, ages old. In some long-forgotten foray, the building had
been unroofed and almost demolished. The enclosure attached to it remained
intact, however, and that was of more importance to the shepherds who drove
their charges thither than the house itself. The stone wall around the lot was
high as a man’s head, yet not so high but that sometimes a panther or a
lion, hungering from the wilderness, leaped boldly in. On the inner side of the
wall, and as an additional security against the constant danger, a hedge of the
rhamnus had been planted, an invention so successful that now a sparrow could
hardly penetrate the overtopping branches, armed as they were with great
clusters of thorns hard as spikes.

The day of the occurrences which occupy the preceding chapters, a number of
shepherds, seeking fresh walks for their flocks, led them up to this plain; and
from early morning the groves had been made ring with calls, and the blows of
axes, the bleating of sheep and goats, the tinkling of bells, the lowing of
cattle, and the barking of dogs. When the sun went down, they led the way to
the marah, and by nightfall had everything safe in the field; then they kindled
a fire down by the gate, partook of their humble supper, and sat down to rest
and talk, leaving one on watch.

There were six of these men, omitting the watchman; and afterwhile they
assembled in a group near the fire, some sitting, some lying prone. As they
went bareheaded habitually, their hair stood out in thick, coarse, sunburnt
shocks; their beard covered their throats, and fell in mats down the breast;
mantles of the skin of kids and lambs, with the fleece on, wrapped them from
neck to knee, leaving the arms exposed; broad belts girthed the rude garments
to their waists; their sandals were of the coarsest quality; from their right
shoulders hung scrips containing food and selected stones for slings, with
which they were armed; on the ground near each one lay his crook, a symbol of
his calling and a weapon of offence.

Such were the shepherds of Judea! In appearance, rough and savage as the gaunt
dogs sitting with them around the blaze; in fact, simple-minded,
tender-hearted; effects due, in part, to the primitive life they led, but
chiefly to their constant care of things lovable and helpless.

They rested and talked, and their talk was all about their flocks, a dull theme
to the world, yet a theme which was all the world to them. If in narrative they
dwelt long upon affairs of trifling moment; if one of them omitted nothing of
detail in recounting the loss of a lamb, the relation between him and the
unfortunate should be remembered: at birth it became his charge, his to keep
all its days, to help over the floods, to carry down the hollows, to name and
train; it was to be his companion, his object of thought and interest, the
subject of his will; it was to enliven and share his wanderings; in its defense
he might be called on to face the lion or robber—to die.

The great events, such as blotted out nations and changed the mastery of the
world, were trifles to them, if perchance they came to their knowledge. Of what
Herod was doing in this city or that, building palaces and gymnasia, and
indulging forbidden practises, they occasionally heard. As was her habit in
those days, Rome did not wait for people slow to inquire about her; she came to
them. Over the hills along which he was leading his lagging herd, or in the
fastnesses in which he was hiding them, not unfrequently the shepherd was
startled by the blare of trumpets, and, peering out, beheld a cohort, sometimes
a legion, in march; and when the glittering crests were gone, and the
excitement incident to the intrusion over, he bent himself to evolve the
meaning of the eagles and gilded globes of the soldiery, and the charm of a
life so the opposite of his own.

Yet these men, rude and simple as they were, had a knowledge and a wisdom of
their own. On Sabbaths they were accustomed to purify themselves, and go up
into the synagogues, and sit on the benches farthest from the ark. When the
chazzan bore the Torah round, none kissed it with greater zest; when the
sheliach read the text, none listened to the interpreter with more absolute
faith; and none took away with them more of the elder’s sermon, or gave
it more thought afterwards. In a verse of the Shema they found all the learning
and all the law of their simple lives—that their Lord was One God, and
that they must love him with all their souls. And they loved him, and such was
their wisdom, surpassing that of kings.

While they talked, and before the first watch was over, one by one the
shepherds went to sleep, each lying where he had sat.

The night, like most nights of the winter season in the hill country, was
clear, crisp, and sparkling with stars. There was no wind. The atmosphere
seemed never so pure, and the stillness was more than silence; it was a holy
hush, a warning that heaven was stooping low to whisper some good thing to the
listening earth.

By the gate, hugging his mantle close, the watchman walked; at times he
stopped, attracted by a stir among the sleeping herds, or by a jackal’s
cry off on the mountain-side. The midnight was slow coming to him; but at last
it came. His task was done; now for the dreamless sleep with which labor
blesses its wearied children! He moved towards the fire, but paused; a light
was breaking around him, soft and white, like the moon’s. He waited
breathlessly. The light deepened; things before invisible came to view; he saw
the whole field, and all it sheltered. A chill sharper than that of the frosty
air—a chill of fear—smote him. He looked up; the stars were gone;
the light was dropping as from a window in the sky; as he looked, it became a
splendor; then, in terror, he cried,

“Awake, awake!”

Up sprang the dogs, and, howling, ran away.

The herds rushed together bewildered.

The men clambered to their feet, weapons in hand.

“What is it?” they asked, in one voice.

“See!” cried the watchman, “the sky is on fire!”

Suddenly the light became intolerably bright, and they covered their eyes, and
dropped upon their knees; then, as their souls shrank with fear, they fell upon
their faces blind and fainting, and would have died had not a voice said to
them,

“Fear not!”

And they listened.

“Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall
be to all people.”

The voice, in sweetness and soothing more than human, and low and clear,
penetrated all their being, and filled them with assurance. They rose upon
their knees, and, looking worshipfully, beheld in the centre of a great glory
the appearance of a man, clad in a robe intensely white; above its shoulders
towered the tops of wings shining and folded; a star over its forehead glowed
with steady lustre, brilliant as Hesperus; its hands were stretched towards
them in blessing; its face was serene and divinely beautiful.

They had often heard, and, in their simple way, talked, of angels; and they
doubted not now, but said, in their hearts, The glory of God is about us, and
this is he who of old came to the prophet by the river of Ulai.

Directly the angel continued:

“For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is
Christ the Lord!”

Again there was a rest, while the words sank into their minds.

“And this shall be a sign unto you,” the annunciator said next.
“Ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a
manger.”

The herald spoke not again; his good tidings were told; yet he stayed awhile.
Suddenly the light, of which he seemed the centre, turned roseate and began to
tremble; then up, far as the men could see, there was flashing of white wings,
and coming and going of radiant forms, and voices as of a multitude chanting in
unison,

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards
men!”

Not once the praise, but many times.

Then the herald raised his eyes as seeking approval of one far off; his wings
stirred, and spread slowly and majestically, on their upper side white as snow,
in the shadow vari-tinted, like mother-of-pearl; when they were expanded many
cubits beyond his stature, he arose lightly, and, without effort, floated out
of view, taking the light up with him. Long after he was gone, down from the
sky fell the refrain in measure mellowed by distance, “Glory to God in
the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards men.”

When the shepherds came fully to their senses, they stared at each other
stupidly, until one of them said, “It was Gabriel, the Lord’s
messenger unto men.”

None answered.

“Christ the Lord is born; said he not so?”

Then another recovered his voice, and replied, “That is what he
said.”

“And did he not also say, in the city of David, which is our Bethlehem
yonder. And that we should find him a babe in swaddling-clothes?”

“And lying in a manger.”

The first speaker gazed into the fire thoughtfully, but at length said, like
one possessed of a sudden resolve, “There is but one place in Bethlehem
where there are mangers; but one, and that is in the cave near the old khan.
Brethren, let us go see this thing which has come to pass. The priests and
doctors have been a long time looking for the Christ. Now he is born, and the
Lord has given us a sign by which to know him. Let us go up and worship
him.”

“But the flocks!”

“The Lord will take care of them. Let us make haste.”

Then they all arose and left the marah.

Around the mountain and through the town they passed, and came to the gate of
the khan, where there was a man on watch.

“What would you have?” he asked.

“We have seen and heard great things to-night,” they replied.

“Well, we, too, have seen great things, but heard nothing. What did you
hear?”

“Let us go down to the cave in the enclosure, that we may be sure; then
we will tell you all. Come with us, and see for yourself.”

“It is a fool’s errand.”

“No, the Christ is born.”

“The Christ! How do you know?”

“Let us go and see first.”

The man laughed scornfully.

“The Christ indeed! How are you to know him?”

“He was born this night, and is now lying in a manger, so we were told;
and there is but one place in Bethlehem with mangers.”

“The cave?”

“Yes. Come with us.”

They went through the court-yard without notice, although there were some up
even then talking about the wonderful light. The door of the cavern was open. A
lantern was burning within, and they entered unceremoniously.

“I give you peace,” the watchman said to Joseph and the Beth
Dagonite. “Here are people looking for a child born this night, whom they
are to know by finding him in swaddling-clothes and lying in a manger.”

For a moment the face of the stolid Nazarene was moved; turning away, he said,
“The child is here.”

They were led to one of the mangers, and there the child was. The lantern was
brought, and the shepherds stood by mute. The little one made no sign; it was
as others just born.

“Where is the mother?” asked the watchman.

One of the women took the baby, and went to Mary, lying near, and put it in her
arms. Then the bystanders collected about the two.

“It is the Christ!” said a shepherd, at last.

“The Christ!” they all repeated, falling upon their knees in
worship. One of them repeated several times over,

“It is the Lord, and his glory is above the earth and heaven.”

And the simple men, never doubting, kissed the hem of the mother’s robe,
and with joyful faces departed. In the khan, to all the people aroused and
pressing about them, they told their story; and through the town, and all the
way back to the marah, they chanted the refrain of the angels, “Glory to
God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards men!”

The story went abroad, confirmed by the light so generally seen; and the next
day, and for days thereafter, the cave was visited by curious crowds, of whom
some believed, though the greater part laughed and mocked.

CHAPTER XII

The eleventh day after the birth of the child in the cave, about mid-afternoon,
the three wise men approached Jerusalem by the road from Shechem. After
crossing Brook Cedron, they met many people, of whom none failed to stop and
look after them curiously.

Judea was of necessity an international thoroughfare; a narrow ridge, raised,
apparently, by the pressure of the desert on the east, and the sea on the west,
was all she could claim to be; over the ridge, however, nature had stretched
the line of trade between the east and the south; and that was her wealth. In
other words, the riches of Jerusalem were the tolls she levied on passing
commerce. Nowhere else, consequently, unless in Rome, was there such constant
assemblage of so many people of so many different nations; in no other city was
a stranger less strange to the residents than within her walls and purlieus.
And yet these three men excited the wonder of all whom they met on the way to
the gates.

A child belonging to some women sitting by the roadside opposite the Tombs of
the Kings saw the party coming; immediately it clapped its hands, and cried,
“Look, look! What pretty bells! What big camels!”

The bells were silver; the camels, as we have seen, were of unusual size and
whiteness, and moved with singular stateliness; the trappings told of the
desert and of long journeys thereon, and also of ample means in possession of
the owners, who sat under the little canopies exactly as they appeared at the
rendezvous beyond the Jebel. Yet it was not the bells or the camels, or their
furniture, or the demeanor of the riders, that were so wonderful; it was the
question put by the man who rode foremost of the three.

The approach to Jerusalem from the north is across a plain which dips
southward, leaving the Damascus Gate in a vale or hollow. The road is narrow,
but deeply cut by long use, and in places difficult on account of the cobbles
left loose and dry by the washing of the rains. On either side, however, there
stretched, in the old time, rich fields and handsome olive-groves, which must,
in luxurious growth, have been beautiful, especially to travellers fresh from
the wastes of the desert. In this road, the three stopped before the party in
front of the Tombs.

“Good people,” said Balthasar, stroking his plaited beard, and
bending from his cot, “is not Jerusalem close by?”

“Yes,” answered the woman into whose arms the child had shrunk.
“If the trees on yon swell were a little lower you could see the towers
on the market-place.”

Balthasar gave the Greek and the Hindoo a look, then asked,

“Where is he that is born King of the Jews?”

The women gazed at each other without reply.

“You have not heard of him?”

“No.”

“Well, tell everybody that we have seen his star in the east, and are
come to worship him.”

Thereupon the friends rode on. Of others they asked the same question, with
like result. A large company whom they met going to the Grotto of Jeremiah were
so astonished by the inquiry and the appearance of the travellers that they
turned about and followed them into the city.

So much were the three occupied with the idea of their mission that they did
not care for the view which presently rose before them in the utmost
magnificence: for the village first to receive them on Bezetha; for Mizpah and
Olivet, over on their left; for the wall behind the village, with its forty
tall and solid towers, superadded partly for strength, partly to gratify the
critical taste of the kingly builder; for the same towered wall bending off to
the right, with many an angle, and here and there an embattled gate, up to the
three great white piles Phasaelus, Mariamne, and Hippicus; for Zion, tallest of
the hills, crowned with marble palaces, and never so beautiful; for the
glittering terraces of the temple on Moriah, admittedly one of the wonders of
the earth; for the regal mountains rimming the sacred city round about until it
seemed in the hollow of a mighty bowl.

They came, at length, to a tower of great height and strength, overlooking the
gate which, at that time, answered to the present Damascus Gate, and marked the
meeting-place of the three roads from Shechem, Jericho, and Gibeon. A Roman
guard kept the passage-way. By this time the people following the camels formed
a train sufficient to draw the idlers hanging about the portal; so that when
Balthasar stopped to speak to the sentinel, the three became instantly the
centre of a close circle eager to hear all that passed.

“I give you peace,” the Egyptian said, in a clear voice.

The sentinel made no reply.

“We have come great distances in search of one who is born King of the
Jews. Can you tell us where he is?”

The soldier raised the visor of his helmet, and called loudly. From an
apartment at the right of the passage an officer appeared.

“Give way,” he cried, to the crowd which now pressed closer in; and
as they seemed slow to obey, he advanced twirling his javelin vigorously, now
right, now left; and so he gained room.

“What would you?” he asked of Balthasar, speaking in the idiom of
the city.

And Balthasar answered in the same,

“Where is he that is born King of the Jews?”

“Herod?” asked the officer, confounded.

“Herod’s kingship is from Cæsar; not Herod.”

“There is no other King of the Jews.”

“But we have seen the star of him we seek, and come to worship
him.”

The Roman was perplexed.

“Go farther,” he said, at last. “Go farther. I am not a Jew.
Carry the question to the doctors in the Temple, or to Hannas the priest, or,
better still, to Herod himself. If there be another King of the Jews, he will
find him.”

Thereupon he made way for the strangers, and they passed the gate. But, before
entering the narrow street, Balthasar lingered to say to his friends, “We
are sufficiently proclaimed. By midnight the whole city will have heard of us
and of our mission. Let us to the khan now.”

CHAPTER XIII

That evening, before sunset, some women were washing clothes on the upper step
of the flight that led down into the basin of the Pool of Siloam. They knelt
each before a broad bowl of earthenware. A girl at the foot of the steps kept
them supplied with water, and sang while she filled the jar. The song was
cheerful, and no doubt lightened their labor. Occasionally they would sit upon
their heels, and look up the slope of Ophel, and round to the summit of what is
now the Mount of Offence, then faintly glorified by the dying sun.

While they plied their hands, rubbing and wringing the clothes in the bowls,
two other women came to them, each with an empty jar upon her shoulder.

“Peace to you,” one of the new-comers said.

The laborers paused, sat up, wrung the water from their hands, and returned the
salutation.

“It is nearly night—time to quit.”

“There is no end to work,” was the reply.

“But there is a time to rest, and—”

“To hear what may be passing,” interposed another.

“What news have you?”

“Then you have not heard?”

“No.”

“They say the Christ is born,” said the newsmonger, plunging into
her story.

It was curious to see the faces of the laborers brighten with interest; on the
other side down came the jars, which, in a moment, were turned into seats for
their owners.

“The Christ!” the listeners cried.

“So they say.”

“Who?”

“Everybody; it is common talk.”

“Does anybody believe it?”

“This afternoon three men came across Brook Cedron on the road from
Shechem,” the speaker replied, circumstantially, intending to smother
doubt. “Each one of them rode a camel spotless white, and larger than any
ever before seen in Jerusalem.”

The eyes and mouths of the auditors opened wide.

“To prove how great and rich the men were,” the narrator continued,
“they sat under awnings of silk; the buckles of their saddles were of
gold, as was the fringe of their bridles; the bells were of silver, and made
real music. Nobody knew them; they looked as if they had come from the ends of
the world. Only one of them spoke, and of everybody on the road, even the women
and children, he asked this question—‘Where is he that is born King
of the Jews?’ No one gave them answer—no one understood what they
meant; so they passed on, leaving behind them this saying: ‘For we have
seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.’ They put the
question to the Roman at the gate; and he, no wiser than the simple people on
the road, sent them up to Herod.”

“Where are they now?”

“At the khan. Hundreds have been to look at them already, and hundreds
more are going.”

“Who are they?”

“Nobody knows. They are said to be Persians—wise men who talk with
the stars—prophets, it may be, like Elijah and Jeremiah.”

“What do they mean by King of the Jews?”

“The Christ, and that he is just born.”

One of the women laughed, and resumed her work, saying, “Well, when I see
him I will believe.”

Another followed her example: “And I—well, when I see him raise the
dead, I will believe.”

A third said, quietly, “He has been a long time promised. It will be
enough for me to see him heal one leper.”

And the party sat talking until the night came, and, with the help of the
frosty air, drove them home.

Later in the evening, about the beginning of the first watch, there was an
assemblage in the palace on Mount Zion, of probably fifty persons, who never
came together except by order of Herod, and then only when he had demanded to
know some one or more of the deeper mysteries of the Jewish law and history. It
was, in short, a meeting of the teachers of the colleges, of the chief priests,
and of the doctors most noted in the city for learning—the leaders of
opinion, expounders of the different creeds; princes of the Sadducees;
Pharisaic debaters; calm, soft-spoken, stoical philosophers of the Essene
socialists.

The chamber in which the session was held belonged to one of the interior
court-yards of the palace, and was quite large and Romanesque. The floor was
tessellated with marble blocks; the walls, unbroken by a window, were frescoed
in panels of saffron yellow; a divan occupied the centre of the apartment,
covered with cushions of bright-yellow cloth, and fashioned in form of the
letter U, the opening towards the doorway; in the arch of the divan, or, as it
were, in the bend of the letter, there was an immense bronze tripod, curiously
inlaid with gold and silver, over which a chandelier dropped from the ceiling,
having seven arms, each holding a lighted lamp. The divan and the lamp were
purely Jewish.

The company sat upon the divan after the style of Orientals, in costume
singularly uniform, except as to color. They were mostly men advanced in years;
immense beards covered their faces; to their large noses were added the effects
of large black eyes, deeply shaded by bold brows; their demeanor was grave,
dignified, even patriarchal. In brief, their session was that of the Sanhedrim.

He who sat before the tripod, however, in the place which may be called the
head of the divan, having all the rest of his associates on his right and left,
and, at the same time, before him, evidently president of the meeting, would
have instantly absorbed the attention of a spectator. He had been cast in large
mould, but was now shrunken and stooped to ghastliness; his white robe dropped
from his shoulders in folds that gave no hint of muscle or anything but an
angular skeleton. His hands, half concealed by sleeves of silk, white and
crimson striped, were clasped upon his knees. When he spoke, sometimes the
first finger of the right hand extended tremulously; he seemed incapable of
other gesture. But his head was a splendid dome. A few hairs, whiter than
fine-drawn silver, fringed the base; over a broad, full-sphered skull the skin
was drawn close, and shone in the light with positive brilliance; the temples
were deep hollows, from which the forehead beetled like a wrinkled crag; the
eyes were wan and dim; the nose was pinched; and all the lower face was muffed
in a beard flowing and venerable as Aaron’s. Such was Hillel the
Babylonian! The line of prophets, long extinct in Israel, was now succeeded by
a line of scholars, of whom he was first in learning—a prophet in all but
the divine inspiration! At the age of one hundred and six, he was still Rector
of the Great College.

On the table before him lay outspread a roll or volume of parchment inscribed
with Hebrew characters; behind him, in waiting, stood a page richly habited.

There had been discussion, but at this moment of introduction the company had
reached a conclusion; each one was in an attitude of rest, and the venerable
Hillel, without moving, called the page.

“Hist!”

The youth advanced respectfully.

“Go tell the king we are ready to give him answer.”

The boy hurried away.

After a time two officers entered and stopped, one on each side the door; after
them slowly followed a most striking personage—an old man clad in a
purple robe bordered with scarlet, and girt to his waist by a band of gold
linked so fine that it was pliable as leather; the latchets of his shoes
sparkled with precious stones; a narrow crown wrought in filigree shone outside
a tarbooshe of softest crimson plush, which, encasing his head, fell down the
neck and shoulders, leaving the throat and neck exposed. Instead of a seal, a
dagger dangled from his belt. He walked with a halting step, leaning heavily
upon a staff. Not until he reached the opening of the divan, did he pause or
look up from the floor; then, as for the first time conscious of the company,
and roused by their presence, he raised himself, and looked haughtily round,
like one startled and searching for an enemy—so dark, suspicious, and
threatening was the glance. Such was Herod the Great—a body broken by
diseases, a conscience seared with crimes, a mind magnificently capable, a soul
fit for brotherhood with the Cæsars; now seven-and-sixty years old, but
guarding his throne with a jealousy never so vigilant, a power never so
despotic, and a cruelty never so inexorable.

There was a general movement on the part of the assemblage—a bending
forward in salaam by the more aged, a rising-up by the more courtierly,
followed by low genuflections, hands upon the beard or breast.

His observations taken, Herod moved on until at the tripod opposite the
venerable Hillel, who met his cold glance with an inclination of the head, and
a slight lifting of the hands.

“The answer!” said the king, with imperious simplicity, addressing
Hillel, and planting his staff before him with both hands. “The
answer!”

The eyes of the patriarch glowed mildly, and, raising his head, and looking the
inquisitor full in the face, he answered, his associates giving him closest
attention,

“With thee, O king, be the peace of God, of Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob!”

His manner was that of invocation; changing it, he resumed:

“Thou hast demanded of us where the Christ should be born.”

The king bowed, though the evil eyes remained fixed upon the sage’s face.

“That is the question.”

“Then, O king, speaking for myself, and all my brethren here, not one
dissenting, I say, in Bethlehem of Judea.”

Hillel glanced at the parchment on the tripod; and, pointing with his tremulous
finger, continued, “In Bethlehem of Judea, for thus it is written by the
prophet, ‘And thou, Bethlehem, in the land of Judea, art not the least
among the princes of Judah; for out of thee shall come a governor that shall
rule my people Israel.’”

Herod’s face was troubled, and his eyes fell upon the parchment while he
thought. Those beholding him scarcely breathed; they spoke not, nor did he. At
length he turned about and left the chamber.

“Brethren,” said Hillel, “we are dismissed.”

The company then arose, and in groups departed.

“Simeon,” said Hillel again.

A man, quite fifty years old, but in the hearty prime of life, answered and
came to him.

“Take up the sacred parchment, my son; roll it tenderly.”

The order was obeyed.

“Now lend me thy arm; I will to the litter.”

The strong man stooped; with his withered hands the old one took the offered
support, and, rising, moved feebly to the door.

So departed the famous Rector, and Simeon, his son, who was to be his successor
in wisdom, learning, and office.

Yet later in the evening the wise men were lying in a lewen of the khan awake.
The stones which served them as pillows raised their heads so they could look
out of the open arch into the depths of the sky; and as they watched the
twinkling of the stars, they thought of the next manifestation. How would it
come? What would it be? They were in Jerusalem at last; they had asked at the
gate for Him they sought; they had borne witness of his birth; it remained only
to find him; and as to that, they placed all trust in the Spirit. Men listening
for the voice of God, or waiting a sign from Heaven, cannot sleep.

While they were in this condition, a man stepped in under the arch, darkening
the lewen.

“Awake!” he said to them; “I bring you a message which will
not be put off.”

They all sat up.

“From whom?” asked the Egyptian.

“Herod the king.”

Each one felt his spirit thrill.

“Are you not the steward of the khan?” Balthasar asked next.

“I am.”

“What would the king with us?”

“His messenger is without; let him answer.”

“Tell him, then, to abide our coming.”

“You were right, O my brother!” said the Greek, when the steward
was gone. “The question put to the people on the road, and to the guard
at the gate, has given us quick notoriety. I am impatient; let us up
quickly.”

They arose, put on their sandals, girt their mantles about them, and went out.

“I salute you, and give you peace, and pray your pardon; but my master,
the king, has sent me to invite you to the palace, where he would have speech
with you privately.”

Thus the messenger discharged his duty.

A lamp hung in the entrance, and by its light they looked at each other, and
knew the Spirit was upon them. Then the Egyptian stepped to the steward, and
said, so as not to be heard by the others, “You know where our goods are
stored in the court, and where our camels are resting. While we are gone, make
all things ready for our departure, if it should be needful.”

“Go your way assured; trust me,” the steward replied.

“The king’s will is our will,” said Balthasar to the
messenger. “We will follow you.”

The streets of the Holy City were narrow then as now, but not so rough and
foul; for the great builder, not content with beauty, enforced cleanliness and
convenience also. Following their guide, the brethren proceeded without a word.
Through the dim starlight, made dimmer by the walls on both sides, sometimes
almost lost under bridges connecting the house-tops, out of a low ground they
ascended a hill. At last they came to a portal reared across the way. In the
light of fires blazing before it in two great braziers, they caught a glimpse
of the structure, and also of some guards leaning motionlessly upon their arms.
They passed into a building unchallenged. Then by passages and arched halls;
through courts, and under colonnades not always lighted; up long flights of
stairs, past innumerable cloisters and chambers, they were conducted into a
tower of great height. Suddenly the guide halted, and, pointing through an open
door, said to them,

“Enter. The king is there.”

The air of the chamber was heavy with the perfume of sandal-wood, and all the
appointments within were effeminately rich. Upon the floor, covering the
central space, a tufted rug was spread, and upon that a throne was set. The
visitors had but time, however, to catch a confused idea of the place—of
carved and gilt ottomans and couches; of fans and jars and musical instruments;
of golden candlesticks glittering in their own lights; of walls painted in the
style of the voluptuous Grecian school, one look at which had made a Pharisee
hide his head with holy horror. Herod, sitting upon the throne to receive them,
clad as when at the conference with the doctors and lawyers, claimed all their
minds.

At the edge of the rug, to which they advanced uninvited, they prostrated
themselves. The king touched a bell. An attendant came in, and placed three
stools before the throne.

“Seat yourselves,” said the monarch, graciously.

“From the North Gate,” he continued, when they were at rest,
“I had this afternoon report of the arrival of three strangers, curiously
mounted, and appearing as if from far countries. Are you the men?”

The Egyptian took the sign from the Greek and the Hindoo, and answered, with
the profoundest salaam, “Were we other than we are, the mighty Herod,
whose fame is as incense to the whole world, would not have sent for us. We may
not doubt that we are the strangers.”

Herod acknowledged the speech with a wave of the hand.

“Who are you? Whence do you come?” he asked, adding significantly,
“Let each speak for himself.”

In turn they gave him account, referring simply to the cities and lands of
their birth, and the routes by which they came to Jerusalem. Somewhat
disappointed, Herod plied them more directly.

“What was the question you put to the officer at the gate?”

“We asked him, Where is he that is born King of the Jews.”

“I see now why the people were so curious. You excite me no less. Is
there another King of the Jews?”

The Egyptian did not blanch.

“There is one newly born.”

An expression of pain knit the dark face of the monarch, as if his mind were
swept by a harrowing recollection.

“Not to me, not to me!” he exclaimed.

Possibly the accusing images of his murdered children flitted before him;
recovering from the emotion, whatever it was, he asked, steadily, “Where
is the new king?”

“That, O king, is what we would ask.”

“You bring me a wonder—a riddle surpassing any of
Solomon’s,” the inquisitor said next. “As you see, I am in
the time of life when curiosity is as ungovernable as it was in childhood, when
to trifle with it is cruelty. Tell me further, and I will honor you as kings
honor each other. Give me all you know about the newly born, and I will join
you in the search for him; and when we have found him, I will do what you wish;
I will bring him to Jerusalem, and train him in kingcraft; I will use my grace
with Cæsar for his promotion and glory. Jealousy shall not come between us, so
I swear. But tell me first how, so widely separated by seas and deserts, you
all came to hear of him.”

“I will tell you truly, O king.”

“Speak on,” said Herod.

Balthasar raised himself erect, and said, solemnly,

“There is an Almighty God.”

Herod was visibly startled.

“He bade us come hither, promising that we should find the Redeemer of
the World; that we should see and worship him, and bear witness that he was
come; and, as a sign, we were each given to see a star. His Spirit stayed with
us. O king, his Spirit is with us now!”

An overpowering feeling seized the three. The Greek with difficulty restrained
an outcry. Herod’s gaze darted quickly from one to the other; he was more
suspicious and dissatisfied than before.

“You are mocking me,” he said. “If not, tell me more. What is
to follow the coming of the new king?”

“The salvation of men.”

“From what?”

“Their wickedness.”

“How?”

“By the divine agencies—Faith, Love, and Good Works.”

“Then”—Herod paused, and from his look no man could have said
with what feeling he continued—“you are the heralds of the Christ.
Is that all?”

Balthasar bowed low.

“We are your servants, O king.”

The monarch touched a bell, and the attendant appeared.

“Bring the gifts,” the master said.

The attendant went out, but in a little while returned, and, kneeling before
the guests, gave to each one an outer robe or mantle of scarlet and blue, and a
girdle of gold. They acknowledged the honors with Eastern prostrations.

“A word further,” said Herod, when the ceremony was ended.
“To the officer of the gate, and but now to me, you spoke of seeing a
star in the east.”

“Yes,” said Balthasar, “his star, the star of the newly
born.”

“What time did it appear?”

“When we were bidden come hither.”

Herod arose, signifying the audience was over. Stepping from the throne towards
them, he said, with all graciousness,

“If, as I believe, O illustrious men, you are indeed the heralds of the
Christ just born, know that I have this night consulted those wisest in things
Jewish, and they say with one voice he should be born in Bethlehem of Judea. I
say to you, go thither; go and search diligently for the young child; and when
you have found him bring me word again, that I may come and worship him. To
your going there shall be no let or hindrance. Peace be with you!”

And, folding his robe about him, he left the chamber.

Directly the guide came, and led them back to the street, and thence to the
khan, at the portal of which the Greek said, impulsively, “Let us to
Bethlehem, O brethren, as the king has advised.”

“Yes,” cried the Hindoo. “The Spirit burns within me.”

“Be it so,” said Balthasar, with equal warmth. “The camels
are ready.”

They gave gifts to the steward, mounted into their saddles, received directions
to the Joppa Gate, and departed. At their approach the great valves were
unbarred, and they passed out into the open country, taking the road so lately
travelled by Joseph and Mary. As they came up out of Hinnom, on the plain of
Rephaim, a light appeared, at first wide-spread and faint. Their pulses
fluttered fast. The light intensified rapidly; they closed their eyes against
its burning brilliance: when they dared look again, lo! the star, perfect as
any in the heavens, but low down and moving slowly before them. And they folded
their hands, and shouted, and rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

“God is with us! God is with us!” they repeated, in frequent cheer,
all the way, until the star, rising out of the valley beyond Mar Elias, stood
still over a house up on the slope of the hill near the town.

CHAPTER XIV

It was now the beginning of the third watch, and at Bethlehem the morning was
breaking over the mountains in the east, but so feebly that it was yet night in
the valley. The watchman on the roof of the old khan, shivering in the chilly
air, was listening for the first distinguishable sounds with which life,
awakening, greets the dawn, when a light came moving up the hill towards the
house. He thought it a torch in some one’s hand; next moment he thought
it a meteor; the brilliance grew, however, until it became a star. Sore afraid,
he cried out, and brought everybody within the walls to the roof. The
phenomenon, in eccentric motion, continued to approach; the rocks, trees, and
roadway under it shone as in a glare of lightning; directly its brightness
became blinding. The more timid of the beholders fell upon their knees, and
prayed, with their faces hidden; the boldest, covering their eyes, crouched,
and now and then snatched glances fearfully. Afterwhile the khan and everything
thereabout lay under the intolerable radiance. Such as dared look beheld the
star standing still directly over the house in front of the cave where the
Child had been born.

In the height of this scene, the wise men came up, and at the gate dismounted
from their camels, and shouted for admission. When the steward so far mastered
his terror as to give them heed, he drew the bars and opened to them. The
camels looked spectral in the unnatural light, and, besides their
outlandishness, there were in the faces and manner of the three visitors an
eagerness and exaltation which still further excited the keeper’s fears
and fancy; he fell back, and for a time could not answer the question they put
to him.

“Is not this Bethlehem of Judea?”

But others came, and by their presence gave him assurance.

“No, this is but the khan; the town lies farther on.”

“Is there not here a child newly born?”

The bystanders turned to each other marvelling, though some of them answered,
“Yes, yes.”

“Show us to him!” said the Greek, impatiently.

“Show us to him!” cried Balthasar, breaking through his gravity;
“for we have seen his star, even that which ye behold over the house, and
are come to worship him.”

The Hindoo clasped his hands, exclaiming, “God indeed lives! Make haste,
make haste! The Savior is found. Blessed, blessed are we above men!”

The people from the roof came down and followed the strangers as they were
taken through the court and out into the enclosure; at sight of the star yet
above the cave, though less candescent than before, some turned back afraid;
the greater part went on. As the strangers neared the house, the orb arose;
when they were at the door, it was high up overhead vanishing; when they
entered, it went out lost to sight. And to the witnesses of what then took
place came a conviction that there was a divine relation between the star and
the strangers, which extended also to at least some of the occupants of the
cave. When the door was opened, they crowded in.

The apartment was lighted by a lantern enough to enable the strangers to find
the mother, and the child awake in her lap.

“Is the child thine?” asked Balthasar of Mary.

And she who had kept all the things in the least affecting the little one, and
pondered them in her heart, held it up in the light, saying,

“He is my son!”

And they fell down and worshipped him.

They saw the child was as other children: about its head was neither nimbus nor
material crown; its lips opened not in speech; if it heard their expressions of
joy, their invocations, their prayers, it made no sign whatever, but,
baby-like, looked longer at the flame in the lantern than at them.

In a little while they arose, and, returning to the camels, brought gifts of
gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and laid them before the child, abating nothing
of their worshipful speeches; of which no part is given, for the thoughtful
know that the pure worship of the pure heart was then what it is now, and has
always been, an inspired song.

And this was the Savior they had come so far to find!

Yet they worshipped without a doubt.

Why?

Their faith rested upon the signs sent them by him whom we have since come to
know as the Father; and they were of the kind to whom his promises were so
all-sufficient that they asked nothing about his ways. Few there were who had
seen the signs and heard the promises—the Mother and Joseph, the
shepherds, and the Three—yet they all believed alike; that is to say, in
this period of the plan of salvation, God was all and the Child nothing. But
look forward, O reader! A time will come when the signs will all proceed from
the Son. Happy they who then believe in him!

Let us wait that period.

BOOK SECOND

“There is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell
In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest.”

Childe Harold.

CHAPTER I

It is necessary now to carry the reader forward twenty-one years, to the
beginning of the administration of Valerius Gratus, the fourth imperial
governor of Judea—a period which will be remembered as rent by political
agitations in Jerusalem, if, indeed, it be not the precise time of the opening
of the final quarrel between the Jew and the Roman.

In the interval Judea had been subjected to changes affecting her in many ways,
but in nothing so much as her political status. Herod the Great died within one
year after the birth of the Child—died so miserably that the Christian
world had reason to believe him overtaken by the Divine wrath. Like all great
rulers who spend their lives in perfecting the power they create, he dreamed of
transmitting his throne and crown—of being the founder of a dynasty. With
that intent, he left a will dividing his territories between his three sons,
Antipas, Philip, and Archelaus, of whom the last was appointed to succeed to
the title. The testament was necessarily referred to Augustus, the emperor, who
ratified all its provisions with one exception: he withheld from Archelaus the
title of king until he proved his capacity and loyalty; in lieu thereof, he
created him ethnarch, and as such permitted him to govern nine years, when, for
misconduct and inability to stay the turbulent elements that grew and
strengthened around him, he was sent into Gaul as an exile.

Cæsar was not content with deposing Archelaus; he struck the people of
Jerusalem in a manner that touched their pride, and keenly wounded the
sensibilities of the haughty habitues of the Temple. He reduced Judea to a
Roman province, and annexed it to the prefecture of Syria. So, instead of a
king ruling royally from the palace left by Herod on Mount Zion, the city fell
into the hands of an officer of the second grade, an appointee called
procurator, who communicated with the court in Rome through the Legate of
Syria, residing in Antioch. To make the hurt more painful, the procurator was
not permitted to establish himself in Jerusalem; Cæsarea was his seat of
government. Most humiliating, however, most exasperating, most studied,
Samaria, of all the world the most despised—Samaria was joined to Judea
as a part of the same province! What ineffable misery the bigoted Separatists
or Pharisees endured at finding themselves elbowed and laughed at in the
procurator’s presence in Cæsarea by the devotees of Gerizim!

In this rain of sorrows, one consolation, and one only, remained to the fallen
people: the high-priest occupied the Herodian palace in the market-place, and
kept the semblance of a court there. What his authority really was is a matter
of easy estimate. Judgment of life and death was retained by the procurator.
Justice was administered in the name and according to the decretals of Rome.
Yet more significant, the royal house was jointly occupied by the imperial
exciseman, and all his corps of assistants, registrars, collectors, publicans,
informers, and spies. Still, to the dreamers of liberty to come, there was a
certain satisfaction in the fact that the chief ruler in the palace was a Jew.
His mere presence there day after day kept them reminded of the covenants and
promises of the prophets, and the ages when Jehovah governed the tribes through
the sons of Aaron; it was to them a certain sign that he had not abandoned
them: so their hopes lived, and served their patience, and helped them wait
grimly the son of Judah who was to rule Israel.

Judea had been a Roman province eighty years and more—ample time for the
Cæsars to study the idiosyncrasies of the people—time enough, at least,
to learn that the Jew, with all his pride, could be quietly governed if his
religion were respected. Proceeding upon that policy, the predecessors of
Gratus had carefully abstained from interfering with any of the sacred
observances of their subjects. But he chose a different course: almost his
first official act was to expel Hannas from the high-priesthood, and give the
place to Ishmael, son of Fabus.

Whether the act was directed by Augustus, or proceeded from Gratus himself, its
impolicy became speedily apparent. The reader shall be spared a chapter on
Jewish politics; a few words upon the subject, however, are essential to such
as may follow the succeeding narration critically. At this time, leaving origin
out of view, there were in Judea the party of the nobles and the Separatist or
popular party. Upon Herod’s death, the two united against Archelaus; from
temple to palace, from Jerusalem to Rome, they fought him; sometimes with
intrigue, sometimes with the actual weapons of war. More than once the holy
cloisters on Moriah resounded with the cries of fighting-men. Finally, they
drove him into exile. Meantime throughout this struggle the allies had their
diverse objects in view. The nobles hated Joazar, the high-priest; the
Separatists, on the other hand, were his zealous adherents. When Herod’s
settlement went down with Archelaus, Joazar shared the fall. Hannas, the son of
Seth, was selected by the nobles to fill the great office; thereupon the allies
divided. The induction of the Sethian brought them face to face in fierce
hostility.

In the course of the struggle with the unfortunate ethnarch, the nobles had
found it expedient to attach themselves to Rome. Discerning that when the
existing settlement was broken up some form of government must needs follow,
they suggested the conversion of Judea into a province. The fact furnished the
Separatists an additional cause for attack; and, when Samaria was made part of
the province, the nobles sank into a minority, with nothing to support them but
the imperial court and the prestige of their rank and wealth; yet for fifteen
years—down, indeed, to the coming of Valerius Gratus—they managed
to maintain themselves in both palace and Temple.

Hannas, the idol of his party, had used his power faithfully in the interest of
his imperial patron. A Roman garrison held the Tower of Antonia; a Roman guard
kept the gates of the palace; a Roman judge dispensed justice civil and
criminal; a Roman system of taxation, mercilessly executed, crushed both city
and country; daily, hourly, and in a thousand ways, the people were bruised and
galled, and taught the difference between a life of independence and a life of
subjection; yet Hannas kept them in comparative quiet. Rome had no truer
friend; and he made his loss instantly felt. Delivering his vestments to
Ishmael, the new appointee, he walked from the courts of the Temple into the
councils of the Separatists, and became the head of a new combination,
Bethusian and Sethian.

Gratus, the procurator, left thus without a party, saw the fires which, in the
fifteen years, had sunk into sodden smoke begin to glow with returning life. A
month after Ishmael took the office, the Roman found it necessary to visit him
in Jerusalem. When from the walls, hooting and hissing him, the Jews beheld his
guard enter the north gate of the city and march to the Tower of Antonia, they
understood the real purpose of the visit—a full cohort of legionaries was
added to the former garrison, and the keys of their yoke could now be tightened
with impunity. If the procurator deemed it important to make an example, alas
for the first offender!

CHAPTER II

With the foregoing explanation in mind, the reader is invited to look into one
of the gardens of the palace on Mount Zion. The time was noonday in the middle
of July, when the heat of summer was at its highest.

The garden was bounded on every side by buildings, which in places arose two
stories, with verandas shading the doors and windows of the lower story, while
retreating galleries, guarded by strong balustrades, adorned and protected the
upper. Here and there, moreover, the structures fell into what appeared low
colonnades, permitting the passage of such winds as chanced to blow, and
allowing other parts of the house to be seen, the better to realize its
magnitude and beauty. The arrangement of the ground was equally pleasant to the
eye. There were walks, and patches of grass and shrubbery, and a few large
trees, rare specimens of the palm, grouped with the carob, apricot, and walnut.
In all directions the grade sloped gently from the centre, where there was a
reservoir, or deep marble basin, broken at intervals by little gates which,
when raised, emptied the water into sluices bordering the walks—a cunning
device for the rescue of the place from the aridity too prevalent elsewhere in
the region.

Not far from the fountain, there was a small pool of clear water nourishing a
clump of cane and oleander, such as grow on the Jordan and down by the Dead
Sea. Between the clump and the pool, unmindful of the sun shining full upon
them in the breathless air, two boys, one about nineteen, the other seventeen,
sat engaged in earnest conversation.

They were both handsome, and, at first glance, would have been pronounced
brothers. Both had hair and eyes black; their faces were deeply browned; and,
sitting, they seemed of a size proper for the difference in their ages.

The elder was bareheaded. A loose tunic, dropping to the knees, was his attire
complete, except sandals and a light-blue mantle spread under him on the seat.
The costume left his arms and legs exposed, and they were brown as the face;
nevertheless, a certain grace of manner, refinement of features, and culture of
voice decided his rank. The tunic, of softest woollen, gray-tinted, at the
neck, sleeves, and edge of the skirt bordered with red, and bound to the waist
by a tasselled silken cord, certified him the Roman he was. And if in speech he
now and then gazed haughtily at his companion and addressed him as an inferior,
he might almost be excused, for he was of a family noble even in Rome—a
circumstance which in that age justified any assumption. In the terrible wars
between the first Cæsar and his great enemies, a Messala had been the friend
of Brutus. After Philippi, without sacrifice of his honor, he and the conqueror
became reconciled. Yet later, when Octavius disputed for the empire, Messala
supported him. Octavius, as the Emperor Augustus, remembered the service, and
showered the family with honors. Among other things, Judea being reduced to a
province, he sent the son of his old client or retainer to Jerusalem, charged
with the receipt and management of the taxes levied in that region; and in that
service the son had since remained, sharing the palace with the high-priest.
The youth just described was his son, whose habit it was to carry about with
him all too faithfully a remembrance of the relation between his grandfather
and the great Romans of his day.

The associate of the Messala was slighter in form, and his garments were of
fine white linen and of the prevalent style in Jerusalem; a cloth covered his
head, held by a yellow cord, and arranged so as to fall away from the forehead
down low over the back of the neck. An observer skilled in the distinctions of
race, and studying his features more than his costume, would have soon
discovered him to be of Jewish descent. The forehead of the Roman was high and
narrow, his nose sharp and aquiline, while his lips were thin and straight, and
his eyes cold and close under the brows. The front of the Israelite, on the
other hand, was low and broad; his nose long, with expanded nostrils; his upper
lip, slightly shading the lower one, short and curving to the dimpled corners,
like a Cupid’s bow; points which, in connection with the round chin, full
eyes, and oval cheeks reddened with a wine-like glow, gave his face the
softness, strength, and beauty peculiar to his race. The comeliness of the
Roman was severe and chaste, that of the Jew rich and voluptuous.

“Did you not say the new procurator is to arrive to-morrow?”

The question proceeded from the younger of the friends, and was couched in
Greek, at the time, singularly enough, the language everywhere prevalent in the
politer circles of Judea; having passed from the palace into the camp and
college; thence, nobody knew exactly when or how, into the Temple itself, and,
for that matter, into precincts of the Temple far beyond the gates and
cloisters—precincts of a sanctity intolerable for a Gentile.

“Yes, to-morrow,” Messala answered.

“Who told you?”

“I heard Ishmael, the new governor in the palace—you call him high
priest—tell my father so last night. The news had been more credible, I
grant you, coming from an Egyptian, who is of a race that has forgotten what
truth is, or even from an Idumaean, whose people never knew what truth was;
but, to make quite certain, I saw a centurion from the Tower this morning, and
he told me preparations were going on for the reception; that the armorers were
furbishing the helmets and shields, and regilding the eagles and globes; and
that apartments long unused were being cleansed and aired as if for an addition
to the garrison—the body-guard, probably, of the great man.”

A perfect idea of the manner in which the answer was given cannot be conveyed,
as its fine points continually escape the power behind the pen. The
reader’s fancy must come to his aid; and for that he must be reminded
that reverence as a quality of the Roman mind was fast breaking down, or,
rather, it was becoming unfashionable. The old religion had nearly ceased to be
a faith; at most it was a mere habit of thought and expression, cherished
principally by the priests who found service in the Temple profitable, and the
poets who, in the turn of their verses, could not dispense with the familiar
deities: there are singers of this age who are similarly given. As philosophy
was taking the place of religion, satire was fast substituting reverence;
insomuch that in Latin opinion it was to every speech, even to the little
diatribes of conversation, as salt to viands, and aroma to wine. The young
Messala, educated in Rome, but lately returned, had caught the habit and
manner; the scarce perceptible movement of the outer corner of the lower
eyelid, the decided curl of the corresponding nostril, and a languid utterance
affected as the best vehicle to convey the idea of general indifference, but
more particularly because of the opportunities it afforded for certain
rhetorical pauses thought to be of prime importance to enable the listener to
take the happy conceit or receive the virus of the stinging epigram. Such a
stop occurred in the answer just given, at the end of the allusion to the
Egyptian and Idumaean. The color in the Jewish lad’s cheeks deepened, and
he may not have heard the rest of the speech, for he remained silent, looking
absently into the depths of the pool.

“Our farewell took place in this garden. ‘The peace of the Lord go
with you!’—your last words. ‘The gods keep you!’ I
said. Do you remember? How many years have passed since then?”

“Five,” answered the Jew, gazing into the water.

“Well, you have reason to be thankful to—whom shall I say? The
gods? No matter. You have grown handsome; the Greeks would call you
beautiful—happy achievement of the years! If Jupiter would stay content
with one Ganymede, what a cup-bearer you would make for the emperor! Tell me,
my Judah, how the coming of the procurator is of such interest to you.”

Judah bent his large eyes upon the questioner; the gaze was grave and
thoughtful, and caught the Roman’s, and held it while he replied,
“Yes, five years. I remember the parting; you went to Rome; I saw you
start, and cried, for I love you. The years are gone, and you have come back to
me accomplished and princely—I do not jest; and yet—yet—I do
wish you were the Messala you went away.”

The fine nostril of the satirist stirred, and he put on a longer drawl as he
said, “No, no; not a Ganymede—an oracle, my Judah. A few lessons
from my teacher of rhetoric hard by the Forum—I will give you a letter to
him when you become wise enough to accept a suggestion which I am reminded to
make you—a little practise of the art of mystery, and Delphi will receive
you as Apollo himself. At the sound of your solemn voice, the Pythia will come
down to you with her crown. Seriously, O my friend, in what am I not the
Messala I went away? I once heard the greatest logician in the world. His
subject was Disputation. One saying I remember—‘Understand your
antagonist before you answer him.’ Let me understand you.”

The lad reddened under the cynical look to which he was subjected; yet he
replied, firmly, “You have availed yourself, I see, of your
opportunities; from your teachers you have brought away much knowledge and many
graces. You talk with the ease of a master, yet your speech carries a sting. My
Messala, when he went away, had no poison in his nature; not for the world
would he have hurt the feelings of a friend.”

The Roman smiled as if complimented, and raised his patrician head a toss
higher.

“O my solemn Judah, we are not at Dodona or Pytho. Drop the oracular, and
be plain. Wherein have I hurt you?”

The other drew a long breath, and said, pulling at the cord about his waist,
“In the five years, I, too, have learned somewhat. Hillel may not be the
equal of the logician you heard, and Simeon and Shammai are, no doubt, inferior
to your master hard by the Forum. Their learning goes not out into forbidden
paths; those who sit at their feet arise enriched simply with knowledge of God,
the law, and Israel; and the effect is love and reverence for everything that
pertains to them. Attendance at the Great College, and study of what I heard
there, have taught me that Judea is not as she used to be. I know the space
that lies between an independent kingdom and the petty province Judea is. I
were meaner, viler, than a Samaritan not to resent the degradation of my
country. Ishmael is not lawfully high-priest, and he cannot be while the noble
Hannas lives; yet he is a Levite; one of the devoted who for thousands of years
have acceptably served the Lord God of our faith and worship. His—”

Messala broke in upon him with a biting laugh.

“Oh, I understand you now. Ishmael, you say, is a usurper, yet to believe
an Idumaean sooner than Ishmael is to sting like an adder. By the drunken son
of Semele, what it is to be a Jew! All men and things, even heaven and earth,
change; but a Jew never. To him there is no backward, no forward; he is what
his ancestor was in the beginning. In this sand I draw you a
circle—there! Now tell me what more a Jew’s life is? Round and
round, Abraham here, Isaac and Jacob yonder, God in the middle. And the
circle—by the master of all thunders! the circle is too large. I draw it
again—” He stopped, put his thumb upon the ground, and swept the
fingers about it. “See, the thumb spot is the Temple, the finger-lines
Judea. Outside the little space is there nothing of value? The arts! Herod was
a builder; therefore he is accursed. Painting, sculpture! to look upon them is
sin. Poetry you make fast to your altars. Except in the synagogue, who of you
attempts eloquence? In war all you conquer in the six days you lose on the
seventh. Such your life and limit; who shall say no if I laugh at you?
Satisfied with the worship of such a people, what is your God to our Roman
Jove, who lends us his eagles that we may compass the universe with our arms?
Hillel, Simeon, Shammai, Abtalion—what are they to the masters who teach
that everything is worth knowing that can be known?”

The Jew arose, his face much flushed.

“No, no; keep your place, my Judah, keep your place,” Messala
cried, extending his hand.

“You mock me.”

“Listen a little further. Directly”—the Roman smiled
derisively—“directly Jupiter and his whole family, Greek and Latin,
will come to me, as is their habit, and make an end of serious speech. I am
mindful of your goodness in walking from the old house of your fathers to
welcome me back and renew the love of our childhood—if we can.
‘Go,’ said my teacher, in his last lecture—‘Go, and, to
make your lives great, remember Mars reigns and Eros has found his eyes.’
He meant love is nothing, war everything. It is so in Rome. Marriage is the
first step to divorce. Virtue is a tradesman’s jewel. Cleopatra, dying,
bequeathed her arts, and is avenged; she has a successor in every Roman’s
house. The world is going the same way; so, as to our future, down Eros, up
Mars! I am to be a soldier; and you, O my Judah, I pity you; what can you
be?”

The Jew moved nearer the pool; Messala’s drawl deepened.

“Yes, I pity you, my fine Judah. From the college to the synagogue; then
to the Temple; then—oh, a crowning glory!—the seat in the
Sanhedrim. A life without opportunities; the gods help you! But I—”

Judah looked at him in time to see the flush of pride that kindled in his
haughty face as he went on.

“But I—ah, the world is not all conquered. The sea has islands
unseen. In the north there are nations yet unvisited. The glory of completing
Alexander’s march to the Far East remains to some one. See what
possibilities lie before a Roman.”

Next instant he resumed his drawl.

“A campaign into Africa; another after the Scythian; then—a legion!
Most careers end there; but not mine. I—by Jupiter! what a
conception!—I will give up my legion for a prefecture. Think of life in
Rome with money—money, wine, women, games—poets at the banquet,
intrigues in the court, dice all the year round. Such a rounding of life may
be—a fat prefecture, and it is mine. O my Judah, here is Syria! Judea is
rich; Antioch a capital for the gods. I will succeed Cyrenius, and
you—shall share my fortune.”

The sophists and rhetoricians who thronged the public resorts of Rome, almost
monopolizing the business of teaching her patrician youth, might have approved
these sayings of Messala, for they were all in the popular vein; to the young
Jew, however, they were new, and unlike the solemn style of discourse and
conversation to which he was accustomed. He belonged, moreover, to a race whose
laws, modes, and habits of thought forbade satire and humor; very naturally,
therefore, he listened to his friend with varying feelings; one moment
indignant, then uncertain how to take him. The superior airs assumed had been
offensive to him in the beginning; soon they became irritating, and at last an
acute smart. Anger lies close by this point in all of us; and that the satirist
evoked in another way. To the Jew of the Herodian period patriotism was a
savage passion scarcely hidden under his common humor, and so related to his
history, religion, and God that it responded instantly to derision of them.
Wherefore it is not speaking too strongly to say that Messala’s progress
down to the last pause was exquisite torture to his hearer; at that point the
latter said, with a forced smile,

“There are a few, I have heard, who can afford to make a jest of their
future; you convince me, O my Messala, that I am not one of them.”

The Roman studied him; then replied, “Why not the truth in a jest as well
as a parable? The great Fulvia went fishing the other day; she caught more than
all the company besides. They said it was because the barb of her hook was
covered with gold.”

“Then you were not merely jesting?”

“My Judah, I see I did not offer you enough,” the Roman answered,
quickly, his eyes sparkling. “When I am prefect, with Judea to enrich me,
I—will make you high-priest.”

The Jew turned off angrily.

“Do not leave me,” said Messala.

The other stopped irresolute.

“Gods, Judah, how hot the sun shines!” cried the patrician,
observing his perplexity. “Let us seek a shade.”

Judah answered, coldly,

“We had better part. I wish I had not come. I sought a friend and find
a—”

“Roman,” said Messala, quickly.

The hands of the Jew clenched, but controlling himself again, he started off.
Messala arose, and, taking the mantle from the bench, flung it over his
shoulder, and followed after; when he gained his side, he put his hand upon his
shoulder and walked with him.

“This is the way—my hand thus—we used to walk when we were
children. Let us keep it as far as the gate.”

Apparently Messala was trying to be serious and kind, though he could not rid
his countenance of the habitual satirical expression. Judah permitted the
familiarity.

“You are a boy; I am a man; let me talk like one.”

The complacency of the Roman was superb. Mentor lecturing the young Telemachus
could not have been more at ease.

“Do you believe in the Parcae? Ah, I forgot, you are a Sadducee: the
Essenes are your sensible people; they believe in the sisters. So do I. How
everlastingly the three are in the way of our doing what we please! I sit down
scheming. I run paths here and there. Perpol! Just when I am reaching to take
the world in hand, I hear behind me the grinding of scissors. I look, and there
she is, the accursed Atropos! But, my Judah, why did you get mad when I spoke
of succeeding old Cyrenius? You thought I meant to enrich myself plundering
your Judea. Suppose so; it is what some Roman will do. Why not I?”

Judah shortened his step.

“There have been strangers in mastery of Judea before the Roman,”
he said, with lifted hand. “Where are they, Messala? She has outlived
them all. What has been will be again.”

Messala put on his drawl.

“The Parcae have believers outside the Essenes. Welcome, Judah, welcome
to the faith!”

“No, Messala, count me not with them. My faith rests on the rock which
was the foundation of the faith of my fathers back further than Abraham; on the
covenants of the Lord God of Israel.”

“Too much passion, my Judah. How my master would have been shocked had I
been guilty of so much heat in his presence! There were other things I had to
tell you, but I fear to now.”

When they had gone a few yards, the Roman spoke again.

“I think you can hear me now, especially as what I have to say concerns
yourself. I would serve you, O handsome as Ganymede; I would serve you with
real good-will. I love you—all I can. I told you I meant to be a soldier.
Why not you also? Why not you step out of the narrow circle which, as I have
shown, is all of noble life your laws and customs allow?”

Judah made no reply.

“Who are the wise men of our day?” Messala continued. “Not
they who exhaust their years quarrelling about dead things; about Baals, Joves,
and Jehovahs; about philosophies and religions. Give me one great name, O
Judah; I care not where you go to find it—to Rome, Egypt, the East, or
here in Jerusalem—Pluto take me if it belong not to a man who wrought his
fame out of the material furnished him by the present; holding nothing sacred
that did not contribute to the end, scorning nothing that did! How was it with
Herod? How with the Maccabees? How with the first and second Cæsars? Imitate
them. Begin now. At hand see—Rome, as ready to help you as she was the
Idumaean Antipater.”

The Jewish lad trembled with rage; and, as the garden gate was close by, he
quickened his steps, eager to escape.

“O Rome, Rome!” he muttered.

“Be wise,” continued Messala. “Give up the follies of Moses
and the traditions; see the situation as it is. Dare look the Parcae in the
face, and they will tell you, Rome is the world. Ask them of Judea, and they
will answer, She is what Rome wills.”

They were now at the gate. Judah stopped, and took the hand gently from his
shoulder, and confronted Messala, tears trembling in his eyes.

“I understand you, because you are a Roman; you cannot understand
me—I am an Israelite. You have given me suffering to-day by convincing me
that we can never be the friends we have been—never! Here we part. The
peace of the God of my fathers abide with you!”

Messala offered him his hand; the Jew walked on through the gateway. When he
was gone, the Roman was silent awhile; then he, too, passed through, saying to
himself, with a toss of the head,

“Be it so. Eros is dead, Mars reigns!”

CHAPTER III

From the entrance to the Holy City, equivalent to what is now called St.
Stephen’s Gate, a street extended westwardly, on a line parallel with the
northern front of the Tower of Antonia, though a square from that famous
castle. Keeping the course as far as the Tyropoeon Valley, which it followed a
little way south, it turned and again ran west until a short distance beyond
what tradition tells us was the Judgment Gate, from whence it broke abruptly
south. The traveller or the student familiar with the sacred locality will
recognize the thoroughfare described as part of the Via Dolorosa—with
Christians of more interest, though of a melancholy kind, than any street in
the world. As the purpose in view does not at present require dealing with the
whole street, it will be sufficient to point out a house standing in the angle
last mentioned as marking the change of direction south, and which, as an
important centre of interest, needs somewhat particular description.

The building fronted north and west, probably four hundred feet each way, and,
like most pretentious Eastern structures, was two stories in height, and
perfectly quadrangular. The street on the west side was about twelve feet wide,
that on the north not more than ten; so that one walking close to the walls,
and looking up at them, would have been struck by the rude, unfinished,
uninviting, but strong and imposing, appearance they presented; for they were
of stone laid in large blocks, undressed—on the outer side, in fact, just
as they were taken from the quarry. A critic of this age would have pronounced
the house fortelesque in style, except for the windows, with which it was
unusually garnished, and the ornate finish of the doorways or gates. The
western windows were four in number, the northern only two, all set on the line
of the second story in such manner as to overhang the thoroughfares below. The
gates were the only breaks of wall externally visible in the first story; and,
besides being so thickly riven with iron bolts as to suggest resistance to
battering-rams, they were protected by cornices of marble, handsomely executed,
and of such bold projection as to assure visitors well informed of the people
that the rich man who resided there was a Sadducee in politics and creed.

Not long after the young Jew parted from the Roman at the palace up on the
Market-place, he stopped before the western gate of the house described, and
knocked. The wicket (a door hung in one of the valves of the gate) was opened
to admit him. He stepped in hastily, and failed to acknowledge the low salaam
of the porter.

To get an idea of the interior arrangement of the structure, as well as to see
what more befell the youth, we will follow him.

The passage into which he was admitted appeared not unlike a narrow tunnel with
panelled walls and pitted ceiling. There were benches of stone on both sides,
stained and polished by long use. Twelve or fifteen steps carried him into a
court-yard, oblong north and south, and in every quarter, except the east,
bounded by what seemed the fronts of two-story houses; of which the lower floor
was divided into lewens, while the upper was terraced and defended by strong
balustrading. The servants coming and going along the terraces; the noise of
millstones grinding; the garments fluttering from ropes stretched from point to
point; the chickens and pigeons in full enjoyment of the place; the goats,
cows, donkeys, and horses stabled in the lewens; a massive trough of water,
apparently for the common use, declared this court appurtenant to the domestic
management of the owner. Eastwardly there was a division wall broken by another
passage-way in all respects like the first one.

Clearing the second passage, the young man entered a second court, spacious,
square, and set with shrubbery and vines, kept fresh and beautiful by water
from a basin erected near a porch on the north side. The lewens here were high,
airy, and shaded by curtains striped alternate white and red. The arches of the
lewens rested on clustered columns. A flight of steps on the south ascended to
the terraces of the upper story, over which great awnings were stretched as a
defence against the sun. Another stairway reached from the terraces to the
roof, the edge of which, all around the square, was defined by a sculptured
cornice, and a parapet of burned-clay tiling, sexangular and bright red. In
this quarter, moreover, there was everywhere observable a scrupulous neatness,
which, allowing no dust in the angles, not even a yellow leaf upon a shrub,
contributed quite as much as anything else to the delightful general effect;
insomuch that a visitor, breathing the sweet air, knew, in advance of
introduction, the refinement of the family he was about calling upon.

A few steps within the second court, the lad turned to the right, and, choosing
a walk through the shrubbery, part of which was in flower, passed to the
stairway, and ascended to the terrace—a broad pavement of white and brown
flags closely laid, and much worn. Making way under the awning to a doorway on
the north side, he entered an apartment which the dropping of the screen behind
him returned to darkness. Nevertheless, he proceeded, moving over a tiled floor
to a divan, upon which he flung himself, face downwards, and lay at rest, his
forehead upon his crossed arms.

About nightfall a woman came to the door and called; he answered, and she went
in.

“Supper is over, and it is night. Is not my son hungry?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Are you sick?”

“I am sleepy.”

“Your mother has asked for you.”

“Where is she?”

“In the summer-house on the roof.”

He stirred himself, and sat up.

“Very well. Bring me something to eat.”

“What do you want?”

“What you please, Amrah. I am not sick, but indifferent. Life does not
seem as pleasant as it did this morning. A new ailment, O my Amrah; and you who
know me so well, who never failed me, may think of the things now that answer
for food and medicine. Bring me what you choose.”

Amrah’s questions, and the voice in which she put them—low,
sympathetic, and solicitous—were significant of an endeared relation
between the two. She laid her hand upon his forehead; then, as satisfied, went
out, saying, “I will see.”

After a while she returned, bearing on a wooden platter a bowl of milk, some
thin cakes of white bread broken, a delicate paste of brayed wheat, a bird
broiled, and honey and salt. On one end of the platter there was a silver
goblet full of wine, on the other a brazen hand-lamp lighted.

The room was then revealed: its walls smoothly plastered; the ceiling broken by
great oaken rafters, brown with rain stains and time; the floor of small
diamond-shaped white and blue tiles, very firm and enduring; a few stools with
legs carved in imitation of the legs of lions; a divan raised a little above
the floor, trimmed with blue cloth, and partially covered by an immense striped
woollen blanket or shawl—in brief, a Hebrew bedroom.

The same light also gave the woman to view. Drawing a stool to the divan, she
placed the platter upon it, then knelt close by ready to serve him. Her face
was that of a woman of fifty, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and at the moment
softened by a look of tenderness almost maternal. A white turban covered her
head, leaving the lobes of the ear exposed, and in them the sign that settled
her condition—an orifice bored by a thick awl. She was a slave, of
Egyptian origin, to whom not even the sacred fiftieth year could have brought
freedom; nor would she have accepted it, for the boy she was attending was her
life. She had nursed him through babyhood, tended him as a child, and could not
break the service. To her love he could never be a man.

He spoke but once during the meal.

“You remember, O my Amrah,” he said, “the Messala who used to
visit me here days at a time.”

“I remember him.”

“He went to Rome some years ago, and is now back. I called upon him
to-day.”

A shudder of disgust seized the lad.

“I knew something had happened,” she said, deeply interested.
“I never liked the Messala. Tell me all.”

But he fell into musing, and to her repeated inquiries only said, “He is
much changed, and I shall have nothing more to do with him.”

When Amrah took the platter away, he also went out, and up from the terrace to
the roof.

The reader is presumed to know somewhat of the uses of the house-top in the
East. In the matter of customs, climate is a lawgiver everywhere. The Syrian
summer day drives the seeker of comfort into the darkened lewen; night,
however, calls him forth early, and the shadows deepening over the
mountain-sides seem veils dimly covering Circean singers; but they are far off,
while the roof is close by, and raised above the level of the shimmering plain
enough for the visitation of cool airs, and sufficiently above the trees to
allure the stars down closer, down at least into brighter shining. So the roof
became a resort—became playground, sleeping-chamber, boudoir, rendezvous
for the family, place of music, dance, conversation, reverie, and prayer.

The motive that prompts the decoration, at whatever cost, of interiors in
colder climes suggested to the Oriental the embellishment of his house-top. The
parapet ordered by Moses became a potter’s triumph; above that, later,
arose towers, plain and fantastic; still later, kings and princes crowned their
roofs with summer-houses of marble and gold. When the Babylonian hung gardens
in the air, extravagance could push the idea no further.

The lad whom we are following walked slowly across the house-top to a tower
built over the northwest corner of the palace. Had he been a stranger, he might
have bestowed a glance upon the structure as he drew nigh it, and seen all the
dimness permitted—a darkened mass, low, latticed, pillared, and domed. He
entered, passing under a half-raised curtain. The interior was all darkness,
except that on four sides there were arched openings like doorways, through
which the sky, lighted with stars, was visible. In one of the openings,
reclining against a cushion from a divan, he saw the figure of a woman,
indistinct even in white floating drapery. At the sound of his steps upon the
floor, the fan in her hand stopped, glistening where the starlight struck the
jewels with which it was sprinkled, and she sat up, and called his name.

“Judah, my son!”

“It is I, mother,” he answered, quickening his approach.

Going to her, he knelt, and she put her arms around him, and with kisses
pressed him to her bosom.

CHAPTER IV

The mother resumed her easy position against the cushion, while the son took
place on the divan, his head in her lap. Both of them, looking out of the
opening, could see a stretch of lower house-tops in the vicinity, a bank of
blue-blackness over in the west which they knew to be mountains, and the sky,
its shadowy depths brilliant with stars. The city was still. Only the winds
stirred.

“Amrah tells me something has happened to you,” she said, caressing
his cheek. “When my Judah was a child, I allowed small things to trouble
him, but he is now a man. He must not forget”—her voice became very
soft—“that one day he is to be my hero.”

She spoke in the language almost lost in the land, but which a few—and
they were always as rich in blood as in possessions—cherished in its
purity, that they might be more certainly distinguished from Gentile
peoples—the language in which the loved Rebekah and Rachel sang to
Benjamin.

The words appeared to set him thinking anew; after a while, however, he caught
the hand with which she fanned him, and said, “Today, O my mother, I have
been made to think of many things that never had place in my mind before. Tell
me, first, what am I to be?”

“Have I not told you? You are to be my hero.”

He could not see her face, yet he knew she was in play. He became more serious.

“You are very good, very kind, O my mother. No one will ever love me as
you do.”

He kissed the hand over and over again.

“I think I understand why you would have me put off the question,”
he continued. “Thus far my life has belonged to you. How gentle, how
sweet your control has been! I wish it could last forever. But that may not be.
It is the Lord’s will that I shall one day become owner of myself—a
day of separation, and therefore a dreadful day to you. Let us be brave and
serious. I will be your hero, but you must put me in the way. You know the
law—every son of Israel must have some occupation. I am not exempt, and
ask now, shall I tend the herds? or till the soil? or drive the saw? or be a
clerk or lawyer? What shall I be? Dear, good mother, help me to an
answer.”

“Gamaliel has been lecturing today,” she said, thoughtfully.

“If so, I did not hear him.”

“Then you have been walking with Simeon, who, they tell me, inherits the
genius of his family.”

“No, I have not seen him. I have been up on the Market-place, not to the
Temple. I visited the young Messala.”

A certain change in his voice attracted the mother’s attention. A
presentiment quickened the beating of her heart; the fan became motionless
again.

“The Messala!” she said. “What could he say to so trouble
you?”

“He is very much changed.”

“You mean he has come back a Roman.”

“Yes.”

“Roman!” she continued, half to herself. “To all the world
the word means master. How long has he been away?”

“Five years.”

She raised her head, and looked off into the night.

“The airs of the Via Sacra are well enough in the streets of the Egyptian
and in Babylon; but in Jerusalem—our Jerusalem—the covenant
abides.”

And, full of the thought, she settled back into her easy place. He was first to
speak.

“What Messala said, my mother, was sharp enough in itself; but, taken
with the manner, some of the sayings were intolerable.”

“I think I understand you. Rome, her poets, orators, senators, courtiers,
are mad with affectation of what they call satire.”

“I suppose all great peoples are proud,” he went on, scarcely
noticing the interruption; “but the pride of that people is unlike all
others; in these latter days it is so grown the gods barely escape it.”

“The gods escape!” said the mother, quickly. “More than one
Roman has accepted worship as his divine right.”

“Well, Messala always had his share of the disagreeable quality. When he
was a child, I have seen him mock strangers whom even Herod condescended to
receive with honors; yet he always spared Judea. For the first time, in
conversation with me to-day, he trifled with our customs and God. As you would
have had me do, I parted with him finally. And now, O my dear mother, I would
know with more certainty if there be just ground for the Roman’s
contempt. In what am I his inferior? Is ours a lower order of people? Why
should I, even in Cæsar’s presence; feel the shrinking of a slave? Tell
me especially why, if I have the soul, and so choose, I may not hunt the honors
of the world in all its fields? Why may not I take sword and indulge the
passion of war? As a poet, why may not I sing of all themes? I can be a worker
in metals, a keeper of flocks, a merchant, why not an artist like the Greek?
Tell me, O my mother—and this is the sum of my trouble—why may not
a son of Israel do all a Roman may?”

The reader will refer these questions back to the conversation in the
Market-place; the mother, listening with all her faculties awake, from
something which would have been lost upon one less interested in him—from
the connections of the subject, the pointing of the questions, possibly his
accent and tone—was not less swift in making the same reference. She sat
up, and in a voice quick and sharp as his own, replied, “I see, I see!
From association Messala, in boyhood, was almost a Jew; had he remained here,
he might have become a proselyte, so much do we all borrow from the influences
that ripen our lives; but the years in Rome have been too much for him. I do
not wonder at the change; yet”—her voice fell—“he might
have dealt tenderly at least with you. It is a hard, cruel nature which in
youth can forget its first loves.”

Her hand dropped lightly upon his forehead, and the fingers caught in his hair
and lingered there lovingly, while her eyes sought the highest stars in view.
Her pride responded to his, not merely in echo, but in the unison of perfect
sympathy. She would answer him; at the same time, not for the world would she
have had the answer unsatisfactory: an admission of inferiority might weaken
his spirit for life. She faltered with misgivings of her own powers.

“What you propose, O my Judah, is not a subject for treatment by a woman.
Let me put its consideration off till to-morrow, and I will have the wise
Simeon—”

“Do not send me to the Rector,” he said, abruptly.

“I will have him come to us.”

“No, I seek more than information; while he might give me that better
than you, O my mother, you can do better by giving me what he cannot—the
resolution which is the soul of a man’s soul.”

She swept the heavens with a rapid glance, trying to compass all the meaning of
his questions.

“While craving justice for ourselves, it is never wise to be unjust to
others. To deny valor in the enemy we have conquered is to underrate our
victory; and if the enemy be strong enough to hold us at bay, much more to
conquer us”—she hesitated—“self-respect bids us seek
some other explanation of our misfortunes than accusing him of qualities
inferior to our own.”

Thus, speaking to herself rather than to him, she began:

“Take heart, O my son. The Messala is nobly descended; his family has
been illustrious through many generations. In the days of Republican
Rome—how far back I cannot tell—they were famous, some as soldiers,
some as civilians. I can recall but one consul of the name; their rank was
senatorial, and their patronage always sought because they were always rich.
Yet if to-day your friend boasted of his ancestry, you might have shamed him by
recounting yours. If he referred to the ages through which the line is
traceable, or to deeds, rank, or wealth—such allusions, except when great
occasion demands them, are tokens of small minds—if he mentioned them in
proof of his superiority, then without dread, and standing on each particular,
you might have challenged him to a comparison of records.”

Taking a moment’s thought, the mother proceeded:

“One of the ideas of fast hold now is that time has much to do with the
nobility of races and families. A Roman boasting his superiority on that
account over a son of Israel will always fail when put to the proof. The
founding of Rome was his beginning; the very best of them cannot trace their
descent beyond that period; few of them pretend to do so; and of such as do, I
say not one could make good his claim except by resort to tradition. Messala
certainly could not. Let us look now to ourselves. Could we better?”

A little more light would have enabled him to see the pride that diffused
itself over her face.

“Let us imagine the Roman putting us to the challenge. I would answer
him, neither doubting nor boastful.”

Her voice faltered; a tender thought changed the form of the argument.

“Your father, O my Judah, is at rest with his fathers; yet I remember, as
though it were this evening, the day he and I, with many rejoicing friends,
went up into the Temple to present you to the Lord. We sacrificed the doves,
and to the priest I gave your name, which he wrote in my
presence—‘Judah, son of Ithamar, of the House of Hur.’ The
name was then carried away, and written in a book of the division of records
devoted to the saintly family.

“I cannot tell you when the custom of registration in this mode began. We
know it prevailed before the flight from Egypt. I have heard Hillel say Abraham
caused the record to be first opened with his own name, and the names of his
sons, moved by the promises of the Lord which separated him and them from all
other races, and made them the highest and noblest, the very chosen of the
earth. The covenant with Jacob was of like effect. ‘In thy seed shall all
the nations of the earth be blessed’—so said the angel to Abraham
in the place Jehovah-jireh. ‘And the land whereon thou liest, to thee
will I give it, and to thy seed’—so the Lord himself said to Jacob
asleep at Bethel on the way to Haran. Afterwards the wise men looked forward to
a just division of the land of promise; and, that it might be known in the day
of partition who were entitled to portions, the Book of Generations was begun.
But not for that alone. The promise of a blessing to all the earth through the
patriarch reached far into the future. One name was mentioned in connection
with the blessing—the benefactor might be the humblest of the chosen
family, for the Lord our God knows no distinctions of rank or riches. So, to
make the performance clear to men of the generation who were to witness it, and
that they might give the glory to whom it belonged, the record was required to
be kept with absolute certainty. Has it been so kept?”

The fan played to and fro, until, becoming impatient, he repeated the question,
“Is the record absolutely true?”

“Hillel said it was, and of all who have lived no one was so
well-informed upon the subject. Our people have at times been heedless of some
parts of the law, but never of this part. The good rector himself has followed
the Books of Generations through three periods—from the promises to the
opening of the Temple; thence to the Captivity; thence, again, to the present.
Once only were the records disturbed, and that was at the end of the second
period; but when the nation returned from the long exile, as a first duty to
God, Zerubbabel restored the Books, enabling us once more to carry the lines of
Jewish descent back unbroken fully two thousand years. And now—”

She paused as if to allow the hearer to measure the time comprehended in the
statement.

“And now,” she continued, “what becomes of the Roman boast of
blood enriched by ages? By that test, the sons of Israel watching the herds on
old Rephaim yonder are nobler than the noblest of the Marcii.”

“And I, mother—by the Books, who am I?”

“What I have said thus far, my son, had reference to your question. I
will answer you. If Messala were here, he might say, as others have said, that
the exact trace of your lineage stopped when the Assyrian took Jerusalem, and
razed the Temple, with all its precious stores; but you might plead the pious
action of Zerubbabel, and retort that all verity in Roman genealogy ended when
the barbarians from the West took Rome, and camped six months upon her
desolated site. Did the government keep family histories? If so, what became of
them in those dreadful days? No, no; there is verity in our Books of
Generations; and, following them back to the Captivity, back to the foundation
of the first Temple, back to the march from Egypt, we have absolute assurance
that you are lineally sprung from Hur, the associate of Joshua. In the matter
of descent sanctified by time, is not the honor perfect? Do you care to pursue
further? if so, take the Torah, and search the Book of Numbers, and of the
seventy-two generations after Adam, you can find the very progenitor of your
house.”

There was silence for a time in the chamber on the roof.

“I thank you, O my mother,” Judah next said, clasping both her
hands in his; “I thank you with all my heart. I was right in not having
the good rector called in; he could not have satisfied me more than you have.
Yet to make a family truly noble, is time alone sufficient?”

“Ah, you forget, you forget; our claim rests not merely upon time; the
Lord’s preference is our especial glory.”

“You are speaking of the race, and I, mother, of the family—our
family. In the years since Father Abraham, what have they achieved? What have
they done? What great things to lift them above the level of their
fellows?”

She hesitated, thinking she might all this time have mistaken his object. The
information he sought might have been for more than satisfaction of wounded
vanity. Youth is but the painted shell within which, continually growing, lives
that wondrous thing the spirit of man, biding its moment of apparition, earlier
in some than in others. She trembled under a perception that this might be the
supreme moment come to him; that as children at birth reach out their untried
hands grasping for shadows, and crying the while, so his spirit might, in
temporary blindness, be struggling to take hold of its impalpable future. They
to whom a boy comes asking, Who am I, and what am I to be? have need of ever so
much care. Each word in answer may prove to the after-life what each
finger-touch of the artist is to the clay he is modelling.

“I have a feeling, O my Judah,” she said, patting his cheek with
the hand he had been caressing—“I have the feeling that all I have
said has been in strife with an antagonist more real than imaginary. If Messala
is the enemy, do not leave me to fight him in the dark. Tell me all he
said.”

CHAPTER V

The young Israelite proceeded then, and rehearsed his conversation with
Messala, dwelling with particularity upon the latter’s speeches in
contempt of the Jews, their customs, and much pent round of life.

Afraid to speak the while, the mother listened, discerning the matter plainly.
Judah had gone to the palace on the Market-place, allured by love of a playmate
whom he thought to find exactly as he had been at the parting years before; a
man met him, and, in place of laughter and references to the sports of the
past, the man had been full of the future, and talked of glory to be won, and
of riches and power. Unconscious of the effect, the visitor had come away hurt
in pride, yet touched with a natural ambition; but she, the jealous mother, saw
it, and, not knowing the turn the aspiration might take, became at once Jewish
in her fear. What if it lured him away from the patriarchal faith? In her view,
that consequence was more dreadful than any or all others. She could discover
but one way to avert it, and she set about the task, her native power
reinforced by love to such degree that her speech took a masculine strength and
at times a poet’s fervor.

“There never has been a people,” she began, “who did not
think themselves at least equal to any other; never a great nation, my son,
that did not believe itself the very superior. When the Roman looks down upon
Israel and laughs, he merely repeats the folly of the Egyptian, the Assyrian,
and the Macedonian; and as the laugh is against God, the result will be the
same.”

Her voice became firmer.

“There is no law by which to determine the superiority of nations; hence
the vanity of the claim, and the idleness of disputes about it. A people risen,
run their race, and die either of themselves or at the hands of another, who,
succeeding to their power, take possession of their place, and upon their
monuments write new names; such is history. If I were called upon to symbolize
God and man in the simplest form, I would draw a straight line and a circle,
and of the line I would say, ‘This is God, for he alone moves forever
straightforward,’ and of the circle, ‘This is man—such is his
progress.’ I do not mean that there is no difference between the careers
of nations; no two are alike. The difference, however, is not, as some say, in
the extent of the circle they describe or the space of earth they cover, but in
the sphere of their movement, the highest being nearest God.

“To stop here, my son, would be to leave the subject where we began. Let
us go on. There are signs by which to measure the height of the circle each
nation runs while in its course. By them let us compare the Hebrew and the
Roman.

“The simplest of all the signs is the daily life of the people. Of this I
will only say, Israel has at times forgotten God, while the Roman never knew
him; consequently comparison is not possible.

“Your friend—or your former friend—charged, if I understood
you rightly, that we have had no poets, artists, or warriors; by which he
meant, I suppose, to deny that we have had great men, the next most certain of
the signs. A just consideration of this charge requires a definition at the
commencement. A great man, O my boy, is one whose life proves him to have been
recognized, if not called, by God. A Persian was used to punish our recreant
fathers, and he carried them into captivity; another Persian was selected to
restore their children to the Holy Land; greater than either of them, however,
was the Macedonian through whom the desolation of Judea and the Temple was
avenged. The special distinction of the men was that they were chosen by the
Lord, each for a divine purpose; and that they were Gentiles does not lessen
their glory. Do not lose sight of this definition while I proceed.

“There is an idea that war is the most noble occupation of men, and that
the most exalted greatness is the growth of battle-fields. Because the world
has adopted the idea, be not you deceived. That we must worship something is a
law which will continue as long as there is anything we cannot understand. The
prayer of the barbarian is a wail of fear addressed to Strength, the only
divine quality he can clearly conceive; hence his faith in heroes. What is Jove
but a Roman hero? The Greeks have their great glory because they were the first
to set Mind above Strength. In Athens the orator and philosopher were more
revered than the warrior. The charioteer and the swiftest runner are still
idols of the arena; yet the immortelles are reserved for the sweetest singer.
The birthplace of one poet was contested by seven cities. But was the Hellene
the first to deny the old barbaric faith? No. My son, that glory is ours;
against brutalism our fathers erected God; in our worship, the wail of fear
gave place to the Hosanna and the Psalm. So the Hebrew and the Greek would have
carried all humanity forward and upward. But, alas! the government of the world
presumes war as an eternal condition; wherefore, over Mind and above God, the
Roman has enthroned his Cæsar, the absorbent of all attainable power, the
prohibition of any other greatness.

“The sway of the Greek was a flowering time for genius. In return for the
liberty it then enjoyed, what a company of thinkers the Mind led forth? There
was a glory for every excellence, and a perfection so absolute that in
everything but war even the Roman has stooped to imitation. A Greek is now the
model of the orators in the Forum; listen, and in every Roman song you will
hear the rhythm of the Greek; if a Roman opens his mouth speaking wisely of
moralities, or abstractions, or of the mysteries of nature, he is either a
plagiarist or the disciple of some school which had a Greek for its founder. In
nothing but war, I say again, has Rome a claim to originality. Her games and
spectacles are Greek inventions, dashed with blood to gratify the ferocity of
her rabble; her religion, if such it may be called, is made up of contributions
from the faiths of all other peoples; her most venerated gods are from
Olympus—even her Mars, and, for that matter, the Jove she much magnifies.
So it happens, O my son, that of the whole world our Israel alone can dispute
the superiority of the Greek, and with him contest the palm of original genius.

“To the excellences of other peoples the egotism of a Roman is a
blindfold, impenetrable as his breastplate. Oh, the ruthless robbers! Under
their trampling the earth trembles like a floor beaten with flails. Along with
the rest we are fallen—alas that I should say it to you, my son! They
have our highest places, and the holiest, and the end no man can tell; but this
I know—they may reduce Judea as an almond broken with hammers, and devour
Jerusalem, which is the oil and sweetness thereof; yet the glory of the men of
Israel will remain a light in the heavens overhead out of reach: for their
history is the history of God, who wrote with their hands, spake with their
tongues, and was himself in all the good they did, even the least; who dwelt
with them, a Lawgiver on Sinai, a Guide in the wilderness, in war a Captain, in
government a King; who once and again pushed back the curtains of the pavilion
which is his resting-place, intolerably bright, and, as a man speaking to men,
showed them the right, and the way to happiness, and how they should live, and
made them promises binding the strength of his Almightiness with covenants
sworn to everlastingly. O my son, could it be that they with whom Jehovah thus
dwelt, an awful familiar, derived nothing from him?—that in their lives
and deeds the common human qualities should not in some degree have been mixed
and colored with the divine? that their genius should not have in it, even
after the lapse of ages, some little of heaven?”

For a time the rustling of the fan was all the sound heard in the chamber.

“In the sense which limits art to sculpture and painting, it is
true,” she next said, “Israel has had no artists.”

The admission was made regretfully, for it must be remembered she was a
Sadducee, whose faith, unlike that of the Pharisees, permitted a love of the
beautiful in every form, and without reference to its origin.

“Still he who would do justice,” she proceeded, “will not
forget that the cunning of our hands was bound by the prohibition, ‘Thou
shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything;’
which the Sopherim wickedly extended beyond its purpose and time. Nor should it
be forgotten that long before Dædalus appeared in Attica and with his wooden
statues so transformed sculpture as to make possible the schools of Corinth and
Ægina, and their ultimate triumphs the Poecile and Capitolium—long
before the age of Dædalus, I say, two Israelites, Bezaleel and Aholiab, the
master-builders of the first tabernacle, said to have been skilled ‘in
all manner of workmanship,’ wrought the cherubim of the mercy-seat above
the ark. Of gold beaten, not chiseled, were they; and they were statues in form
both human and divine. ‘And they shall stretch forth their wings on high,
…. and their faces shall look one to another.’ Who will say they were
not beautiful? or that they were not the first statues?”

“Oh, I see now why the Greek outstripped us,” said Judah, intensely
interested. “And the ark; accursed be the Babylonians who destroyed
it!”

“Nay, Judah, be of faith. It was not destroyed, only lost, hidden away
too safely in some cavern of the mountains. One day—Hillel and Shammai
both say so—one day, in the Lord’s good time, it will be found and
brought forth, and Israel dance before it, singing as of old. And they who look
upon the faces of the cherubim then, though they have seen the face of the
ivory Minerva, will be ready to kiss the hand of the Jew from love of his
genius, asleep through all the thousands of years.”

The mother, in her eagerness, had risen into something like the rapidity and
vehemence of a speech-maker; but now, to recover herself, or to pick up the
thread of her thought, she rested awhile.

“You are so good, my mother,” he said, in a grateful way.
“And I will never be done saying so. Shammai could not have talked
better, nor Hillel. I am a true son of Israel again.”

“Flatterer!” she said. “You do not know that I am but
repeating what I heard Hillel say in an argument he had one day in my presence
with a sophist from Rome.”

“Well, the hearty words are yours.”

Directly all her earnestness returned.

“Where was I? Oh yes, I was claiming for our Hebrew fathers the first
statues. The trick of the sculptor, Judah, is not all there is of art, any more
than art is all there is of greatness. I always think of great men marching
down the centuries in groups and goodly companies, separable according to
nationalities; here the Indian, there the Egyptian, yonder the Assyrian; above
them the music of trumpets and the beauty of banners; and on their right hand
and left, as reverent spectators, the generations from the beginning,
numberless. As they go, I think of the Greek, saying, ‘Lo! The Hellene
leads the way.’ Then the Roman replies, ‘Silence! what was your
place is ours now; we have left you behind as dust trodden on.’ And all
the time, from the far front back over the line of march, as well as forward
into the farthest future, streams a light of which the wranglers know nothing,
except that it is forever leading them on—the Light of Revelation! Who
are they that carry it? Ah, the old Judean blood! How it leaps at the thought!
By the light we know them. Thrice blessed, O our fathers, servants of God,
keepers of the covenants! Ye are the leaders of men, the living and the dead.
The front is thine; and though every Roman were a Cæsar, ye shall not lose
it!”

Judah was deeply stirred.

“Do not stop, I pray you,” he cried. “You give me to hear the
sound of timbrels. I wait for Miriam and the women who went after her dancing
and singing.”

She caught his feeling, and, with ready wit, wove it into her speech.

“Very well, my son. If you can hear the timbrel of the prophetess, you
can do what I was about to ask; you can use your fancy, and stand with me, as
if by the wayside, while the chosen of Israel pass us at the head of the
procession. Now they come—the patriarchs first; next the fathers of the
tribes. I almost hear the bells of their camels and the lowing of their herds.
Who is he that walks alone between the companies? An old man, yet his eye is
not dim, nor his natural force abated. He knew the Lord face to face! Warrior,
poet, orator, lawgiver, prophet, his greatness is as the sun at morning, its
flood of splendor quenching all other lights, even that of the first and
noblest of the Cæsars. After him the judges. And then the kings—the son
of Jesse, a hero in war, and a singer of songs eternal as that of the sea; and
his son, who, passing all other kings in riches and wisdom, and while making
the Desert habitable, and in its waste places planting cities, forgot not
Jerusalem which the Lord had chosen for his seat on earth. Bend lower, my son!
These that come next are the first of their kind, and the last. Their faces are
raised, as if they heard a voice in the sky and were listening. Their lives
were full of sorrows. Their garments smell of tombs and caverns. Hearken to a
woman among them—‘Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed
gloriously!’ Nay, put your forehead in the dust before them! They were
tongues of God, his servants, who looked through heaven, and, seeing all the
future, wrote what they saw, and left the writing to be proven by time. Kings
turned pale as they approached them, and nations trembled at the sound of their
voices. The elements waited upon them. In their hands they carried every bounty
and every plague. See the Tishbite and his servant Elisha! See the sad son of
Hilkiah, and him, the seer of visions, by the river of Chebar! And of the three
children of Judah who refused the image of the Babylonian, lo! that one who, in
the feast to the thousand lords, so confounded the astrologers. And
yonder—O my son, kiss the dust again!—yonder the gentle son of
Amoz, from whom the world has its promise of the Messiah to come!”

In this passage the fan had been kept in rapid play; it stopped now, and her
voice sank low.

“You are tired,” she said.

“No,” he replied, “I was listening to a new song of
Israel.”

The mother was still intent upon her purpose, and passed the pleasant speech.

“In such light as I could, my Judah, I have set our great men before
you—patriarchs, legislators, warriors, singers, prophets. Turn we to the
best of Rome. Against Moses place Cæsar, and Tarquin against David; Sylla
against either of the Maccabees; the best of the consuls against the judges;
Augustus against Solomon, and you are done: comparison ends there. But think
then of the prophets—greatest of the great.”

She laughed scornfully.

“Pardon me. I was thinking of the soothsayer who warned Caius Julius
against the Ides of March, and fancied him looking for the omens of evil which
his master despised in the entrails of a chicken. From that picture turn to
Elijah sitting on the hill-top on the way to Samaria, amid the smoking bodies
of the captains and their fifties, warning the son of Ahab of the wrath of our
God. Finally, O my Judah—if such speech be reverent—how shall we
judge Jehovah and Jupiter unless it be by what their servants have done in
their names? And as for what you shall do—”

She spoke the latter words slowly, and with a tremulous utterance.

“As for what you shall do, my boy—serve the Lord, the Lord God of
Israel, not Rome. For a child of Abraham there is no glory except in the
Lord’s ways, and in them there is much glory.”

“I may be a soldier then?” Judah asked.

“Why not? Did not Moses call God a man of war?”

There was then a long silence in the summer chamber.

“You have my permission,” she said, finally; “if only you
serve the Lord instead of Cæsar.”

He was content with the condition, and by-and-by fell asleep. She arose then,
and put the cushion under his head, and, throwing a shawl over him and kissing
him tenderly, went away.

CHAPTER VI

The good man, like the bad, must die; but, remembering the lesson of our faith,
we say of him and the event, “No matter, he will open his eyes in
heaven.” Nearest this in life is the waking from healthful sleep to a
quick consciousness of happy sights and sounds.

When Judah awoke, the sun was up over the mountains; the pigeons were abroad in
flocks, filling the air with the gleams of their white wings; and off southeast
he beheld the Temple, an apparition of gold in the blue of the sky. These,
however, were familiar objects, and they received but a glance; upon the edge
of the divan, close by him, a girl scarcely fifteen sat singing to the
accompaniment of a nebel, which she rested upon her knee, and touched
gracefully. To her he turned listening; and this was what she sang:

THE SONG.

“Wake not, but hear me, love!
     Adrift, adrift on slumber’s sea,
     Thy spirit call to list to me.
Wake not, but hear me, love!
     A gift from Sleep, the restful king,
     All happy, happy dreams I bring.

“Wake not, but hear me, love!
     Of all the world of dreams ’tis thine
     This once to choose the most divine.
So choose, and sleep, my love!
     But ne’er again in choice be free,
     Unless, unless—thou dream’st of me.”

She put the instrument down, and, resting her hands in her lap, waited for him
to speak. And as it has become necessary to tell somewhat of her, we will avail
ourselves of the chance, and add such particulars of the family into whose
privacy we are brought as the reader may wish to know.

The favors of Herod had left surviving him many persons of vast estate. Where
this fortune was joined to undoubted lineal descent from some famous son of one
of the tribes, especially Judah, the happy individual was accounted a Prince of
Jerusalem—a distinction which sufficed to bring him the homage of his
less favored countrymen, and the respect, if nothing more, of the Gentiles with
whom business and social circumstance brought him into dealing. Of this class
none had won in private or public life a higher regard than the father of the
lad whom we have been following. With a remembrance of his nationality which
never failed him, he had yet been true to the king, and served him faithfully
at home and abroad. Some offices had taken him to Rome, where his conduct
attracted the notice of Augustus, who strove without reserve to engage his
friendship. In his house, accordingly, were many presents, such as had
gratified the vanity of kings—purple togas, ivory chairs, golden
pateroe—chiefly valuable on account of the imperial hand which had
honorably conferred them. Such a man could not fail to be rich; yet his wealth
was not altogether the largess of royal patrons. He had welcomed the law that
bound him to some pursuit; and, instead of one, he entered into many. Of the
herdsmen watching flocks on the plains and hill-sides, far as old Lebanon,
numbers reported to him as their employer; in the cities by the sea, and in
those inland, he founded houses of traffic; his ships brought him silver from
Spain, whose mines were then the richest known; while his caravans came twice a
year from the East, laden with silks and spices. In faith he was a Hebrew,
observant of the law and every essential rite; his place in the synagogue and
Temple knew him well; he was thoroughly learned in the Scriptures; he delighted
in the society of the college-masters, and carried his reverence for Hillel
almost to the point of worship. Yet he was in no sense a Separatist; his
hospitality took in strangers from every land; the carping Pharisees even
accused him of having more than once entertained Samaritans at his table. Had
he been a Gentile, and lived, the world might have heard of him as the rival of
Herodes Atticus: as it was, he perished at sea some ten years before this
second period of our story, in the prime of life, and lamented everywhere in
Judea. We are already acquainted with two members of his family—his widow
and son; the only other was a daughter—she whom we have seen singing to
her brother.

Tirzah was her name, and as the two looked at each other, their resemblance was
plain. Her features had the regularity of his, and were of the same Jewish
type; they had also the charm of childish innocency of expression. Home-life
and its trustful love permitted the negligent attire in which she appeared. A
chemise buttoned upon the right shoulder, and passing loosely over the breast
and back and under the left arm, but half concealed her person above the waist,
while it left the arms entirely nude. A girdle caught the folds of the garment,
marking the commencement of the skirt. The coiffure was very simple and
becoming—a silken cap, Tyrian-dyed; and over that a striped scarf of the
same material, beautifully embroidered, and wound about in thin folds so as to
show the shape of the head without enlarging it; the whole finished by a tassel
dropping from the crown point of the cap. She had rings, ear and finger;
anklets and bracelets, all of gold; and around her neck there was a collar of
gold, curiously garnished with a network of delicate chains, to which were
pendants of pearl. The edges of her eyelids were painted, and the tips of her
fingers stained. Her hair fell in two long plaits down her back. A curled lock
rested upon each cheek in front of the ear. Altogether it would have been
impossible to deny her grace, refinement, and beauty.

“Very pretty, my Tirzah, very pretty!” he said, with animation.

“The song?” she asked.

“Yes—and the singer, too. It has the conceit of a Greek. Where did
you get it?”

“You remember the Greek who sang in the theatre last month? They said he
used to be a singer at the court for Herod and his sister Salome. He came out
just after an exhibition of wrestlers, when the house was full of noise. At his
first note everything became so quiet that I heard every word. I got the song
from him.”

“But he sang in Greek.”

“And I in Hebrew.”

“Ah, yes. I am proud of my little sister. Have you another as
good?”

“Very many. But let them go now. Amrah sent me to tell you she will bring
you your breakfast, and that you need not come down. She should be here by this
time. She thinks you sick—that a dreadful accident happened you
yesterday. What was it? Tell me, and I will help Amrah doctor you. She knows
the cures of the Egyptians, who were always a stupid set; but I have a great
many recipes of the Arabs who—”

“Are even more stupid than the Egyptians,” he said, shaking his
head.

“Do you think so? Very well, then,” she replied, almost without
pause, and putting her hands to her left ear. “We will have nothing to do
with any of them. I have here what is much surer and better—the amulet
which was given to some of our people—I cannot tell when, it was so far
back—by a Persian magician. See, the inscription is almost worn
out.”

She offered him the earring, which he took, looked at, and handed back,
laughing.

“If I were dying, Tirzah, I could not use the charm. It is a relic of
idolatry, forbidden every believing son and daughter of Abraham. Take it, but
do not wear it any more.”

“Forbidden! Not so,” she said. “Our father’s mother
wore it I do not know how many Sabbaths in her life. It has cured I do not know
how many people—more than three anyhow. It is approved—look, here
is the mark of the rabbis.”

“I have no faith in amulets.”

She raised her eyes to his in astonishment.

“What would Amrah say?”

“Amrah’s father and mother tended sakiyeh for a garden on the
Nile.”

“But Gamaliel!”

“He says they are godless inventions of unbelievers and
Shechemites.”

Tirzah looked at the ring doubtfully.

“What shall I do with it?”

“Wear it, my little sister. It becomes you—it helps make you
beautiful, though I think you that without help.”

Satisfied, she returned the amulet to her ear just as Amrah entered the summer
chamber, bearing a platter, with wash-bowl, water, and napkins.

Not being a Pharisee, the ablution was short and simple with Judah. The servant
then went out, leaving Tirzah to dress his hair. When a lock was disposed to
her satisfaction, she would unloose the small metallic mirror which, as was the
fashion among her fair countrywomen, she wore at her girdle, and gave it to
him, that he might see the triumph, and how handsome it made him. Meanwhile
they kept up their conversation.

“What do you think, Tirzah?—I am going away.”

She dropped her hands with amazement.

“Going away! When? Where? For what?”

He laughed.

“Three questions, all in a breath! What a body you are!” Next
instant he became serious. “You know the law requires me to follow some
occupation. Our good father set me an example. Even you would despise me if I
spent in idleness the results of his industry and knowledge. I am going to
Rome.”

“Oh, I will go with you.”

“You must stay with mother. If both of us leave her she will die.”

The brightness faded from her face.

“Ah, yes, yes! But—must you go? Here in Jerusalem you can learn all
that is needed to be a merchant—if that is what you are thinking
of.”

“But that is not what I am thinking of. The law does not require the son
to be what the father was.”

“What else can you be?”

“A soldier,” he replied, with a certain pride of voice.

Tears came into her eyes.

“You will be killed.”

“If God’s will, be it so. But, Tirzah, the soldiers are not all
killed.”

She threw her arms around his neck, as if to hold him back.

“We are so happy! Stay at home, my brother.”

“Home cannot always be what it is. You yourself will be going away before
long.”

“Never!”

He smiled at her earnestness.

“A prince of Judah, or some other of one of the tribes, will come soon
and claim my Tirzah, and ride away with her, to be the light of another house.
What will then become of me?”

She answered with sobs.

“War is a trade,” he continued, more soberly. “To learn it
thoroughly, one must go to school, and there is no school like a Roman
camp.”

“You would not fight for Rome?” she asked, holding her breath.

“And you—even you hate her. The whole world hates her. In that, O
Tirzah, find the reason of the answer I give you— Yes, I will fight for
her, if, in return, she will teach me how one day to fight against her.”

“When will you go?”

Amrah’s steps were then heard returning.

“Hist!” he said. “Do not let her know of what I am
thinking.”

The faithful slave came in with breakfast, and placed the waiter holding it
upon a stool before them; then, with white napkins upon her arm, she remained
to serve them. They dipped their fingers in a bowl of water, and were rinsing
them, when a noise arrested their attention. They listened, and distinguished
martial music in the street on the north side of the house.

“Soldiers from the Praetorium! I must see them,” he cried,
springing from the divan, and running out.

In a moment more he was leaning over the parapet of tiles which guarded the
roof at the extreme northeast corner, so absorbed that he did not notice Tirzah
by his side, resting one hand upon his shoulder.

Their position—the roof being the highest one in the
locality—commanded the house-tops eastward as far as the huge irregular
Tower of Antonia, which has been already mentioned as a citadel for the
garrison and military headquarters for the governor. The street, not more than
ten feet wide, was spanned here and there by bridges, open and covered, which,
like the roofs along the way, were beginning to be occupied by men, women, and
children, called out by the music. The word is used, though it is hardly
fitting; what the people heard when they came forth was rather an uproar of
trumpets and the shriller litui so delightful to the soldiers.

The array after a while came into view of the two upon the house of the Hurs.
First, a vanguard of the light-armed—mostly slingers and
bowmen—marching with wide intervals between their ranks and files; next a
body of heavy-armed infantry, bearing large shields, and hastoe longoe, or
spears identical with those used in the duels before Ilium; then the musicians;
and then an officer riding alone, but followed closely by a guard of cavalry;
after them again, a column of infantry also heavy-armed, which, moving in close
order, crowded the streets from wall to wall, and appeared to be without end.

The brawny limbs of the men; the cadenced motion from right to left of the
shields; the sparkle of scales, buckles, and breastplates and helms, all
perfectly burnished; the plumes nodding above the tall crests; the sway of
ensigns and iron-shod spears; the bold, confident step, exactly timed and
measured; the demeanor, so grave, yet so watchful; the machine-like unity of
the whole moving mass—made an impression upon Judah, but as something
felt rather than seen. Two objects fixed his attention—the eagle of the
legion first—a gilded effigy perched on a tall shaft, with wings
outspread until they met above its head. He knew that, when brought from its
chamber in the Tower, it had been received with divine honors.

The officer riding alone in the midst of the column was the other attraction.
His head was bare; otherwise he was in full armor. At his left hip he wore a
short sword; in his hand, however, he carried a truncheon, which looked like a
roll of white paper. He sat upon a purple cloth instead of a saddle, and that,
and a bridle with a forestall of gold and reins of yellow silk broadly fringed
at the lower edge, completed the housings of the horse.

While the man was yet in the distance, Judah observed that his presence was
sufficient to throw the people looking at him into angry excitement. They would
lean over the parapets or stand boldly out, and shake their fists at him; they
followed him with loud cries, and spit at him as he passed under the bridges;
the women even flung their sandals, sometimes with such good effect as to hit
him. When he was nearer, the yells became distinguishable—“Robber,
tyrant, dog of a Roman! Away with Ishmael! Give us back our Hannas!”

When quite near, Judah could see that, as was but natural, the man did not
share the indifference so superbly shown by the soldiers; his face was dark and
sullen, and the glances he occasionally cast at his persecutors were full of
menace; the very timid shrank from them.

Now the lad had heard of the custom, borrowed from a habit of the first Cæsar,
by which chief commanders, to indicate their rank, appeared in public with only
a laurel vine upon their heads. By that sign he knew this
officer—VALERIUS GRATUS, THE NEW PROCURATOR OF JUDEA!

To say truth now, the Roman under the unprovoked storm had the young
Jew’s sympathy; so that when he reached the corner of the house, the
latter leaned yet farther over the parapet to see him go by, and in the act
rested a hand upon a tile which had been a long time cracked and allowed to go
unnoticed. The pressure was strong enough to displace the outer piece, which
started to fall. A thrill of horror shot through the youth. He reached out to
catch the missile. In appearance the motion was exactly that of one pitching
something from him. The effort failed—nay, it served to push the
descending fragment farther out over the wall. He shouted with all his might.
The soldiers of the guard looked up; so did the great man, and that moment the
missile struck him, and he fell from his seat as dead.

The cohort halted; the guards leaped from their horses, and hastened to cover
the chief with their shields. On the other hand, the people who witnessed the
affair, never doubting that the blow had been purposely dealt, cheered the lad
as he yet stooped in full view over the parapet, transfixed by what he beheld,
and by anticipation of the consequences flashed all too plainly upon him.

A mischievous spirit flew with incredible speed from roof to roof along the
line of march, seizing the people, and urging them all alike. They laid hands
upon the parapets and tore up the tiling and the sunburnt mud of which the
house-tops were for the most part made, and with blind fury began to fling them
upon the legionaries halted below. A battle then ensued. Discipline, of course,
prevailed. The struggle, the slaughter, the skill of one side, the desperation
of the other, are alike unnecessary to our story. Let us look rather to the
wretched author of it all.

He arose from the parapet, his face very pale.

“O Tirzah, Tirzah! What will become of us?”

She had not seen the occurrence below, but was listening to the shouting and
watching the mad activity of the people in view on the houses. Something
terrible was going on, she knew; but what it was, or the cause, or that she or
any of those dear to her were in danger, she did not know.

“What has happened? What does it all mean?” she asked, in sudden
alarm.

“I have killed the Roman governor. The tile fell upon him.”

An unseen hand appeared to sprinkle her face with the dust of ashes—it
grew white so instantly. She put her arm around him, and looked wistfully, but
without a word, into his eyes. His fears had passed to her, and the sight of
them gave him strength.

“I did not do it purposely, Tirzah—it was an accident,” he
said, more calmly.

“What will they do?” she asked.

He looked off over the tumult momentarily deepening in the street and on the
roofs, and thought of the sullen countenance of Gratus. If he were not dead,
where would his vengeance stop? And if he were dead, to what height of fury
would not the violence of the people lash the legionaries? To evade an answer,
he peered over the parapet again, just as the guard were assisting the Roman to
remount his horse.

“He lives, he lives, Tirzah! Blessed be the Lord God of our
fathers!”

With that outcry, and a brightened countenance, he drew back and replied to her
question.

“Be not afraid, Tirzah. I will explain how it happened, and they will
remember our father and his services, and not hurt us.”

He was leading her to the summer-house, when the roof jarred under their feet,
and a crash of strong timbers being burst away, followed by a cry of surprise
and agony, arose apparently from the court-yard below. He stopped and listened.
The cry was repeated; then came a rush of many feet, and voices lifted in rage
blent with voices in prayer; and then the screams of women in mortal terror.
The soldiers had beaten in the north gate, and were in possession of the house.
The terrible sense of being hunted smote him. His first impulse was to fly; but
where? Nothing but wings would serve him. Tirzah, her eyes wild with fear,
caught his arm.

“O Judah, what does it mean?”

The servants were being butchered—and his mother! Was not one of the
voices he heard hers? With all the will left him, he said, “Stay here,
and wait for me, Tirzah. I will go down and see what is the matter, and come
back to you.”

His voice was not steady as he wished. She clung closer to him.

Clearer, shriller, no longer a fancy, his mother’s cry arose. He
hesitated no longer.

“Come, then, let us go.”

The terrace or gallery at the foot of the steps was crowded with soldiers.
Other soldiers with drawn swords ran in and out of the chambers. At one place a
number of women on their knees clung to each other or prayed for mercy. Apart
from them, one with torn garments, and long hair streaming over her face,
struggled to tear loose from a man all whose strength was tasked to keep his
hold. Her cries were shrillest of all; cutting through the clamor, they had
risen distinguishably to the roof. To her Judah sprang—his steps were
long and swift, almost a winged flight—“Mother, mother!” he
shouted. She stretched her hands towards him; but when almost touching them he
was seized and forced aside. Then he heard some one say, speaking loudly,

“That is he!”

Judah looked, and saw—Messala.

“What, the assassin—that?” said a tall man, in legionary
armor of beautiful finish. “Why, he is but a boy.”

“Gods!” replied Messala, not forgetting his drawl. “A new
philosophy! What would Seneca say to the proposition that a man must be old
before he can hate enough to kill? You have him; and that is his mother; yonder
his sister. You have the whole family.”

For love of them, Judah forgot his quarrel.

“Help them, O my Messala! Remember our childhood and help them.
I—Judah—pray you.”

Messala affected not to hear.

“I cannot be of further use to you,” he said to the officer.
“There is richer entertainment in the street. Down Eros, up Mars!”

With the last words he disappeared. Judah understood him, and, in the
bitterness of his soul, prayed to Heaven.

“In the hour of thy vengeance, O Lord,” he said, “be mine the
hand to put it upon him!”

By great exertion, he drew nearer the officer.

“O sir, the woman you hear is my mother. Spare her, spare my sister
yonder. God is just, he will give you mercy for mercy.”

The man appeared to be moved.

“To the Tower with the women!” he shouted, “but do them no
harm. I will demand them of you.” Then to those holding Judah, he said,
“Get cords, and bind his hands, and take him to the street. His
punishment is reserved.”

The mother was carried away. The little Tirzah, in her home attire, stupefied
with fear, went passively with her keepers. Judah gave each of them a last
look, and covered his face with his hands, as if to possess himself of the
scene fadelessly. He may have shed tears, though no one saw them.

There took place in him then what may be justly called the wonder of life. The
thoughtful reader of these pages has ere this discerned enough to know that the
young Jew in disposition was gentle even to womanliness—a result that
seldom fails the habit of loving and being loved. The circumstances through
which he had come had made no call upon the harsher elements of his nature, if
such he had. At times he had felt the stir and impulses of ambition, but they
had been like the formless dreams of a child walking by the sea and gazing at
the coming and going of stately ships. But now, if we can imagine an idol,
sensible of the worship it was accustomed to, dashed suddenly from its altar,
and lying amidst the wreck of its little world of love, an idea may be had of
what had befallen the young Ben-Hur, and of its effect upon his being. Yet
there was no sign, nothing to indicate that he had undergone a change, except
that when he raised his head, and held his arms out to be bound, the bend of
the Cupid’s bow had vanished from his lips. In that instant he had put
off childhood and become a man.

A trumpet sounded in the court-yard. With the cessation of the call, the
gallery was cleared of the soldiery; many of whom, as they dared not appear in
the ranks with visible plunder in their hands, flung what they had upon the
floor, until it was strewn with articles of richest virtu. When Judah
descended, the formation was complete, and the officer waiting to see his last
order executed.

The mother, daughter, and entire household were led out of the north gate, the
ruins of which choked the passageway. The cries of the domestics, some of whom
had been born in the house, were most pitiable. When, finally, the horses and
all the dumb tenantry of the place were driven past him, Judah began to
comprehend the scope of the procurator’s vengeance. The very structure
was devoted. Far as the order was possible of execution, nothing living was to
be left within its walls. If in Judea there were others desperate enough to
think of assassinating a Roman governor, the story of what befell the princely
family of Hur would be a warning to them, while the ruin of the habitation
would keep the story alive.

The officer waited outside while a detail of men temporarily restored the gate.

In the street the fighting had almost ceased. Upon the houses here and there
clouds of dust told where the struggle was yet prolonged. The cohort was, for
the most part, standing at rest, its splendor, like its ranks, in nowise
diminished. Borne past the point of care for himself, Judah had heart for
nothing in view but the prisoners, among whom he looked in vain for his mother
and Tirzah.

Suddenly, from the earth where she had been lying, a woman arose and started
swiftly back to the gate. Some of the guards reached out to seize her, and a
great shout followed their failure. She ran to Judah, and, dropping down,
clasped his knees, the coarse black hair powdered with dust veiling her eyes.

“O Amrah, good Amrah,” he said to her, “God help you; I
cannot.”

She could not speak.

He bent down, and whispered, “Live, Amrah, for Tirzah and my mother. They
will come back, and—”

A soldier drew her away; whereupon she sprang up and rushed through the gateway
and passage into the vacant court-yard.

“Let her go,” the officer shouted. “We will seal the house,
and she will starve.”

The men resumed their work, and, when it was finished there, passed round to
the west side. That gate was also secured, after which the palace of the Hurs
was lost to use.

The cohort at length marched back to the Tower, where the procurator stayed to
recover from his hurts and dispose of his prisoners. On the tenth day
following, he visited the Market-place.

CHAPTER VII

Next day a detachment of legionaries went to the desolated palace, and, closing
the gates permanently, plastered the corners with wax, and at the sides nailed
a notice in Latin:

“THIS IS THE PROPERTY OF THE EMPEROR.”

In the haughty Roman idea, the sententious announcement was thought sufficient
for the purpose—and it was.

The day after that again, about noon, a decurion with his command of ten
horsemen approached Nazareth from the south—that is, from the direction
of Jerusalem. The place was then a straggling village, perched on a hill-side,
and so insignificant that its one street was little more than a path well
beaten by the coming and going of flocks and herds. The great plain of
Esdraelon crept close to it on the south, and from the height on the west a
view could be had of the shores of the Mediterranean, the region beyond the
Jordan, and Hermon. The valley below, and the country on every side, were given
to gardens, vineyards, orchards, and pasturage. Groves of palm-trees
Orientalized the landscape. The houses, in irregular assemblage, were of the
humbler class—square, one-story, flat-roofed, and covered with
bright-green vines. The drought that had burned the hills of Judea to a crisp,
brown and lifeless, stopped at the boundary-line of Galilee.

A trumpet, sounded when the cavalcade drew near the village, had a magical
effect upon the inhabitants. The gates and front doors cast forth groups eager
to be the first to catch the meaning of a visitation so unusual.

Nazareth, it must be remembered, was not only aside from any great highway, but
within the sway of Judas of Gamala; wherefore it should not be hard to imagine
the feelings with which the legionaries were received. But when they were up
and traversing the street, the duty that occupied them became apparent, and
then fear and hatred were lost in curiosity, under the impulse of which the
people, knowing there must be a halt at the well in the northeastern part of
the town, quit their gates and doors, and closed in after the procession.

A prisoner whom the horsemen were guarding was the object of curiosity. He was
afoot, bareheaded, half naked, his hands bound behind him. A thong fixed to his
wrists was looped over the neck of a horse. The dust went with the party when
in movement, wrapping him in yellow fog, sometimes in a dense cloud. He drooped
forward, footsore and faint. The villagers could see he was young.

At the well the decurion halted, and, with most of the men, dismounted. The
prisoner sank down in the dust of the road, stupefied, and asking nothing:
apparently he was in the last stage of exhaustion. Seeing, when they came near,
that he was but a boy, the villagers would have helped him had they dared.

In the midst of their perplexity, and while the pitchers were passing among the
soldiers, a man was descried coming down the road from Sepphoris. At sight of
him a woman cried out, “Look! Yonder comes the carpenter. Now we will
hear something.”

The person spoken of was quite venerable in appearance. Thin white locks fell
below the edge of his full turban, and a mass of still whiter beard flowed down
the front of his coarse gray gown. He came slowly, for, in addition to his age,
he carried some tools—an axe, a saw, and a drawing-knife, all very rude
and heavy—and had evidently travelled some distance without rest.

He stopped close by to survey the assemblage.

“O Rabbi, good Rabbi Joseph!” cried a woman, running to him.
“Here is a prisoner; come ask the soldiers about him, that we may know
who he is, and what he has done, and what they are going to do with him.”

The rabbi’s face remained stolid; he glanced at the prisoner, however,
and presently went to the officer.

“The peace of the Lord be with you!” he said, with unbending
gravity.

“And that of the gods with you,” the decurion replied.

“Are you from Jerusalem?”

“Yes.”

“Your prisoner is young.”

“In years, yes.”

“May I ask what he has done?”

“He is an assassin.”

The people repeated the word in astonishment, but Rabbi Joseph pursued his
inquest.

“Is he a son of Israel?”

“He is a Jew,” said the Roman, dryly.

The wavering pity of the bystanders came back.

“I know nothing of your tribes, but can speak of his family,” the
speaker continued. “You may have heard of a prince of Jerusalem named
Hur—Ben-Hur, they called him. He lived in Herod’s day.”

“I have seen him,” Joseph said.

“Well, this is his son.”

Exclamations became general, and the decurion hastened to stop them.

“In the streets of Jerusalem, day before yesterday, he nearly killed the
noble Gratus by flinging a tile upon his head from the roof of a
palace—his father’s, I believe.”

There was a pause in the conversation during which the Nazarenes gazed at the
young Ben-Hur as at a wild beast.

“Did he kill him?” asked the rabbi.

“No.”

“He is under sentence.”

“Yes—the galleys for life.”

“The Lord help him!” said Joseph, for once moved out of his
stolidity.

Thereupon a youth who came up with Joseph, but had stood behind him unobserved,
laid down an axe he had been carrying, and, going to the great stone standing
by the well, took from it a pitcher of water. The action was so quiet that
before the guard could interfere, had they been disposed to do so, he was
stooping over the prisoner, and offering him drink.

The hand laid kindly upon his shoulder awoke the unfortunate Judah, and,
looking up, he saw a face he never forgot—the face of a boy about his own
age, shaded by locks of yellowish bright chestnut hair; a face lighted by
dark-blue eyes, at the time so soft, so appealing, so full of love and holy
purpose, that they had all the power of command and will. The spirit of the
Jew, hardened though it was by days and nights of suffering, and so embittered
by wrong that its dreams of revenge took in all the world, melted under the
stranger’s look, and became as a child’s. He put his lips to the
pitcher, and drank long and deep. Not a word was said to him, nor did he say a
word.

When the draught was finished, the hand that had been resting upon the
sufferer’s shoulder was placed upon his head, and stayed there in the
dusty locks time enough to say a blessing; the stranger then returned the
pitcher to its place on the stone, and, taking his axe again, went back to
Rabbi Joseph. All eyes went with him, the decurion’s as well as those of
the villagers.

This was the end of the scene at the well. When the men had drunk, and the
horses, the march was resumed. But the temper of the decurion was not as it had
been; he himself raised the prisoner from the dust, and helped him on a horse
behind a soldier. The Nazarenes went to their houses—among them Rabbi
Joseph and his apprentice.

And so, for the first time, Judah and the son of Mary met and parted.

BOOK THIRD

“Cleopatra…. Our size of sorrow,
Proportion’d to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.—
          Enter, below, DIOMEDES.
                    How now? is he dead?

Diomedes. His death’s upon him, but not dead.”
          Antony and Cleopatra (act iv., sc. xiii.).

CHAPTER I

The city of Misenum gave name to the promontory which it crowned, a few miles
southwest of Naples. An account of ruins is all that remains of it now; yet in
the year of our Lord 24—to which it is desirable to advance the
reader—the place was one of the most important on the western coast of
Italy.[1]

[1] The Roman government, it will be remembered, had two harbors in which great
fleets were constantly kept—Ravenna and Misenum.

In the year mentioned, a traveller coming to the promontory to regale himself
with the view there offered, would have mounted a wall, and, with the city at
his back, looked over the bay of Neapolis, as charming then as now; and then,
as now, he would have seen the matchless shore, the smoking cone, the sky and
waves so softly, deeply blue, Ischia here and Capri yonder; from one to the
other and back again, through the purpled air, his gaze would have sported; at
last—for the eyes do weary of the beautiful as the palate with
sweets—at last it would have dropped upon a spectacle which the modern
tourist cannot see—half the reserve navy of Rome astir or at anchor below
him. Thus regarded, Misenum was a very proper place for three masters to meet,
and at leisure parcel the world among them.

In the old time, moreover, there was a gateway in the wall at a certain point
fronting the sea—an empty gateway forming the outlet of a street which,
after the exit, stretched itself, in the form of a broad mole, out many stadia
into the waves.

The watchman on the wall above the gateway was disturbed, one cool September
morning, by a party coming down the street in noisy conversation. He gave one
look, then settled into his drowse again.

There were twenty or thirty persons in the party, of whom the greater number
were slaves with torches, which flamed little and smoked much, leaving on the
air the perfume of the Indian nard. The masters walked in advance arm-in-arm.
One of them, apparently fifty years old, slightly bald, and wearing over his
scant locks a crown of laurel, seemed, from the attentions paid him, the
central object of some affectionate ceremony. They all sported ample togas of
white wool broadly bordered with purple. A glance had sufficed the watchman. He
knew, without question, they were of high rank, and escorting a friend to ship
after a night of festivity. Further explanation will be found in the
conversation they carried on.

“No, my Quintus,” said one, speaking to him with the crown,
“it is ill of Fortune to take thee from us so soon. Only yesterday thou
didst return from the seas beyond the Pillars. Why, thou hast not even got back
thy land legs.”

“By Castor! if a man may swear a woman’s oath,” said another,
somewhat worse of wine, “let us not lament. Our Quintus is but going to
find what he lost last night. Dice on a rolling ship is not dice on
shore—eh, Quintus?”

“Abuse not Fortune!” exclaimed a third. “She is not blind or
fickle. At Antium, where our Arrius questions her, she answers him with nods,
and at sea she abides with him holding the rudder. She takes him from us, but
does she not always give him back with a new victory?”

“The Greeks are taking him away,” another broke in. “Let us
abuse them, not the gods. In learning to trade they forgot how to fight.”

With these words, the party passed the gateway, and came upon the mole, with
the bay before them beautiful in the morning light. To the veteran sailor the
plash of the waves was like a greeting. He drew a long breath, as if the
perfume of the water were sweeter than that of the nard, and held his hand
aloft.

“My gifts were at Praeneste, not Antium—and see! Wind from the
west. Thanks, O Fortune, my mother!” he said, earnestly.

The friends all repeated the exclamation, and the slaves waved their torches.

“She comes—yonder!” he continued, pointing to a galley
outside the mole. “What need has a sailor for other mistress? Is your
Lucrece more graceful, my Caius?”

He gazed at the coming ship, and justified his pride. A white sail was bent to
the low mast, and the oars dipped, arose, poised a moment, then dipped again,
with wing-like action, and in perfect time.

“Yes, spare the gods,” he said, soberly, his eyes fixed upon the
vessel. “They send us opportunities. Ours the fault if we fail. And as
for the Greeks, you forget, O my Lentulus, the pirates I am going to punish are
Greeks. One victory over them is of more account than a hundred over the
Africans.”

“Then thy way is to the Aegean?”

The sailor’s eyes were full of his ship.

“What grace, what freedom! A bird hath not less care for the fretting of
the waves. See!” he said, but almost immediately added, “Thy
pardon, my Lentulus. I am going to the Aegean; and as my departure is so near,
I will tell the occasion—only keep it under the rose. I would not that
you abuse the duumvir when next you meet him. He is my friend. The trade
between Greece and Alexandria, as ye may have heard, is hardly inferior to that
between Alexandria and Rome. The people in that part of the world forgot to
celebrate the Cerealia, and Triptolemus paid them with a harvest not worth the
gathering. At all events, the trade is so grown that it will not brook
interruption a day. Ye may also have heard of the Chersonesan pirates, nested
up in the Euxine; none bolder, by the Bacchae! Yesterday word came to Rome
that, with a fleet, they had rowed down the Bosphorus, sunk the galleys off
Byzantium and Chalcedon, swept the Propontis, and, still unsated, burst through
into the Aegean. The corn-merchants who have ships in the East Mediterranean
are frightened. They had audience with the Emperor himself, and from Ravenna
there go to-day a hundred galleys, and from Misenum”—he paused as
if to pique the curiosity of his friends, and ended with an
emphatic—“one.”

“Happy Quintus! We congratulate thee!”

“The preferment forerunneth promotion. We salute thee duumvir; nothing
less.”

“Quintus Arrius, the duumvir, hath a better sound than Quintus Arrius,
the tribune.”

In such manner they showered him with congratulations.

“I am glad with the rest,” said the bibulous friend, “very
glad; but I must be practical, O my duumvir; and not until I know if promotion
will help thee to knowledge of the tesserae will I have an opinion as to
whether the gods mean thee ill or good in this—this business.”

“Thanks, many thanks!” Arrius replied, speaking to them
collectively. “Had ye but lanterns, I would say ye were augurs. Perpol! I
will go further, and show what master diviners ye are! See—and
read.”

From the folds of his toga he drew a roll of paper, and passed it to them,
saying, “Received while at table last night from—Sejanus.”

The name was already a great one in the Roman world; great, and not so infamous
as it afterwards became.

“Sejanus!” they exclaimed, with one voice, closing in to read what
the minister had written.

“Sejanus to C. Caecilius Rufus, Duumvir.

“ROME, XIX. Kal. Sept.

“Cæsar hath good report of Quintus Arrius, the tribune. In particular he
hath heard of his valor, manifested in the western seas, insomuch that it is
his will that the said Quintus be transferred instantly to the East.

“It is our Cæsar’s will, further, that you cause a hundred
triremes, of the first class, and full appointment, to be despatched without
delay against the pirates who have appeared in the Aegean, and that Quintus be
sent to command the fleet so despatched.

“Details are thine, my Caecilius.

“The necessity is urgent, as thou will be advised by the reports enclosed
for thy perusal and the information of the said Quintus.

“SEJANUS.”

Arrius gave little heed to the reading. As the ship drew more plainly out of
the perspective, she became more and more an attraction to him. The look with
which he watched her was that of an enthusiast. At length he tossed the
loosened folds of his toga in the air; in reply to the signal, over the
aplustre, or fan-like fixture at the stern of the vessel, a scarlet flag was
displayed; while several sailors appeared upon the bulwarks, and swung
themselves hand over hand up the ropes to the antenna, or yard, and furled the
sail. The bow was put round, and the time of the oars increased one half; so
that at racing speed she bore down directly towards him and his friends. He
observed the manoeuvring with a perceptible brightening of the eyes. Her
instant answer to the rudder, and the steadiness with which she kept her
course, were especially noticeable as virtues to be relied upon in action.

“By the Nymphae!” said one of the friends, giving back the roll,
“we may not longer say our friend will be great; he is already great. Our
love will now have famous things to feed upon. What more hast thou for
us?”

“Nothing more,” Arrius replied. “What ye have of the affair
is by this time old news in Rome, especially between the palace and the Forum.
The duumvir is discreet; what I am to do, where go to find my fleet, he will
tell on the ship, where a sealed package is waiting me. If, however, ye have
offerings for any of the altars to-day, pray the gods for a friend plying oar
and sail somewhere in the direction of Sicily. But she is here, and will come
to,” he said, reverting to the vessel. “I have interest in her
masters; they will sail and fight with me. It is not an easy thing to lay ship
side on a shore like this; so let us judge their training and skill.”

“What, is she new to thee?”

“I never saw her before; and, as yet, I know not if she will bring me one
acquaintance.”

“Is that well?”

“It matters but little. We of the sea come to know each other quickly;
our loves, like our hates, are born of sudden dangers.”

The vessel was of the class called naves liburnicae—long, narrow, low in
the water, and modelled for speed and quick manoeuvre. The bow was beautiful. A
jet of water spun from its foot as she came on, sprinkling all the prow, which
rose in graceful curvature twice a man’s stature above the plane of the
deck. Upon the bending of the sides were figures of Triton blowing shells.
Below the bow, fixed to the keel, and projecting forward under the water-line,
was the rostrum, or beak, a device of solid wood, reinforced and armed with
iron, in action used as a ram. A stout molding extended from the bow the full
length of the ship’s sides, defining the bulwarks, which were tastefully
crenelated; below the molding, in three rows, each covered with a cap or shield
of bull-hide, were the holes in which the oars were worked—sixty on the
right, sixty on the left. In further ornamentation, caducei leaned against the
lofty prow. Two immense ropes passing across the bow marked the number of
anchors stowed on the foredeck.

The simplicity of the upper works declared the oars the chief dependence of the
crew. A mast, set a little forward of midship, was held by fore and back stays
and shrouds fixed to rings on the inner side of the bulwarks. The tackle was
that required for the management of one great square sail and the yard to which
it was hung. Above the bulwarks the deck was visible.

Save the sailors who had reefed the sail, and yet lingered on the yard, but one
man was to be seen by the party on the mole, and he stood by the prow helmeted
and with a shield.

The hundred and twenty oaken blades, kept white and shining by pumice and the
constant wash of the waves, rose and fell as if operated by the same hand, and
drove the galley forward with a speed rivalling that of a modern steamer.

So rapidly, and apparently, so rashly, did she come that the landsmen of the
tribune’s party were alarmed. Suddenly the man by the prow raised his
hand with a peculiar gesture; whereupon all the oars flew up, poised a moment
in air, then fell straight down. The water boiled and bubbled about them; the
galley shook in every timber, and stopped as if scared. Another gesture of the
hand, and again the oars arose, feathered, and fell; but this time those on the
right, dropping towards the stern, pushed forward; while those on the left,
dropping towards the bow, pulled backwards. Three times the oars thus pushed
and pulled against each other. Round to the right the ship swung as upon a
pivot; then, caught by the wind, she settled gently broadside to the mole.

The movement brought the stern to view, with all its garniture—Tritons
like those at the bow; name in large raised letters; the rudder at the side;
the elevated platform upon which the helmsman sat, a stately figure in full
armor, his hand upon the rudder-rope; and the aplustre, high, gilt, carved, and
bent over the helmsman like a great runcinate leaf.

In the midst of the rounding-to, a trumpet was blown brief and shrill, and from
the hatchways out poured the marines, all in superb equipment, brazen helms,
burnished shields and javelins. While the fighting-men thus went to quarters as
for action, the sailors proper climbed the shrouds and perched themselves along
the yard. The officers and musicians took their posts. There was no shouting or
needless noise. When the oars touched the mole, a bridge was sent out from the
helmsman’s deck. Then the tribune turned to his party and said, with a
gravity he had not before shown:

“Duty now, O my friends.”

He took the chaplet from his head and gave it to the dice-player.

“Take thou the myrtle, O favorite of the tesserae!” he said.
“If I return, I will seek my sestertii again; if I am not victor, I will
not return. Hang the crown in thy atrium.”

To the company he opened his arms, and they came one by one and received his
parting embrace.

“The gods go with thee, O Quintus!” they said.

“Farewell,” he replied.

To the slaves waving their torches he waved his hand; then he turned to the
waiting ship, beautiful with ordered ranks and crested helms, and shields and
javelins. As he stepped upon the bridge, the trumpets sounded, and over the
aplustre rose the vexillum purpureum, or pennant of a commander of a fleet.

CHAPTER II

The tribune, standing upon the helmsman’s deck with the order of the
duumvir open in his hand, spoke to the chief of the rowers.[1]

[1] Called hortator.

“What force hast thou?”

“Of oarsmen, two hundred and fifty-two; ten supernumeraries.

“Making reliefs of—”

“Eighty-four.”

“And thy habit?”

“It has been to take off and put on every two hours.”

The tribune mused a moment.

“The division is hard, and I will reform it, but not now. The oars may
not rest day or night.”

Then to the sailing-master he said,

“The wind is fair. Let the sail help the oars.”

When the two thus addressed were gone, he turned to the chief pilot.[2]

[2] Called rector.

“What service hast thou had?”

“Two-and-thirty years.”

“In what seas chiefly?”

“Between our Rome and the East.”

“Thou art the man I would have chosen.”

The tribune looked at his orders again.

“Past the Camponellan cape, the course will be to Messina. Beyond that,
follow the bend of the Calabrian shore till Melito is on thy left, then—
Knowest thou the stars that govern in the Ionian Sea?”

“I know them well.”

“Then from Melito course eastward for Cythera. The gods willing, I will
not anchor until in the Bay of Antemona. The duty is urgent. I rely upon
thee.”

A prudent man was Arrius—prudent, and of the class which, while enriching
the altars at Praeneste and Antium, was of opinion, nevertheless, that the
favor of the blind goddess depended more upon the votary’s care and
judgment than upon his gifts and vows. All night as master of the feast he had
sat at table drinking and playing; yet the odor of the sea returned him to the
mood of the sailor, and he would not rest until he knew his ship. Knowledge
leaves no room for chances. Having begun with the chief of the rowers, the
sailing-master, and the pilot, in company with the other officers—the
commander of the marines, the keeper of the stores, the master of the machines,
the overseer of the kitchen or fires—he passed through the several
quarters. Nothing escaped his inspection. When he was through, of the community
crowded within the narrow walls he alone knew perfectly all there was of
material preparation for the voyage and its possible incidents; and, finding
the preparation complete, there was left him but one thing
further—thorough knowledge of the personnel of his command. As this was
the most delicate and difficult part of his task, requiring much time, he set
about it his own way.

At noon that day the galley was skimming the sea off Paestum. The wind was yet
from the west, filling the sail to the master’s content. The watches had
been established. On the foredeck the altar had been set and sprinkled with
salt and barley, and before it the tribune had offered solemn prayers to Jove
and to Neptune and all the Oceanidæ, and, with vows, poured the wine and
burned the incense. And now, the better to study his men, he was seated in the
great cabin, a very martial figure.

The cabin, it should be stated, was the central compartment of the galley, in
extent quite sixty-five by thirty feet, and lighted by three broad hatchways. A
row of stanchions ran from end to end, supporting the roof, and near the centre
the mast was visible, all bristling with axes and spears and javelins. To each
hatchway there were double stairs descending right and left, with a pivotal
arrangement at the top to allow the lower ends to be hitched to the ceiling;
and, as these were now raised, the compartment had the appearance of a
skylighted hall.

The reader will understand readily that this was the heart of the ship, the
home of all aboard—eating-room, sleeping-chamber, field of exercise,
lounging-place off duty—uses made possible by the laws which reduced life
there to minute details and a routine relentless as death.

At the after-end of the cabin there was a platform, reached by several steps.
Upon it the chief of the rowers sat; in front of him a sounding-table, upon
which, with a gavel, he beat time for the oarsmen; at his right a clepsydra, or
water-clock, to measure the reliefs and watches. Above him, on a higher
platform, well guarded by gilded railing, the tribune had his quarters,
overlooking everything, and furnished with a couch, a table, and a cathedra, or
chair, cushioned, and with arms and high back—articles which the imperial
dispensation permitted of the utmost elegance.

Thus at ease, lounging in the great chair, swaying with the motion of the
vessel, the military cloak half draping his tunic, sword in belt, Arrius kept
watchful eye over his command, and was as closely watched by them. He saw
critically everything in view, but dwelt longest upon the rowers. The reader
would doubtless have done the same: only he would have looked with much
sympathy, while, as is the habit with masters, the tribune’s mind ran
forward of what he saw, inquiring for results.

The spectacle was simple enough of itself. Along the sides of the cabin, fixed
to the ship’s timbers, were what at first appeared to be three rows of
benches; a closer view, however, showed them a succession of rising banks, in
each of which the second bench was behind and above the first one, and the
third above and behind the second. To accommodate the sixty rowers on a side,
the space devoted to them permitted nineteen banks separated by intervals of
one yard, with a twentieth bank divided so that what would have been its upper
seat or bench was directly above the lower seat of the first bank. The
arrangement gave each rower when at work ample room, if he timed his movements
with those of his associates, the principle being that of soldiers marching
with cadenced step in close order. The arrangement also allowed a
multiplication of banks, limited only by the length of the galley.

As to the rowers, those upon the first and second benches sat, while those upon
the third, having longer oars to work, were suffered to stand. The oars were
loaded with lead in the handles, and near the point of balance hung to pliable
thongs, making possible the delicate touch called feathering, but, at the same
time, increasing the need of skill, since an eccentric wave might at any moment
catch a heedless fellow and hurl him from his seat. Each oar-hole was a vent
through which the laborer opposite it had his plenty of sweet air. Light
streamed down upon him from the grating which formed the floor of the passage
between the deck and the bulwark over his head. In some respects, therefore,
the condition of the men might have been much worse. Still, it must not be
imagined that there was any pleasantness in their lives. Communication between
them was not allowed. Day after day they filled their places without speech; in
hours of labor they could not see each other’s faces; their short
respites were given to sleep and the snatching of food. They never laughed; no
one ever heard one of them sing. What is the use of tongues when a sigh or a
groan will tell all men feel while, perforce, they think in silence? Existence
with the poor wretches was like a stream under ground sweeping slowly,
laboriously on to its outlet, wherever that might chance to be.

O Son of Mary! The sword has now a heart—and thine the glory! So now;
but, in the days of which we are writing, for captivity there was drudgery on
walls, and in the streets and mines, and the galleys both of war and commerce
were insatiable. When Druilius won the first sea-fight for his country, Romans
plied the oars, and the glory was to the rower not less than the marine. These
benches which now we are trying to see as they were testified to the change
come with conquest, and illustrated both the policy and the prowess of Rome.
Nearly all the nations had sons there, mostly prisoners of war, chosen for
their brawn and endurance. In one place a Briton; before him a Libyan; behind
him a Crimean. Elsewhere a Scythian, a Gaul, and a Thebasite. Roman convicts
cast down to consort with Goths and Longobardi, Jews, Ethiopians, and
barbarians from the shores of Maeotis. Here an Athenian, there a red-haired
savage from Hibernia, yonder blue-eyed giants of the Cimbri.

In the labor of the rowers there was not enough art to give occupation to their
minds, rude and simple as they were. The reach forward, the pull, the
feathering the blade, the dip, were all there was of it; motions most perfect
when most automatic. Even the care forced upon them by the sea outside grew in
time to be a thing instinctive rather than of thought. So, as the result of
long service, the poor wretches became imbruted—patient, spiritless,
obedient—creatures of vast muscle and exhausted intellects, who lived
upon recollections generally few but dear, and at last lowered into the
semi-conscious alchemic state wherein misery turns to habit, and the soul takes
on incredible endurance.

From right to left, hour after hour, the tribune, swaying in his easy-chair,
turned with thought of everything rather than the wretchedness of the slaves
upon the benches. Their motions, precise, and exactly the same on both sides of
the vessel, after a while became monotonous; and then he amused himself
singling out individuals. With his stylus he made note of objections, thinking,
if all went well, he would find among the pirates of whom he was in search
better men for the places.

There was no need of keeping the proper names of the slaves brought to the
galleys as to their graves; so, for convenience, they were usually identified
by the numerals painted upon the benches to which they were assigned. As the
sharp eyes of the great man moved from seat to seat on either hand, they came
at last to number sixty, which, as has been said, belonged properly to the last
bank on the left-hand side, but, wanting room aft, had been fixed above the
first bench of the first bank. There they rested.

The bench of number sixty was slightly above the level of the platform, and but
a few feet away. The light glinting through the grating over his head gave the
rower fairly to the tribune’s view—erect, and, like all his
fellows, naked, except a cincture about the loins. There were, however, some
points in his favor. He was very young, not more than twenty. Furthermore,
Arrius was not merely given to dice; he was a connoisseur of men physically,
and when ashore indulged a habit of visiting the gymnasia to see and admire the
most famous athletae. From some professor, doubtless, he had caught the idea
that strength was as much of the quality as the quantity of the muscle, while
superiority in performance required a certain mind as well as strength. Having
adopted the doctrine, like most men with a hobby, he was always looking for
illustrations to support it.

The reader may well believe that while the tribune, in the search for the
perfect, was often called upon to stop and study, he was seldom perfectly
satisfied—in fact, very seldom held as long as on this occasion.

In the beginning of each movement of the oar, the rower’s body and face
were brought into profile view from the platform; the movement ended with the
body reversed, and in a pushing posture. The grace and ease of the action at
first suggested a doubt of the honesty of the effort put forth; but it was
speedily dismissed; the firmness with which the oar was held while in the reach
forward, its bending under the push, were proofs of the force applied; not that
only, they as certainly proved the rower’s art, and put the critic in the
great arm-chair in search of the combination of strength and cleverness which
was the central idea of his theory.

In course of the study, Arrius observed the subject’s youth; wholly
unconscious of tenderness on that account, he also observed that he seemed of
good height, and that his limbs, upper and nether, were singularly perfect. The
arms, perhaps, were too long, but the objection was well hidden under a mass of
muscle, which, in some movements, swelled and knotted like kinking cords. Every
rib in the round body was discernible; yet the leanness was the healthful
reduction so strained after in the palaestrae. And altogether there was in the
rower’s action a certain harmony which, besides addressing itself to the
tribune’s theory, stimulated both his curiosity and general interest.

Very soon he found himself waiting to catch a view of the man’s face in
full. The head was shapely, and balanced upon a neck broad at the base, but of
exceeding pliancy and grace. The features in profile were of Oriental outline,
and of that delicacy of expression which has always been thought a sign of
blood and sensitive spirit. With these observations, the tribune’s
interest in the subject deepened.

“By the gods,” he said to himself, “the fellow impresses me!
He promises well. I will know more of him.”

Directly the tribune caught the view he wished—the rower turned and
looked at him.

“A Jew! and a boy!”

Under the gaze then fixed steadily upon him, the large eyes of the slave grew
larger—the blood surged to his very brows—the blade lingered in his
hands. But instantly, with an angry crash, down fell the gavel of the hortator.
The rower started, withdrew his face from the inquisitor, and, as if personally
chidden, dropped the oar half feathered. When he glanced again at the tribune,
he was vastly more astonished—he was met with a kindly smile.

Meantime the galley entered the Straits of Messina, and, skimming past the city
of that name, was after a while turned eastward, leaving the cloud over Ætna
in the sky astern.

Often as Arrius resumed to his platform in the cabin he returned to study the
rower, and he kept saying to himself, “The fellow hath a spirit. A Jew is
not a barbarian. I will know more of him.”

CHAPTER III

The fourth day out, and the Astroea—so the galley was
named—speeding through the Ionian Sea. The sky was clear, and the wind
blew as if bearing the good-will of all the gods.

As it was possible to overtake the fleet before reaching the bay east of the
island of Cythera, designated for assemblage, Arrius, somewhat impatient, spent
much time on deck. He took note diligently of matters pertaining to his ship,
and as a rule was well pleased. In the cabin, swinging in the great chair, his
thought continually reverted to the rower on number sixty.

“Knowest thou the man just come from yon bench?” he at length asked
of the hortator.

A relief was going on at the moment.

“From number sixty?” returned the chief.

“Yes.”

The chief looked sharply at the rower then going forward.

“As thou knowest,” he replied “the ship is but a month from
the maker’s hand, and the men are as new to me as the ship.”

“He is a Jew,” Arrius remarked, thoughtfully.

“The noble Quintus is shrewd.”

“He is very young,” Arrius continued.

“But our best rower,” said the other. “I have seen his oar
bend almost to breaking.”

“Of what disposition is he?”

“He is obedient; further I know not. Once he made request of me.”

“For what?”

“He wished me to change him alternately from the right to the
left.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He had observed that the men who are confined to one side become
misshapen. He also said that some day of storm or battle there might be sudden
need to change him, and he might then be unserviceable.”

“Perpol! The idea is new. What else hast thou observed of him?”

“He is cleanly above his companions.”

“In that he is Roman,” said Arrius, approvingly. “Have you
nothing of his history?”

“Not a word.”

The tribune reflected awhile, and turned to go to his own seat.

“If I should be on deck when his time is up,” he paused to say,
“send him to me. Let him come alone.”

About two hours later Arrius stood under the aplustre of the galley; in the
mood of one who, seeing himself carried swiftly towards an event of mighty
import, has nothing to do but wait—the mood in which philosophy vests an
even-minded man with the utmost calm, and is ever so serviceable. The pilot sat
with a hand upon the rope by which the rudder paddles, one on each side of the
vessel, were managed. In the shade of the sail some sailors lay asleep, and up
on the yard there was a lookout. Lifting his eyes from the solarium set under
the aplustre for reference in keeping the course, Arrius beheld the rower
approaching.

“The chief called thee the noble Arrius, and said it was thy will that I
should seek thee here. I have come.”

Arrius surveyed the figure, tall, sinewy, glistening in the sun, and tinted by
the rich red blood within—surveyed it admiringly, and with a thought of
the arena; yet the manner was not without effect upon him: there was in the
voice a suggestion of life at least partly spent under refining influences; the
eyes were clear and open, and more curious than defiant. To the shrewd,
demanding, masterful glance bent upon it, the face gave back nothing to mar its
youthful comeliness—nothing of accusation or sullenness or menace, only
the signs which a great sorrow long borne imprints, as time mellows the surface
of pictures. In tacit acknowledgment of the effect, the Roman spoke as an older
man to a younger, not as a master to a slave.

“The hortator tells me thou art his best rower.”

“The hortator is very kind,” the rower answered.

“Hast thou seen much service?”

“About three years.”

“At the oars?”

“I cannot recall a day of rest from them.”

“The labor is hard; few men bear it a year without breaking, and
thou—thou art but a boy.”

“The noble Arrius forgets that the spirit hath much to do with endurance.
By its help the weak sometimes thrive, when the strong perish.”

“From thy speech, thou art a Jew.”

“My ancestors further back than the first Roman were Hebrews.”

“The stubborn pride of thy race is not lost in thee,” said Arrius,
observing a flush upon the rower’s face.

“Pride is never so loud as when in chains.”

“What cause hast thou for pride?”

“That I am a Jew.”

Arrius smiled.

“I have not been to Jerusalem,” he said; “but I have heard of
its princes. I knew one of them. He was a merchant, and sailed the seas. He was
fit to have been a king. Of what degree art thou?”

“I must answer thee from the bench of a galley. I am of the degree of
slaves. My father was a prince of Jerusalem, and, as a merchant, he sailed the
seas. He was known and honored in the guest-chamber of the great
Augustus.”

“His name?”

“Ithamar, of the house of Hur.”

The tribune raised his hand in astonishment.

“A son of Hur—thou?”

After a silence, he asked,

“What brought thee here?”

Judah lowered his head, and his breast labored hard. When his feelings were
sufficiently mastered, he looked the tribune in the face, and answered,

“I was accused of attempting to assassinate Valerius Gratus, the
procurator.”

“Thou!” cried Arrius, yet more amazed, and retreating a step.
“Thou that assassin! All Rome rang with the story. It came to my ship in
the river by Lodinum.”

The two regarded each other silently.

“I thought the family of Hur blotted from the earth,” said Arrius,
speaking first.

A flood of tender recollections carried the young man’s pride away; tears
shone upon his cheeks.

“Mother—mother! And my little Tirzah! Where are they? O tribune,
noble tribune, if thou knowest anything of them”—he clasped his
hands in appeal—“tell me all thou knowest. Tell me if they are
living—if living, where are they? and in what condition? Oh, I pray thee,
tell me!”

He drew nearer Arrius, so near that his hands touched the cloak where it
dropped from the latter’s folded arms.

“The horrible day is three years gone,” he
continued—“three years, O tribune, and every hour a whole lifetime
of misery—a lifetime in a bottomless pit with death, and no relief but in
labor—and in all that time not a word from any one, not a whisper. Oh,
if, in being forgotten, we could only forget! If only I could hide from that
scene—my sister torn from me, my mother’s last look! I have felt
the plague’s breath, and the shock of ships in battle; I have heard the
tempest lashing the sea, and laughed, though others prayed: death would have
been a riddance. Bend the oar—yes, in the strain of mighty effort trying
to escape the haunting of what that day occurred. Think what little will help
me. Tell me they are dead, if no more, for happy they cannot be while I am
lost. I have heard them call me in the night; I have seen them on the water
walking. Oh, never anything so true as my mother’s love! And
Tirzah—her breath was as the breath of white lilies. She was the youngest
branch of the palm—so fresh, so tender, so graceful, so beautiful! She
made my day all morning. She came and went in music. And mine was the hand that
laid them low! I—”

“Dost thou admit thy guilt?” asked Arrius, sternly.

The change that came upon Ben-Hur was wonderful to see, it was so instant and
extreme. The voice sharpened; the hands arose tight-clenched; every fibre
thrilled; his eyes inflamed.

“Thou hast heard of the God of my fathers,” he said; “of the
infinite Jehovah. By his truth and almightiness, and by the love with which he
hath followed Israel from the beginning, I swear I am innocent!”

The tribune was much moved.

“O noble Roman!” continued Ben-Hur, “give me a little faith,
and, into my darkness, deeper darkening every day, send a light!”

Arrius turned away, and walked the deck.

“Didst thou not have a trial?” he asked, stopping suddenly.

“No!”

The Roman raised his head, surprised.

“No trial—no witnesses! Who passed judgment upon thee?”

Romans, it should be remembered, were at no time such lovers of the law and its
forms as in the ages of their decay.

“They bound me with cords, and dragged me to a vault in the Tower. I saw
no one. No one spoke to me. Next day soldiers took me to the seaside. I have
been a galley-slave ever since.”

“What couldst thou have proven?”

“I was a boy, too young to be a conspirator. Gratus was a stranger to me.
If I had meant to kill him, that was not the time or the place. He was riding
in the midst of a legion, and it was broad day. I could not have escaped. I was
of a class most friendly to Rome. My father had been distinguished for his
services to the emperor. We had a great estate to lose. Ruin was certain to
myself, my mother, my sister. I had no cause for malice, while every
consideration—property, family, life, conscience, the Law—to a son
of Israel as the breath of his nostrils—would have stayed my hand, though
the foul intent had been ever so strong. I was not mad. Death was preferable to
shame; and, believe me, I pray, it is so yet.”

“Who was with thee when the blow was struck?”

“I was on the house-top—my father’s house. Tirzah was with
me—at my side—the soul of gentleness. Together we leaned over the
parapet to see the legion pass. A tile gave way under my hand, and fell upon
Gratus. I thought I had killed him. Ah, what horror I felt!”

“Where was thy mother?”

“In her chamber below.”

“What became of her?”

Ben-Hur clenched his hands, and drew a breath like a gasp.

“I do not know. I saw them drag her away—that is all I know. Out of
the house they drove every living thing, even the dumb cattle, and they sealed
the gates. The purpose was that she should not return. I, too, ask for her. Oh
for one word! She, at least, was innocent. I can forgive—but I pray thy
pardon, noble tribune! A slave like me should not talk of forgiveness or of
revenge. I am bound to an oar for life.”

Arrius listened intently. He brought all his experience with slaves to his aid.
If the feeling shown in this instance were assumed, the acting was perfect; on
the other hand, if it were real, the Jew’s innocence might not be
doubted; and if he were innocent, with what blind fury the power had been
exercised! A whole family blotted out to atone an accident! The thought shocked
him.

There is no wiser providence than that our occupations, however rude or bloody,
cannot wear us out morally; that such qualities as justice and mercy, if they
really possess us, continue to live on under them, like flowers under the snow.
The tribune could be inexorable, else he had not been fit for the usages of his
calling; he could also be just; and to excite his sense of wrong was to put him
in the way to right the wrong. The crews of the ships in which he served came
after a time to speak of him as the good tribune. Shrewd readers will not want
a better definition of his character.

In this instance there were many circumstances certainly in the young
man’s favor, and some to be supposed. Possibly Arrius knew Valerius
Gratus without loving him. Possibly he had known the elder Hur. In the course
of his appeal, Judah had asked him of that; and, as will be noticed, he had
made no reply.

For once the tribune was at loss, and hesitated. His power was ample. He was
monarch of the ship. His prepossessions all moved him to mercy. His faith was
won. Yet, he said to himself, there was no haste—or, rather, there was
haste to Cythera; the best rower could not then be spared; he would wait; he
would learn more; he would at least be sure this was the prince Ben-Hur, and
that he was of a right disposition. Ordinarily, slaves were liars.

“It is enough,” he said aloud. “Go back to thy place.”

Ben-Hur bowed; looked once more into the master’s face, but saw nothing
for hope. He turned away slowly, looked back, and said,

“If thou dost think of me again, O tribune, let it not be lost in thy
mind that I prayed thee only for word of my people—mother, sister.”

He moved on.

Arrius followed him with admiring eyes.

“Perpol!” he thought. “With teaching, what a man for the
arena! What a runner! Ye gods! what an arm for the sword or the
cestus!—Stay!” he said aloud.

Ben-Hur stopped, and the tribune went to him.

“If thou wert free, what wouldst thou do?”

“The noble Arrius mocks me!” Judah said, with trembling lips.

“No; by the gods, no!”

“Then I will answer gladly. I would give myself to duty the first of
life. I would know no other. I would know no rest until my mother and Tirzah
were restored to home. I would give every day and hour to their happiness. I
would wait upon them; never a slave more faithful. They have lost much, but, by
the God of my fathers, I would find them more!”

The answer was unexpected by the Roman. For a moment he lost his purpose.

“I spoke to thy ambition,” he said, recovering. “If thy
mother and sister were dead, or not to be found, what wouldst thou do?”

A distinct pallor overspread Ben-Hur’s face, and he looked over the sea.
There was a struggle with some strong feeling; when it was conquered, he turned
to the tribune.

“What pursuit would I follow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Tribune, I will tell thee truly. Only the night before the dreadful day
of which I have spoken, I obtained permission to be a soldier. I am of the same
mind yet; and, as in all the earth there is but one school of war, thither I
would go.”

“The palaestra!” exclaimed Arrius.

“No; a Roman camp.”

“But thou must first acquaint thyself with the use of arms.”

Now a master may never safely advise a slave. Arrius saw his indiscretion, and,
in a breath, chilled his voice and manner.

“Go now,” he said, “and do not build upon what has passed
between us. Perhaps I do but play with thee. Or”—he looked away
musingly—“or, if thou dost think of it with any hope, choose
between the renown of a gladiator and the service of a soldier. The former may
come of the favor of the emperor; there is no reward for thee in the latter.
Thou art not a Roman. Go!”

A short while after Ben-Hur was upon his bench again.

A man’s task is always light if his heart is light. Handling the oar did
not seem so toilsome to Judah. A hope had come to him, like a singing bird. He
could hardly see the visitor or hear its song; that it was there, though, he
knew; his feelings told him so. The caution of the tribune—“Perhaps
I do but play with thee”—was dismissed often as it recurred to his
mind. That he had been called by the great man and asked his story was the
bread upon which he fed his hungry spirit. Surely something good would come of
it. The light about his bench was clear and bright with promises, and he
prayed.

“O God! I am a true son of the Israel thou hast so loved! Help me, I pray
thee!”

CHAPTER IV

In the Bay of Antemona, east of Cythera the island, the hundred galleys
assembled. There the tribune gave one day to inspection. He sailed then to
Naxos, the largest of the Cyclades, midway the coasts of Greece and Asia, like
a great stone planted in the centre of a highway, from which he could challenge
everything that passed; at the same time, he would be in position to go after
the pirates instantly, whether they were in the Ægean or out on the
Mediterranean.

As the fleet, in order, rowed in towards the mountain shores of the island, a
galley was descried coming from the north. Arrius went to meet it. She proved
to be a transport just from Byzantium, and from her commander he learned the
particulars of which he stood in most need.

The pirates were from all the farther shores of the Euxine. Even Tanais, at the
mouth of the river which was supposed to feed Palus Maeotis, was represented
among them. Their preparations had been with the greatest secrecy. The first
known of them was their appearance off the entrance to the Thracian Bosphorus,
followed by the destruction of the fleet in station there. Thence to the outlet
of the Hellespont everything afloat had fallen their prey. There were quite
sixty galleys in the squadron, all well manned and supplied. A few were
biremes, the rest stout triremes. A Greek was in command, and the pilots, said
to be familiar with all the Eastern seas, were Greek. The plunder had been
incalculable. The panic, consequently, was not on the sea alone; cities, with
closed gates, sent their people nightly to the walls. Traffic had almost
ceased.

Where were the pirates now?

To this question, of most interest to Arrius, he received answer.

After sacking Hephaestia, on the island of Lemnos, the enemy had coursed across
to the Thessalian group, and, by last account, disappeared in the gulfs between
Euboea and Hellas.

Such were the tidings.

Then the people of the island, drawn to the hill-tops by the rare spectacle of
a hundred ships careering in united squadron, beheld the advance division
suddenly turn to the north, and the others follow, wheeling upon the same point
like cavalry in a column. News of the piratical descent had reached them, and
now, watching the white sails until they faded from sight up between Rhene and
Syros, the thoughtful among them took comfort, and were grateful. What Rome
seized with strong hand she always defended: in return for their taxes, she
gave them safety.

The tribune was more than pleased with the enemy’s movements; he was
doubly thankful to Fortune. She had brought swift and sure intelligence, and
had lured his foes into the waters where, of all others, destruction was most
assured. He knew the havoc one galley could play in a broad sea like the
Mediterranean, and the difficulty of finding and overhauling her; he knew,
also, how those very circumstances would enhance the service and glory if, at
one blow, he could put a finish to the whole piratical array.

If the reader will take a map of Greece and the Ægean, he will notice the
island of Euboea lying along the classic coast like a rampart against Asia,
leaving a channel between it and the continent quite a hundred and twenty miles
in length, and scarcely an average of eight in width. The inlet on the north
had admitted the fleet of Xerxes, and now it received the bold raiders from the
Euxine. The towns along the Pelasgic and Meliac gulfs were rich and their
plunder seductive. All things considered, therefore, Arrius judged that the
robbers might be found somewhere below Thermopylae. Welcoming the chance, he
resolved to enclose them north and south, to do which not an hour could be
lost; even the fruits and wines and women of Naxos must be left behind. So he
sailed away without stop or tack until, a little before nightfall, Mount Ocha
was seen upreared against the sky, and the pilot reported the Euboean coast.

At a signal the fleet rested upon its oars. When the movement was resumed,
Arrius led a division of fifty of the galleys, intending to take them up the
channel, while another division, equally strong, turned their prows to the
outer or seaward side of the island, with orders to make all haste to the upper
inlet, and descend sweeping the waters.

To be sure, neither division was equal in number to the pirates; but each had
advantages in compensation, among them, by no means least, a discipline
impossible to a lawless horde, however brave. Besides, it was a shrewd count on
the tribune’s side, if, peradventure, one should be defeated, the other
would find the enemy shattered by his victory, and in condition to be easily
overwhelmed.

Meantime Ben-Hur kept his bench, relieved every six hours. The rest in the Bay
of Antemona had freshened him, so that the oar was not troublesome, and the
chief on the platform found no fault.

People, generally, are not aware of the ease of mind there is in knowing where
they are, and where they are going. The sensation of being lost is a keen
distress; still worse is the feeling one has in driving blindly into unknown
places. Custom had dulled the feeling with Ben-Hur, but only measurably.
Pulling away hour after hour, sometimes days and nights together, sensible all
the time that the galley was gliding swiftly along some of the many tracks of
the broad sea, the longing to know where he was, and whither going, was always
present with him; but now it seemed quickened by the hope which had come to new
life in his breast since the interview with the tribune. The narrower the
abiding-place happens to be, the more intense is the longing; and so he found.
He seemed to hear every sound of the ship in labor, and listened to each one as
if it were a voice come to tell him something; he looked to the grating
overhead, and through it into the light of which so small a portion was his,
expecting, he knew not what; and many times he caught himself on the point of
yielding to the impulse to speak to the chief on the platform, than which no
circumstance of battle would have astonished that dignitary more.

In his long service, by watching the shifting of the meager sunbeams upon the
cabin floor when the ship was under way, he had come to know, generally, the
quarter into which she was sailing. This, of course, was only of clear days
like those good-fortune was sending the tribune. The experience had not failed
him in the period succeeding the departure from Cythera. Thinking they were
tending towards the old Judean country, he was sensitive to every variation
from the course. With a pang, he had observed the sudden change northward
which, as has been noticed, took place near Naxos: the cause, however, he could
not even conjecture; for it must be remembered that, in common with his
fellow-slaves, he knew nothing of the situation, and had no interest in the
voyage. His place was at the oar, and he was held there inexorably, whether at
anchor or under sail. Once only in three years had he been permitted an outlook
from the deck. The occasion we have seen. He had no idea that, following the
vessel he was helping drive, there was a great squadron close at hand and in
beautiful order; no more did he know the object of which it was in pursuit.

When the sun, going down, withdrew his last ray from the cabin, the galley
still held northward. Night fell, yet Ben-Hur could discern no change. About
that time the smell of incense floated down the gangways from the deck.

“The tribune is at the altar,” he thought. “Can it be we are
going into battle?”

He became observant.

Now he had been in many battles without having seen one. From his bench he had
heard them above and about him, until he was familiar with all their notes,
almost as a singer with a song. So, too, he had become acquainted with many of
the preliminaries of an engagement, of which, with a Roman as well as a Greek,
the most invariable was the sacrifice to the gods. The rites were the same as
those performed at the beginning of a voyage, and to him, when noticed, they
were always an admonition.

A battle, it should be observed, possessed for him and his fellow-slaves of the
oar an interest unlike that of the sailor and marine; it came, not of the
danger encountered but of the fact that defeat, if survived, might bring an
alteration of condition—possibly freedom—at least a change of
masters, which might be for the better.

In good time the lanterns were lighted and hung by the stairs, and the tribune
came down from the deck. At his word the marines put on their armor. At his
word again, the machines were looked to, and spears, javelins, and arrows, in
great sheaves, brought and laid upon the floor, together with jars of
inflammable oil, and baskets of cotton balls wound loose like the wicking of
candles. And when, finally, Ben-Hur saw the tribune mount his platform and don
his armor, and get his helmet and shield out, the meaning of the preparations
might not be any longer doubted, and he made ready for the last ignominy of his
service.

To every bench, as a fixture, there was a chain with heavy anklets. These the
hortator proceeded to lock upon the oarsmen, going from number to number,
leaving no choice but to obey, and, in event of disaster, no possibility of
escape.

In the cabin, then, a silence fell, broken, at first, only by the sough of the
oars turning in the leathern cases. Every man upon the benches felt the shame,
Ben-Hur more keenly than his companions. He would have put it away at any
price. Soon the clanking of the fetters notified him of the progress the chief
was making in his round. He would come to him in turn; but would not the
tribune interpose for him?

The thought may be set down to vanity or selfishness, as the reader pleases; it
certainly, at that moment, took possession of Ben-Hur. He believed the Roman
would interpose; anyhow, the circumstance would test the man’s feelings.
If, intent upon the battle, he would but think of him, it would be proof of his
opinion formed—proof that he had been tacitly promoted above his
associates in misery—such proof as would justify hope.

Ben-Hur waited anxiously. The interval seemed like an age. At every turn of the
oar he looked towards the tribune, who, his simple preparations made, lay down
upon the couch and composed himself to rest; whereupon number sixty chid
himself, and laughed grimly, and resolved not to look that way again.

The hortator approached. Now he was at number one—the rattle of the iron
links sounded horribly. At last number sixty! Calm from despair, Ben-Hur held
his oar at poise, and gave his foot to the officer. Then the tribune
stirred—sat up—beckoned to the chief.

A strong revulsion seized the Jew. From the hortator, the great man glanced at
him; and when he dropped his oar all the section of the ship on his side seemed
aglow. He heard nothing of what was said; enough that the chain hung idly from
its staple in the bench, and that the chief, going to his seat, began to beat
the sounding-board. The notes of the gavel were never so like music. With his
breast against the leaded handle, he pushed with all his might—pushed
until the shaft bent as if about to break.

The chief went to the tribune, and, smiling, pointed to number sixty.

“What strength!” he said.

“And what spirit!” the tribune answered. “Perpol! He is
better without the irons. Put them on him no more.”

So saying, he stretched himself upon the couch again.

The ship sailed on hour after hour under the oars in water scarcely rippled by
the wind. And the people not on duty slept, Arrius in his place, the marines on
the floor.

Once—twice—Ben-Hur was relieved; but he could not sleep. Three
years of night, and through the darkness a sunbeam at last! At sea adrift and
lost, and now land! Dead so long, and, lo! the thrill and stir of resurrection.
Sleep was not for such an hour. Hope deals with the future; now and the past
are but servants that wait on her with impulse and suggestive circumstance.
Starting from the favor of the tribune, she carried him forward indefinitely.
The wonder is, not that things so purely imaginative as the results she points
us to can make us so happy, but that we can receive them as so real. They must
be as gorgeous poppies under the influence of which, under the crimson and
purple and gold, reason lies down the while, and is not. Sorrows assuaged, home
and the fortunes of his house restored; mother and sister in his arms once
more—such were the central ideas which made him happier that moment than
he had ever been. That he was rushing, as on wings, into horrible battle had,
for the time, nothing to do with his thoughts. The things thus in hope were
unmixed with doubts—they WERE. Hence his joy so full, so perfect, there
was no room in his heart for revenge. Messala, Gratus, Rome, and all the
bitter, passionate memories connected with them, were as dead
plagues—miasms of the earth above which he floated, far and safe,
listening to singing stars.

The deeper darkness before the dawn was upon the waters, and all things going
well with the Astroea, when a man, descending from the deck, walked swiftly to
the platform where the tribune slept, and awoke him. Arrius arose, put on his
helmet, sword, and shield, and went to the commander of the marines.

“The pirates are close by. Up and ready!” he said, and passed to
the stairs, calm, confident, insomuch that one might have thought, “Happy
fellow! Apicius has set a feast for him.”

CHAPTER V

Every soul aboard, even the ship, awoke. Officers went to their quarters. The
marines took arms, and were led out, looking in all respects like legionaries.
Sheaves of arrows and armfuls of javelins were carried on deck. By the central
stairs the oil-tanks and fire-balls were set ready for use. Additional lanterns
were lighted. Buckets were filled with water. The rowers in relief assembled
under guard in front of the chief. As Providence would have it, Ben-Hur was one
of the latter. Overhead he heard the muffled noises of the final
preparations—of the sailors furling sail, spreading the nettings,
unslinging the machines, and hanging the armor of bull-hide over the side.
Presently quiet settled about the galley again; quiet full of vague dread and
expectation, which, interpreted, means READY.

At a signal passed down from the deck, and communicated to the hortator by a
petty officer stationed on the stairs, all at once the oars stopped.

What did it mean?

Of the hundred and twenty slaves chained to the benches, not one but asked
himself the question. They were without incentive. Patriotism, love of honor,
sense of duty, brought them no inspiration. They felt the thrill common to men
rushed helpless and blind into danger. It may be supposed the dullest of them,
poising his oar, thought of all that might happen, yet could promise himself
nothing; for victory would but rivet his chains the firmer, while the chances
of the ship were his; sinking or on fire, he was doomed to her fate.

Of the situation without they might not ask. And who were the enemy? And what
if they were friends, brethren, countrymen? The reader, carrying the suggestion
forward, will see the necessity which governed the Roman when, in such
emergencies, he locked the hapless wretches to their seats.

There was little time, however, for such thought with them. A sound like the
rowing of galleys astern attracted Ben-Hur, and the Astroea rocked as if in the
midst of countering waves. The idea of a fleet at hand broke upon him—a
fleet in manoeuvre—forming probably for attack. His blood started with
the fancy.

Another signal came down from the deck. The oars dipped, and the galley started
imperceptibly. No sound from without, none from within, yet each man in the
cabin instinctively poised himself for a shock; the very ship seemed to catch
the sense, and hold its breath, and go crouched tiger-like.

In such a situation time is inappreciable; so that Ben-Hur could form no
judgment of distance gone. At last there was a sound of trumpets on deck, full,
clear, long blown. The chief beat the sounding-board until it rang; the rowers
reached forward full length, and, deepening the dip of their oars, pulled
suddenly with all their united force. The galley, quivering in every timber,
answered with a leap. Other trumpets joined in the clamor—all from the
rear, none forward—from the latter quarter only a rising sound of voices
in tumult heard briefly. There was a mighty blow; the rowers in front of the
chief’s platform reeled, some of them fell; the ship bounded back,
recovered, and rushed on more irresistibly than before. Shrill and high arose
the shrieks of men in terror; over the blare of trumpets, and the grind and
crash of the collision, they arose; then under his feet, under the keel,
pounding, rumbling, breaking to pieces, drowning, Ben-Hur felt something
overridden. The men about him looked at each other afraid. A shout of triumph
from the deck—the beak of the Roman had won! But who were they whom the
sea had drunk? Of what tongue, from what land were they?

No pause, no stay! Forward rushed the Astroea; and, as it went, some sailors
ran down, and plunging the cotton balls into the oil-tanks, tossed them
dripping to comrades at the head of the stairs: fire was to be added to other
horrors of the combat.

Directly the galley heeled over so far that the oarsmen on the uppermost side
with difficulty kept their benches. Again the hearty Roman cheer, and with it
despairing shrieks. An opposing vessel, caught by the grappling-hooks of the
great crane swinging from the prow, was being lifted into the air that it might
be dropped and sunk.

The shouting increased on the right hand and on the left; before, behind,
swelled an indescribable clamor. Occasionally there was a crash, followed by
sudden peals of fright, telling of other ships ridden down, and their crews
drowned in the vortexes.

Nor was the fight all on one side. Now and then a Roman in armor was borne down
the hatchway, and laid bleeding, sometimes dying, on the floor.

Sometimes, also, puffs of smoke, blended with steam, and foul with the scent of
roasting human flesh, poured into the cabin, turning the dimming light into
yellow murk. Gasping for breath the while, Ben-Hur knew they were passing
through the cloud of a ship on fire, and burning up with the rowers chained to
the benches.

The Astroea all this time was in motion. Suddenly she stopped. The oars forward
were dashed from the hands of the rowers, and the rowers from their benches. On
deck, then, a furious trampling, and on the sides a grinding of ships afoul of
each other. For the first time the beating of the gavel was lost in the uproar.
Men sank on the floor in fear or looked about seeking a hiding-place. In the
midst of the panic a body plunged or was pitched headlong down the hatchway,
falling near Ben-Hur. He beheld the half-naked carcass, a mass of hair
blackening the face, and under it a shield of bull-hide and wicker-work—a
barbarian from the white-skinned nations of the North whom death had robbed of
plunder and revenge. How came he there? An iron hand had snatched him from the
opposing deck—no, the Astroea had been boarded! The Romans were fighting
on their own deck? A chill smote the young Jew: Arrius was hard
pressed—he might be defending his own life. If he should be slain! God of
Abraham forefend! The hopes and dreams so lately come, were they only hopes and
dreams? Mother and sister—house—home—Holy Land—was he
not to see them, after all? The tumult thundered above him; he looked around;
in the cabin all was confusion—the rowers on the benches paralyzed; men
running blindly hither and thither; only the chief on his seat imperturbable,
vainly beating the sounding-board, and waiting the orders of the
tribune—in the red murk illustrating the matchless discipline which had
won the world.

The example had a good effect upon Ben-Hur. He controlled himself enough to
think. Honor and duty bound the Roman to the platform; but what had he to do
with such motives then? The bench was a thing to run from; while, if he were to
die a slave, who would be the better of the sacrifice? With him living was
duty, if not honor. His life belonged to his people. They arose before him
never more real: he saw them, their arms outstretched; he heard them imploring
him. And he would go to them. He started—stopped. Alas! a Roman judgment
held him in doom. While it endured, escape would be profitless. In the wide,
wide earth there was no place in which he would be safe from the imperial
demand; upon the land none, nor upon the sea. Whereas he required freedom
according to the forms of law, so only could he abide in Judea and execute the
filial purpose to which he would devote himself: in other land he would not
live. Dear God! How he had waited and watched and prayed for such a release!
And how it had been delayed! But at last he had seen it in the promise of the
tribune. What else the great man’s meaning? And if the benefactor so
belated should now be slain! The dead come not back to redeem the pledges of
the living. It should not be—Arrius should not die. At least, better
perish with him than survive a galley-slave.

Once more Ben-Hur looked around. Upon the roof of the cabin the battle yet
beat; against the sides the hostile vessels yet crushed and grided. On the
benches, the slaves struggled to tear loose from their chains, and, finding
their efforts vain, howled like madmen; the guards had gone upstairs;
discipline was out, panic in. No, the chief kept his chair, unchanged, calm as
ever—except the gavel, weaponless. Vainly with his clangor he filled the
lulls in the din. Ben-Hur gave him a last look, then broke away—not in
flight, but to seek the tribune.

A very short space lay between him and the stairs of the hatchway aft. He took
it with a leap, and was half-way up the steps—up far enough to catch a
glimpse of the sky blood-red with fire, of the ships alongside, of the sea
covered with ships and wrecks, of the fight closed in about the pilot’s
quarter, the assailants many, the defenders few—when suddenly his
foothold was knocked away, and he pitched backward. The floor, when he reached
it, seemed to be lifting itself and breaking to pieces; then, in a twinkling,
the whole after-part of the hull broke asunder, and, as if it had all the time
been lying in wait, the sea, hissing and foaming, leaped in, and all became
darkness and surging water to Ben-Hur.

It cannot be said that the young Jew helped himself in this stress. Besides his
usual strength, he had the indefinite extra force which nature keeps in reserve
for just such perils to life; yet the darkness, and the whirl and roar of
water, stupefied him. Even the holding his breath was involuntary.

The influx of the flood tossed him like a log forward into the cabin, where he
would have drowned but for the refluence of the sinking motion. As it was,
fathoms under the surface the hollow mass vomited him forth, and he arose along
with the loosed debris. In the act of rising, he clutched something, and held
to it. The time he was under seemed an age longer than it really was; at last
he gained the top; with a great gasp he filled his lungs afresh, and, tossing
the water from his hair and eyes, climbed higher upon the plank he held, and
looked about him.

Death had pursued him closely under the waves; he found it waiting for him when
he was risen—waiting multiform.

Smoke lay upon the sea like a semitransparent fog, through which here and there
shone cores of intense brilliance. A quick intelligence told him that they were
ships on fire. The battle was yet on; nor could he say who was victor. Within
the radius of his vision now and then ships passed, shooting shadows athwart
lights. Out of the dun clouds farther on he caught the crash of other ships
colliding. The danger, however, was closer at hand. When the Astroea went down,
her deck, it will be recollected, held her own crew, and the crews of the two
galleys which had attacked her at the same time, all of whom were ingulfed.
Many of them came to the surface together, and on the same plank or support of
whatever kind continued the combat, begun possibly in the vortex fathoms down.
Writhing and twisting in deadly embrace, sometimes striking with sword or
javelin, they kept the sea around them in agitation, at one place inky-black,
at another aflame with fiery reflections. With their struggles he had nothing
to do; they were all his enemies: not one of them but would kill him for the
plank upon which he floated. He made haste to get away.

About that time he heard oars in quickest movement, and beheld a galley coming
down upon him. The tall prow seemed doubly tall, and the red light playing upon
its gilt and carving gave it an appearance of snaky life. Under its foot the
water churned to flying foam.

He struck out, pushing the plank, which was very broad and unmanageable.
Seconds were precious—half a second might save or lose him. In the crisis
of the effort, up from the sea, within arm’s reach, a helmet shot like a
gleam of gold. Next came two hands with fingers extended—large hands were
they, and strong—their hold once fixed, might not be loosed. Ben-Hur
swerved from them appalled. Up rose the helmet and the head it
encased—then two arms, which began to beat the water wildly—the
head turned back, and gave the face to the light. The mouth gaping wide; the
eyes open, but sightless, and the bloodless pallor of a drowning
man—never anything more ghastly! Yet he gave a cry of joy at the sight,
and as the face was going under again, he caught the sufferer by the chain
which passed from the helmet beneath the chin, and drew him to the plank.

The man was Arrius, the tribune.

For a while the water foamed and eddied violently about Ben-Hur, taxing all his
strength to hold to the support and at the same time keep the Roman’s
head above the surface. The galley had passed, leaving the two barely outside
the stroke of its oars. Right through the floating men, over heads helmeted as
well as heads bare, she drove, in her wake nothing but the sea sparkling with
fire. A muffled crash, succeeded by a great outcry, made the rescuer look again
from his charge. A certain savage pleasure touched his heart—the Astroea
was avenged.

After that the battle moved on. Resistance turned to flight. But who were the
victors? Ben-Hur was sensible how much his freedom and the life of the tribune
depended upon that event. He pushed the plank under the latter until it floated
him, after which all his care was to keep him there. The dawn came slowly. He
watched its growing hopefully, yet sometimes afraid. Would it bring the Romans
or the pirates? If the pirates, his charge was lost.

At last morning broke in full, the air without a breath. Off to the left he saw
the land, too far to think of attempting to make it. Here and there men were
adrift like himself. In spots the sea was blackened by charred and sometimes
smoking fragments. A galley up a long way was lying to with a torn sail hanging
from the tilted yard, and the oars all idle. Still farther away he could
discern moving specks, which he thought might be ships in flight or pursuit, or
they might be white birds a-wing.

An hour passed thus. His anxiety increased. If relief came not speedily, Arrius
would die. Sometimes he seemed already dead, he lay so still. He took the
helmet off, and then, with greater difficulty, the cuirass; the heart he found
fluttering. He took hope at the sign, and held on. There was nothing to do but
wait, and, after the manner of his people, pray.

CHAPTER VI

The throes of recovery from drowning are more painful than the drowning. These
Arrius passed through, and, at length, to Ben-Hur’s delight, reached the
point of speech.

Gradually, from incoherent questions as to where he was, and by whom and how he
had been saved, he reverted to the battle. The doubt of the victory stimulated
his faculties to full return, a result aided not a little by a long
rest—such as could be had on their frail support. After a while he became
talkative.

“Our rescue, I see, depends upon the result of the fight. I see also what
thou hast done for me. To speak fairly, thou hast saved my life at the risk of
thy own. I make the acknowledgment broadly; and, whatever cometh, thou hast my
thanks. More than that, if fortune doth but serve me kindly, and we get well
out of this peril, I will do thee such favor as becometh a Roman who hath power
and opportunity to prove his gratitude. Yet, yet it is to be seen if, with thy
good intent, thou hast really done me a kindness; or, rather, speaking to thy
good-will”—he hesitated—“I would exact of thee a
promise to do me, in a certain event, the greatest favor one man can do
another—and of that let me have thy pledge now.”

“If the thing be not forbidden, I will do it,” Ben-Hur replied.

Arrius rested again.

“Art thou, indeed, a son of Hur, the Jew?” he next asked.

“It is as I have said.”

“I knew thy father—”

Judah drew himself nearer, for the tribune’s voice was weak—he drew
nearer, and listened eagerly—at last he thought to hear of home.

“I knew him, and loved him,” Arrius continued.

There was another pause, during which something diverted the speaker’s
thought.

“It cannot be,” he proceeded, “that thou, a son of his, hast
not heard of Cato and Brutus. They were very great men, and never as great as
in death. In their dying, they left this law—A Roman may not survive his
good-fortune. Art thou listening?”

“I hear.”

“It is a custom of gentlemen in Rome to wear a ring. There is one on my
hand. Take it now.”

He held the hand to Judah, who did as he asked.

“Now put it on thine own hand.”

Ben-Hur did so.

“The trinket hath its uses,” said Arrius next. “I have
property and money. I am accounted rich even in Rome. I have no family. Show
the ring to my freedman, who hath control in my absence; you will find him in a
villa near Misenum. Tell him how it came to thee, and ask anything, or all he
may have; he will not refuse the demand. If I live, I will do better by thee. I
will make thee free, and restore thee to thy home and people; or thou mayst
give thyself to the pursuit that pleaseth thee most. Dost thou hear?”

“I could not choose but hear.”

“Then pledge me. By the gods—”

“Nay, good tribune, I am a Jew.”

“By thy God, then, or in the form most sacred to those of thy
faith—pledge me to do what I tell thee now, and as I tell thee; I am
waiting, let me have thy promise.”

“Noble Arrius, I am warned by thy manner to expect something of gravest
concern. Tell me thy wish first.”

“Wilt thou promise then?”

“That were to give the pledge, and— Blessed be the God of my
fathers! yonder cometh a ship!”

“In what direction?”

“From the north.”

“Canst thou tell her nationality by outward signs?”

“No. My service hath been at the oars.”

“Hath she a flag?”

“I cannot see one.”

Arrius remained quiet some time, apparently in deep reflection.

“Does the ship hold this way yet?” he at length asked.

“Still this way.”

“Look for the flag now.”

“She hath none.”

“Nor any other sign?”

“She hath a sail set, and is of three banks, and cometh
swiftly—that is all I can say of her.”

“A Roman in triumph would have out many flags. She must be an enemy. Hear
now,” said Arrius, becoming grave again, “hear, while yet I may
speak. If the galley be a pirate, thy life is safe; they may not give thee
freedom; they may put thee to the oar again; but they will not kill thee. On
the other hand, I—”

The tribune faltered.

“Perpol!” he continued, resolutely. “I am too old to submit
to dishonor. In Rome, let them tell how Quintus Arrius, as became a Roman
tribune, went down with his ship in the midst of the foe. This is what I would
have thee do. If the galley prove a pirate, push me from the plank and drown
me. Dost thou hear? Swear thou wilt do it.”

“I will not swear,” said Ben-Hur, firmly; “neither will I do
the deed. The Law, which is to me most binding, O tribune, would make me
answerable for thy life. Take back the ring”—he took the seal from
his finger—“take it back, and all thy promises of favor in the
event of delivery from this peril. The judgment which sent me to the oar for
life made me a slave, yet I am not a slave; no more am I thy freedman. I am a
son of Israel, and this moment, at least, my own master. Take back the
ring.”

Arrius remained passive.

“Thou wilt not?” Judah continued. “Not in anger, then, nor in
any despite, but to free myself from a hateful obligation, I will give thy gift
to the sea. See, O tribune!”

He tossed the ring away. Arrius heard the splash where it struck and sank,
though he did not look.

“Thou hast done a foolish thing,” he said; “foolish for one
placed as thou art. I am not dependent upon thee for death. Life is a thread I
can break without thy help; and, if I do, what will become of thee? Men
determined on death prefer it at the hands of others, for the reason that the
soul which Plato giveth us is rebellious at the thought of self-destruction;
that is all. If the ship be a pirate, I will escape from the world. My mind is
fixed. I am a Roman. Success and honor are all in all. Yet I would have served
thee; thou wouldst not. The ring was the only witness of my will available in
this situation. We are both lost. I will die regretting the victory and glory
wrested from me; thou wilt live to die a little later, mourning the pious
duties undone because of this folly. I pity thee.”

Ben-Hur saw the consequences of his act more distinctly than before, yet he did
not falter.

“In the three years of my servitude, O tribune, thou wert the first to
look upon me kindly. No, no! There was another.” The voice dropped, the
eyes became humid, and he saw plainly as if it were then before him the face of
the boy who helped him to a drink by the old well at Nazareth. “At
least,” he proceeded, “thou wert the first to ask me who I was; and
if, when I reached out and caught thee, blind and sinking the last time, I,
too, had thought of the many ways in which thou couldst be useful to me in my
wretchedness, still the act was not all selfish; this I pray you to believe.
Moreover, seeing as God giveth me to know, the ends I dream of are to be
wrought by fair means alone. As a thing of conscience, I would rather die with
thee than be thy slayer. My mind is firmly set as thine; though thou wert to
offer me all Rome, O tribune, and it belonged to thee to make the gift good, I
would not kill thee. Thy Cato and Brutus were as little children compared to
the Hebrew whose law a Jew must obey.”

“But my request. Hast—”

“Thy command would be of more weight, and that would not move me. I have
said.”

Both became silent, waiting.

Ben-Hur looked often at the coming ship. Arrius rested with closed eyes,
indifferent.

“Art thou sure she is an enemy?” Ben-Hur asked.

“I think so,” was the reply.

“She stops, and puts a boat over the side.”

“Dost thou see her flag?”

“Is there no other sign by which she may be known if Roman?”

“If Roman, she hath a helmet over the mast’s top.”

“Then be of cheer. I see the helmet.”

Still Arrius was not assured.

“The men in the small boat are taking in the people afloat. Pirates are
not humane.”

“They may need rowers,” Arrius replied, recurring, possibly, to
times when he had made rescues for the purpose.

Ben-Hur was very watchful of the actions of the strangers.

“The ship moves off,” he said.

“Whither?”

“Over on our right there is a galley which I take to be deserted. The
new-comer heads towards it. Now she is alongside. Now she is sending men
aboard.”

Then Arrius opened his eyes and threw off his calm.

“Thank thou thy God,” he said to Ben-Hur, after a look at the
galleys, “thank thou thy God, as I do my many gods. A pirate would sink,
not save, yon ship. By the act and the helmet on the mast I know a Roman. The
victory is mine. Fortune hath not deserted me. We are saved. Wave thy
hand—call to them—bring them quickly. I shall be duumvir, and thou!
I knew thy father, and loved him. He was a prince indeed. He taught me a Jew
was not a barbarian. I will take thee with me. I will make thee my son. Give
thy God thanks, and call the sailors. Haste! The pursuit must be kept. Not a
robber shall escape. Hasten them!”

Judah raised himself upon the plank, and waved his hand, and called with all
his might; at last he drew the attention of the sailors in the small boat, and
they were speedily taken up.

Arrius was received on the galley with all the honors due a hero so the
favorite of Fortune. Upon a couch on the deck he heard the particulars of the
conclusion of the fight. When the survivors afloat upon the water were all
saved and the prize secured, he spread his flag of commandant anew, and hurried
northward to rejoin the fleet and perfect the victory. In due time the fifty
vessels coming down the channel closed in upon the fugitive pirates, and
crushed them utterly; not one escaped. To swell the tribune’s glory,
twenty galleys of the enemy were captured.

Upon his return from the cruise, Arrius had warm welcome on the mole at
Misenum. The young man attending him very early attracted the attention of his
friends there; and to their questions as to who he was the tribune proceeded in
the most affectionate manner to tell the story of his rescue and introduce the
stranger, omitting carefully all that pertained to the latter’s previous
history. At the end of the narrative, he called Ben-Hur to him, and said, with
a hand resting affectionately upon his shoulder,

“Good friends, this is my son and heir, who, as he is to take my
property—if it be the will of the gods that I leave any—shall be
known to you by my name. I pray you all to love him as you love me.”

Speedily as opportunity permitted, the adoption was formally perfected. And in
such manner the brave Roman kept his faith with Ben-Hur, giving him happy
introduction into the imperial world. The month succeeding Arrius’s
return, the armilustrium was celebrated with the utmost magnificence in the
theater of Scaurus. One side of the structure was taken up with military
trophies; among which by far the most conspicuous and most admired were twenty
prows, complemented by their corresponding aplustra, cut bodily from as many
galleys; and over them, so as to be legible to the eighty thousand spectators
in the seats, was this inscription:

TAKEN FROM THE PIRATES IN THE GULF
OF EURIPUS,
BY
QUINTUS ARRIUS,
DUUMVIR.

BOOK FOURTH

“Alva. Should the monarch prove unjust—
And, at this time—

Queen. Then I must wait for justice
Until it come; and they are happiest far
Whose consciences may calmly wait their right.”
                    Schiller, Don Carlos (act iv., sc. xv.)

CHAPTER I

The month to which we now come is July, the year that of our Lord 29, and the
place Antioch, then Queen of the East, and next to Rome the strongest, if not
the most populous, city in the world.

There is an opinion that the extravagance and dissoluteness of the age had
their origin in Rome, and spread thence throughout the empire; that the great
cities but reflected the manners of their mistress on the Tiber. This may be
doubted. The reaction of the conquest would seem to have been upon the morals
of the conqueror. In Greece she found a spring of corruption; so also in Egypt;
and the student, having exhausted the subject, will close the books assured
that the flow of the demoralizing river was from the East westwardly, and that
this very city of Antioch, one of the oldest seats of Assyrian power and
splendor, was a principal source of the deadly stream.

A transport galley entered the mouth of the river Orontes from the blue waters
of the sea. It was in the forenoon. The heat was great, yet all on board who
could avail themselves of the privilege were on deck—Ben-Hur among
others.

The five years had brought the young Jew to perfect manhood. Though the robe of
white linen in which he was attired somewhat masked his form, his appearance
was unusually attractive. For an hour and more he had occupied a seat in the
shade of the sail, and in that time several fellow-passengers of his own
nationality had tried to engage him in conversation, but without avail. His
replies to their questions had been brief, though gravely courteous, and in the
Latin tongue. The purity of his speech, his cultivated manners, his reticence,
served to stimulate their curiosity the more. Such as observed him closely were
struck by an incongruity between his demeanor, which had the ease and grace of
a patrician, and certain points of his person. Thus his arms were
disproportionately long; and when, to steady himself against the motion of the
vessel, he took hold of anything near by, the size of his hands and their
evident power compelled remark; so the wonder who and what he was mixed
continually with a wish to know the particulars of his life. In other words,
his air cannot be better described than as a notice—This man has a story
to tell.

The galley, in coming, had stopped at one of the ports of Cyprus, and picked up
a Hebrew of most respectable appearance, quiet, reserved, paternal. Ben-Hur
ventured to ask him some questions; the replies won his confidence, and
resulted finally in an extended conversation.

It chanced also that as the galley from Cyprus entered the receiving bay of the
Orontes, two other vessels which had been sighted out in the sea met it and
passed into the river at the same time; and as they did so both the strangers
threw out small flags of brightest yellow. There was much conjecture as to the
meaning of the signals. At length a passenger addressed himself to the
respectable Hebrew for information upon the subject.

“Yes, I know the meaning of the flags,” he replied; “they do
not signify nationality—they are merely marks of ownership.”

“Has the owner many ships?”

“He has.”

“You know him?”

“I have dealt with him.”

The passengers looked at the speaker as if requesting him to go on. Ben-Hur
listened with interest.

“He lives in Antioch,” the Hebrew continued, in his quiet way.
“That he is vastly rich has brought him into notice, and the talk about
him is not always kind. There used to be in Jerusalem a prince of very ancient
family named Hur.”

Judah strove to be composed, yet his heart beat quicker.

“The prince was a merchant, with a genius for business. He set on foot
many enterprises, some reaching far East, others West. In the great cities he
had branch houses. The one in Antioch was in charge of a man said by some to
have been a family servant called Simonides, Greek in name, yet an Israelite.
The master was drowned at sea. His business, however, went on, and was scarcely
less prosperous. After a while misfortune overtook the family. The
prince’s only son, nearly grown, tried to kill the procurator Gratus in
one of the streets of Jerusalem. He failed by a narrow chance, and has not
since been heard of. In fact, the Roman’s rage took in the whole
house—not one of the name was left alive. Their palace was sealed up, and
is now a rookery for pigeons; the estate was confiscated; everything that could
be traced to the ownership of the Hurs was confiscated. The procurator cured
his hurt with a golden salve.”

The passengers laughed.

“You mean he kept the property,” said one of them.

“They say so,” the Hebrew replied; “I am only telling a story
as I received it. And, to go on, Simonides, who had been the prince’s
agent here in Antioch, opened trade in a short time on his own account, and in
a space incredibly brief became the master merchant of the city. In imitation
of his master, he sent caravans to India; and on the sea at present he has
galleys enough to make a royal fleet. They say nothing goes amiss with him. His
camels do not die, except of old age; his ships never founder; if he throw a
chip into the river, it will come back to him gold.”

“How long has he been going on thus?”

“Not ten years.”

“He must have had a good start.”

“Yes, they say the procurator took only the prince’s property ready
at hand—his horses, cattle, houses, land, vessels, goods. The money could
not be found, though there must have been vast sums of it. What became of it
has been an unsolved mystery.”

“Not to me,” said a passenger, with a sneer.

“I understand you,” the Hebrew answered. “Others have had
your idea. That it furnished old Simonides his start is a common belief. The
procurator is of that opinion—or he has been—for twice in five
years he has caught the merchant, and put him to torture.”

Judah gripped the rope he was holding with crushing force.

“It is said,” the narrator continued, “that there is not a
sound bone in the man’s body. The last time I saw him he sat in a chair,
a shapeless cripple, propped against cushions.”

“So tortured!” exclaimed several listeners in a breath.

“Disease could not have produced such a deformity. Still the suffering
made no impression upon him. All he had was his lawfully, and he was making
lawful use of it—that was the most they wrung from him. Now, however, he
is past persecution. He has a license to trade signed by Tiberius
himself.”

“He paid roundly for it, I warrant.”

“These ships are his,” the Hebrew continued, passing the remark.
“It is a custom among his sailors to salute each other upon meeting by
throwing out yellow flags, sight of which is as much as to say, ‘We have
had a fortunate voyage.’”

The story ended there.

When the transport was fairly in the channel of the river, Judah spoke to the
Hebrew.

“What was the name of the merchant’s master?”

“Ben-Hur, Prince of Jerusalem.”

“What became of the prince’s family?”

“The boy was sent to the galleys. I may say he is dead. One year is the
ordinary limit of life under that sentence. The widow and daughter have not
been heard of; those who know what became of them will not speak. They died
doubtless in the cells of one of the castles which spot the waysides of
Judea.”

Judah walked to the pilot’s quarter. So absorbed was he in thought that
he scarcely noticed the shores of the river, which from sea to city were
surpassingly beautiful with orchards of all the Syrian fruits and vines,
clustered about villas rich as those of Neapolis. No more did he observe the
vessels passing in an endless fleet, nor hear the singing and shouting of the
sailors, some in labor, some in merriment. The sky was full of sunlight, lying
in hazy warmth upon the land and the water; nowhere except over his life was
there a shadow.

Once only he awoke to a momentary interest, and that was when some one pointed
out the Grove of Daphne, discernible from a bend in the river.

CHAPTER II

When the city came into view, the passengers were on deck, eager that nothing
of the scene might escape them. The respectable Jew already introduced to the
reader was the principal spokesman.

“The river here runs to the west,” he said, in the way of general
answer. “I remember when it washed the base of the walls; but as Roman
subjects we have lived in peace, and, as always happens in such times, trade
has had its will; now the whole river front is taken up with wharves and docks.
Yonder”—the speaker pointed southward—“is Mount Casius,
or, as these people love to call it, the Mountains of Orontes, looking across
to its brother Amnus in the north; and between them lies the Plain of Antioch.
Farther on are the Black Mountains, whence the Ducts of the Kings bring the
purest water to wash the thirsty streets and people; yet they are forests in
wilderness state, dense, and full of birds and beasts.”

“Where is the lake?” one asked.

“Over north there. You can take horse, if you wish to see it—or,
better, a boat, for a tributary connects it with the river.”

“The Grove of Daphne!” he said, to a third inquirer. “Nobody
can describe it; only beware! It was begun by Apollo, and completed by him. He
prefers it to Olympus. People go there for one look—just one—and
never come away. They have a saying which tells it all—‘Better be a
worm and feed on the mulberries of Daphne than a king’s
guest.’”

“Then you advise me to stay away from it?”

“Not I! Go you will. Everybody goes, cynic philosopher, virile boy,
women, and priests—all go. So sure am I of what you will do that I assume
to advise you. Do not take quarters in the city—that will be loss of
time; but go at once to the village in the edge of the grove. The way is
through a garden, under the spray of fountains. The lovers of the god and his
Penaean maid built the town; and in its porticos and paths and thousand
retreats you will find characters and habits and sweets and kinds elsewhere
impossible. But the wall of the city! there it is, the masterpiece of Xeraeus,
the master of mural architecture.”

All eyes followed his pointing finger.

“This part was raised by order of the first of the Seleucidæ. Three
hundred years have made it part of the rock it rests upon.”

The defense justified the encomium. High, solid, and with many bold angles, it
curved southwardly out of view.

“On the top there are four hundred towers, each a reservoir of
water,” the Hebrew continued. “Look now! Over the wall, tall as it
is, see in the distance two hills, which you may know as the rival crests of
Sulpius. The structure on the farthest one is the citadel, garrisoned all the
year round by a Roman legion. Opposite it this way rises the Temple of Jupiter,
and under that the front of the legate’s residence—a palace full of
offices, and yet a fortress against which a mob would dash harmlessly as a
south wind.”

At this point the sailors began taking in sail, whereupon the Hebrew exclaimed,
heartily, “See! you who hate the sea, and you who have vows, get ready
your curses and your prayers. The bridge yonder, over which the road to
Seleucia is carried, marks the limit of navigation. What the ship unloads for
further transit, the camel takes up there. Above the bridge begins the island
upon which Calinicus built his new city, connecting it with five great viaducts
so solid time has made no impression upon them, nor floods nor earthquakes. Of
the main town, my friends, I have only to say you will be happier all your
lives for having seen it.”

As he concluded, the ship turned and made slowly for her wharf under the wall,
bringing even more fairly to view the life with which the river at that point
was possessed. Finally, the lines were thrown, the oars shipped, and the voyage
was done. Then Ben-Hur sought the respectable Hebrew.

“Let me trouble you a moment before saying farewell.”

The man bowed assent.

“Your story of the merchant has made me curious to see him. You called
him Simonides?”

“Yes. He is a Jew with a Greek name.”

“Where is he to be found?”

The acquaintance gave a sharp look before he answered,

“I may save you mortification. He is not a money-lender.”

“Nor am I a money-borrower,” said Ben-Hur, smiling at the
other’s shrewdness.

The man raised his head and considered an instant.

“One would think,” he then replied, “that the richest
merchant in Antioch would have a house for business corresponding to his
wealth; but if you would find him in the day, follow the river to yon bridge,
under which he quarters in a building that looks like a buttress of the wall.
Before the door there is an immense landing, always covered with cargoes come
and to go. The fleet that lies moored there is his. You cannot fail to find
him.”

“I give you thanks.”

“The peace of our fathers go with you.”

“And with you.”

With that they separated.

Two street-porters, loaded with his baggage, received Ben-Hur’s orders
upon the wharf.

“To the citadel,” he said; a direction which implied an official
military connection.

Two great streets, cutting each other at right angles, divided the city into
quarters. A curious and immense structure, called the Nymphaeum, arose at the
foot of the one running north and south. When the porters turned south there,
the new-comer, though fresh from Rome, was amazed at the magnificence of the
avenue. On the right and left there were palaces, and between them extended
indefinitely double colonnades of marble, leaving separate ways for footmen,
beasts, and chariots; the whole under shade, and cooled by fountains of
incessant flow.

Ben-Hur was not in mood to enjoy the spectacle. The story of Simonides haunted
him. Arrived at the Omphalus—a monument of four arches wide as the
streets, superbly illustrated, and erected to himself by Epiphanes, the eighth
of the Seleucidæ—he suddenly changed his mind.

“I will not go to the citadel to-night,” he said to the porters.
“Take me to the khan nearest the bridge on the road to Seleucia.”

The party faced about, and in good time he was deposited in a public house of
primitive but ample construction, within stone’s-throw of the bridge
under which old Simonides had his quarters. He lay upon the house-top through
the night. In his inner mind lived the thought, “Now—now I will
hear of home—and mother—and the dear little Tirzah. If they are on
earth, I will find them.”

CHAPTER III

Next day early, to the neglect of the city, Ben-Hur sought the house of
Simonides. Through an embattled gateway he passed to a continuity of wharves;
thence up the river midst a busy press, to the Seleucian Bridge, under which he
paused to take in the scene.

There, directly under the bridge, was the merchant’s house, a mass of
gray stone, unhewn, referable to no style, looking, as the voyager had
described it, like a buttress of the wall against which it leaned. Two immense
doors in front communicated with the wharf. Some holes near the top, heavily
barred, served as windows. Weeds waved from the crevices, and in places black
moss splotched the otherwise bald stones.

The doors were open. Through one of them business went in; through the other it
came out; and there was hurry, hurry in all its movements.

On the wharf there were piles of goods in every kind of package, and groups of
slaves, stripped to the waist, going about in the abandon of labor.

Below the bridge lay a fleet of galleys, some loading, others unloading. A
yellow flag blew out from each masthead. From fleet and wharf, and from ship to
ship, the bondmen of traffic passed in clamorous counter-currents.

Above the bridge, across the river, a wall rose from the water’s edge,
over which towered the fanciful cornices and turrets of an imperial palace,
covering every foot of the island spoken of in the Hebrew’s description.
But, with all its suggestions, Ben-Hur scarcely noticed it. Now, at last, he
thought to hear of his people—this, certainly, if Simonides had indeed
been his father’s slave. But would the man acknowledge the relation? That
would be to give up his riches and the sovereignty of trade so royally
witnessed on the wharf and river. And what was of still greater consequence to
the merchant, it would be to forego his career in the midst of amazing success,
and yield himself voluntarily once more a slave. Simple thought of the demand
seemed a monstrous audacity. Stripped of diplomatic address, it was to say, You
are my slave; give me all you have, and—yourself.

Yet Ben-Hur derived strength for the interview from faith in his rights and the
hope uppermost in his heart. If the story to which he was yielding were true,
Simonides belonged to him, with all he had. For the wealth, be it said in
justice, he cared nothing. When he started to the door determined in mind, it
was with a promise to himself—“Let him tell me of mother and
Tirzah, and I will give him his freedom without account.”

He passed boldly into the house.

The interior was that of a vast depot where, in ordered spaces, and under
careful arrangement, goods of every kind were heaped and pent. Though the light
was murky and the air stifling, men moved about briskly; and in places he saw
workmen with saws and hammers making packages for shipments. Down a path
between the piles he walked slowly, wondering if the man of whose genius there
were here such abounding proofs could have been his father’s slave? If
so, to what class had he belonged? If a Jew, was he the son of a servant? Or
was he a debtor or a debtor’s son? Or had he been sentenced and sold for
theft? These thoughts, as they passed, in nowise disturbed the growing respect
for the merchant of which he was each instant more and more conscious. A
peculiarity of our admiration for another is that it is always looking for
circumstances to justify itself.

At length a man approached and spoke to him.

“What would you have?”

“I would see Simonides, the merchant.”

“Will you come this way?”

By a number of paths left in the stowage, they finally came to a flight of
steps; ascending which, he found himself on the roof of the depot, and in front
of a structure which cannot be better described than as a lesser stone house
built upon another, invisible from the landing below, and out west of the
bridge under the open sky. The roof, hemmed in by a low wall, seemed like a
terrace, which, to his astonishment, was brilliant with flowers; in the rich
surrounding, the house sat squat, a plain square block, unbroken except by a
doorway in front. A dustless path led to the door, through a bordering of
shrubs of Persian rose in perfect bloom. Breathing a sweet attar-perfume, he
followed the guide.

At the end of a darkened passage within, they stopped before a curtain half
parted. The man called out,

“A stranger to see the master.”

A clear voice replied, “In God’s name, let him enter.”

A Roman might have called the apartment into which the visitor was ushered his
atrium. The walls were paneled; each panel was comparted like a modern
office-desk, and each compartment crowded with labelled folios all filemot with
age and use. Between the panels, and above and below them, were borders of wood
once white, now tinted like cream, and carved with marvellous intricacy of
design. Above a cornice of gilded balls, the ceiling rose in pavilion style
until it broke into a shallow dome set with hundreds of panes of violet mica,
permitting a flood of light deliciously reposeful. The floor was carpeted with
gray rugs so thick that an invading foot fell half buried and soundless.

In the midlight of the room were two persons—a man resting in a chair
high-backed, broad-armed, and lined with pliant cushions; and at his left,
leaning against the back of the chair, a girl well forward into womanhood. At
sight of them Ben-Hur felt the blood redden his forehead; bowing, as much to
recover himself as in respect, he lost the lifting of the hands, and the shiver
and shrink with which the sitter caught sight of him—an emotion as swift
to go as it had been to come. When he raised his eyes the two were in the same
position, except the girl’s hand had fallen and was resting lightly upon
the elder’s shoulder; both of them were regarding him fixedly.

“If you are Simonides, the merchant, and a Jew”—Ben-Hur
stopped an instant—“then the peace of the God of our father Abraham
upon you and—yours.”

The last word was addressed to the girl.

“I am the Simonides of whom you speak, by birthright a Jew,” the
man made answer, in a voice singularly clear. “I am Simonides, and a Jew;
and I return you your salutation, with prayer to know who calls upon me.”

Ben-Hur looked as he listened, and where the figure of the man should have been
in healthful roundness, there was only a formless heap sunk in the depths of
the cushions, and covered by a quilted robe of sombre silk. Over the heap shone
a head royally proportioned—the ideal head of a statesman and
conqueror—a head broad of base and domelike in front, such as Angelo
would have modelled for Cæsar. White hair dropped in thin locks over the white
brows, deepening the blackness of the eyes shining through them like sullen
lights. The face was bloodless, and much puffed with folds, especially under
the chin. In other words, the head and face were those of a man who might move
the world more readily than the world could move him—a man to be twice
twelve times tortured into the shapeless cripple he was, without a groan, much
less a confession; a man to yield his life, but never a purpose or a point; a
man born in armor, and assailable only through his loves. To him Ben-Hur
stretched his hands, open and palm up, as he would offer peace at the same time
he asked it.

“I am Judah, son of Ithamar, late head of the House of Hur, and a prince
of Jerusalem.”

The merchant’s right hand lay outside the robe—a long, thin hand,
articulate to deformity with suffering. It closed tightly; otherwise there was
not the slightest expression of feeling of any kind on his part; nothing to
warrant an inference of surprise or interest; nothing but this calm answer,

“The princes of Jerusalem, of the pure blood, are always welcome in my
house; you are welcome. Give the young man a seat, Esther.”

The girl took an ottoman near by, and carried it to Ben-Hur. As she arose from
placing the seat, their eyes met.

“The peace of our Lord with you,” she said, modestly. “Be
seated and at rest.”

When she resumed her place by the chair, she had not divined his purpose. The
powers of woman go not so far: if the matter is of finer feeling, such as pity,
mercy, sympathy, that she detects; and therein is a difference between her and
man which will endure as long as she remains, by nature, alive to such
feelings. She was simply sure he brought some wound of life for healing.

Ben-Hur did not take the offered seat, but said, deferentially, “I pray
the good master Simonides that he will not hold me an intruder. Coming up the
river yesterday, I heard he knew my father.”

“I knew the Prince Hur. We were associated in some enterprises lawful to
merchants who find profit in lands beyond the sea and the desert. But sit, I
pray you—and, Esther, some wine for the young man. Nehemiah speaks of a
son of Hur who once ruled the half part of Jerusalem; an old house; very old,
by the faith! In the days of Moses and Joshua even some of them found favor in
the sight of the Lord, and divided honors with those princes among men. It can
hardly be that their descendant, lineally come to us, will refuse a cup of
wine-fat of the genuine vine of Sorek, grown on the south hill-sides of
Hebron.”

By the time of the conclusion of this speech, Esther was before Ben-Hur with a
silver cup filled from a vase upon a table a little removed from the chair. She
offered the drink with downcast face. He touched her hand gently to put it
away. Again their eyes met; whereat he noticed that she was small, not nearly
to his shoulder in height; but very graceful, and fair and sweet of face, with
eyes black and inexpressibly soft. She is kind and pretty, he thought, and
looks as Tirzah would were she living. Poor Tirzah! Then he said aloud,

“No, thy father—if he is thy father?”—he paused.

“I am Esther, the daughter of Simonides,” she said, with dignity.

“Then, fair Esther, thy father, when he has heard my further speech, will
not think worse of me if yet I am slow to take his wine of famous extract; nor
less I hope not to lose grace in thy sight. Stand thou here with me a
moment!”

Both of them, as in common cause, turned to the merchant.
“Simonides!” he said, firmly, “my father, at his death, had a
trusted servant of thy name, and it has been told me that thou art the
man!”

There was a sudden start of the wrenched limbs under the robe, and the thin
hand clenched.

“Esther, Esther!” the man called, sternly; “here, not there,
as thou art thy mother’s child and mine—here, not there, I
say!”

The girl looked once from father to visitor; then she replaced the cup upon the
table, and went dutifully to the chair. Her countenance sufficiently expressed
her wonder and alarm.

Simonides lifted his left hand, and gave it into hers, lying lovingly upon his
shoulder, and said, dispassionately, “I have grown old in dealing with
men—old before my time. If he who told thee that whereof thou speakest
was a friend acquainted with my history, and spoke of it not harshly, he must
have persuaded thee that I could not be else than a man distrustful of my kind.
The God of Israel help him who, at the end of life, is constrained to
acknowledge so much! My loves are few, but they are. One of them is a soul
which”—he carried the hand holding his to his lips, in manner
unmistakable—“a soul which to this time has been unselfishly mine,
and such sweet comfort that, were it taken from me, I would die.”

Esther’s head drooped until her cheek touched his.

“The other love is but a memory; of which I will say further that, like a
benison of the Lord, it hath a compass to contain a whole family, if
only”—his voice lowered and trembled—“if only I knew
where they were.”

Ben-Hur’s face suffused, and, advancing a step, he cried, impulsively,
“My mother and sister! Oh, it is of them you speak!”

Esther, as if spoken to, raised her head; but Simonides returned to his calm,
and answered, coldly, “Hear me to the end. Because I am that I am, and
because of the loves of which I have spoken, before I make return to thy demand
touching my relations to the Prince Hur, and as something which of right should
come first, do thou show me proofs of who thou art. Is thy witness in writing?
Or cometh it in person?”

The demand was plain, and the right of it indisputable. Ben-Hur blushed,
clasped his hands, stammered, and turned away at loss. Simonides pressed him.

“The proofs, the proofs, I say! Set them before me—lay them in my
hands!”

Yet Ben-Hur had no answer. He had not anticipated the requirement; and, now
that it was made, to him as never before came the awful fact that the three
years in the galley had carried away all the proofs of his identity; mother and
sister gone, he did not live in the knowledge of any human being. Many there
were acquainted with him, but that was all. Had Quintus Arrius been present,
what could he have said more than where he found him, and that he believed the
pretender to be the son of Hur? But, as will presently appear in full, the
brave Roman sailor was dead. Judah had felt the loneliness before; to the core
of life the sense struck him now. He stood, hands clasped, face averted, in
stupefaction. Simonides respected his suffering, and waited in silence.

“Master Simonides,” he said, at length, “I can only tell my
story; and I will not that unless you stay judgment so long, and with good-will
deign to hear me.”

“Speak,” said Simonides, now, indeed, master of the
situation—“speak, and I will listen the more willingly that I have
not denied you to be the very person you claim yourself.”

Ben-Hur proceeded then, and told his life hurriedly, yet with the feeling which
is the source of all eloquence; but as we are familiar with it down to his
landing at Misenum, in company with Arrius, returned victorious from the
Ægean, at that point we will take up the words.

“My benefactor was loved and trusted by the emperor, who heaped him with
honorable rewards. The merchants of the East contributed magnificent presents,
and he became doubly rich among the rich of Rome. May a Jew forget his
religion? or his birthplace, if it were the Holy Land of our fathers? The good
man adopted me his son by formal rites of law; and I strove to make him just
return: no child was ever more dutiful to father than I to him. He would have
had me a scholar; in art, philosophy, rhetoric, oratory, he would have
furnished me the most famous teacher. I declined his insistence, because I was
a Jew, and could not forget the Lord God, or the glory of the prophets, or the
city set on the hills by David and Solomon. Oh, ask you why I accepted any of
the benefactions of the Roman? I loved him; next place, I thought with his
help, array influences which would enable me one day to unseal the mystery
close-locking the fate of my mother and sister; and to these there was yet
another motive of which I shall not speak except to say it controlled me so far
that I devoted myself to arms, and the acquisition of everything deemed
essential to thorough knowledge of the art of war. In the palaestrae and
circuses of the city I toiled, and in the camps no less; and in all of them I
have a name, but not that of my fathers. The crowns I won—and on the
walls of the villa by Misenum there are many of them—all came to me as
the son of Arrius, the duumvir. In that relation only am I known among
Romans…. In steadfast pursuit of my secret aim, I left Rome for Antioch,
intending to accompany the Consul Maxentius in the campaign he is organizing
against the Parthians. Master of personal skill in all arms, I seek now the
higher knowledge pertaining to the conduct of bodies of men in the field. The
consul has admitted me one of his military family. But yesterday, as our ship
entered the Orontes, two other ships sailed in with us flying yellow flags. A
fellow-passenger and countryman from Cyprus explained that the vessels belonged
to Simonides, the master-merchant of Antioch; he told us, also, who the
merchant was; his marvellous success in commerce; of his fleets and caravans,
and their coming and going; and, not knowing I had interest in the theme beyond
my associate listeners, he said Simonides was a Jew, once the servant of the
Prince Hur; nor did he conceal the cruelties of Gratus, or the purpose of their
infliction.”

At this allusion Simonides bowed his head, and, as if to help him conceal his
feelings and her own deep sympathy, the daughter hid her face on his neck.
Directly he raised his eyes, and said, in a clear voice, “I am
listening.”

“O good Simonides!” Ben-Hur then said, advancing a step, his whole
soul seeking expression, “I see thou art not convinced, and that yet I
stand in the shadow of thy distrust.”

The merchant held his features fixed as marble, and his tongue as still.

“And not less clearly, I see the difficulties of my position,”
Ben-Hur continued. “All my Roman connection I can prove; I have only to
call upon the consul, now the guest of the governor of the city; but I cannot
prove the particulars of thy demand upon me. I cannot prove I am my
father’s son. They who could serve me in that—alas! they are dead
or lost.”

He covered his face with his hands; whereupon Esther arose, and, taking the
rejected cup to him, said, “The wine is of the country we all so love.
Drink, I pray thee!”

The voice was sweet as that of Rebekah offering drink at the well near Nahor
the city; he saw there were tears in her eyes, and he drank, saying,
“Daughter of Simonides, thy heart is full of goodness; and merciful art
thou to let the stranger share it with thy father. Be thou blessed of our God!
I thank thee.”

Then he addressed himself to the merchant again:

“As I have no proof that I am my father’s son, I will withdraw that
I demanded of thee, O Simonides, and go hence to trouble you no more; only let
me say I did not seek thy return to servitude nor account of thy fortune; in
any event, I would have said, as now I say, that all which is product of thy
labor and genius is thine; keep it in welcome. I have no need of any part
thereof. When the good Quintus, my second father, sailed on the voyage which
was his last, he left me his heir, princely rich. If, therefore, thou dost
think of me again, be it with remembrance of this question, which, as I do
swear by the prophets and Jehovah, thy God and mine, was the chief purpose of
my coming here: What dost thou know—what canst thou tell me—of my
mother and Tirzah, my sister—she who should be in beauty and grace even
as this one, thy sweetness of life, if not thy very life? Oh! what canst thou
tell me of them?”

The tears ran down Esther’s cheeks; but the man was wilful: in a clear
voice, he replied,

“I have said I knew the Prince Ben-Hur. I remember hearing of the
misfortune which overtook his family. I remember the bitterness with which I
heard it. He who wrought such misery to the widow of my friend is the same who,
in the same spirit, hath since wrought upon me. I will go further, and say to
you, I have made diligent quest concerning the family, but—I have nothing
to tell you of them. They are lost.”

Ben-Hur uttered a great groan.

“Then—then it is another hope broken!” he said, struggling
with his feelings. “I am used to disappointments. I pray you pardon my
intrusion; and if I have occasioned you annoyance, forgive it because of my
sorrow. I have nothing now to live for but vengeance. Farewell.”

At the curtain he turned, and said, simply, “I thank you both.”

“Peace go with you,” the merchant said.

Esther could not speak for sobbing.

And so he departed.

CHAPTER IV

Scarcely was Ben-Hur gone, when Simonides seemed to wake as from sleep: his
countenance flushed; the sullen light of his eyes changed to brightness; and he
said, cheerily,

“Esther, ring—quick!”

She went to the table, and rang a service-bell.

One of the panels in the wall swung back, exposing a doorway which gave
admittance to a man who passed round to the merchant’s front, and saluted
him with a half-salaam.

“Malluch, here—nearer—to the chair,” the master said,
imperiously. “I have a mission which shall not fail though the sun
should. Hearken! A young man is now descending to the store-room—tall,
comely, and in the garb of Israel; follow him, his shadow not more faithful;
and every night send me report of where he is, what he does, and the company he
keeps; and if, without discovery, you overhear his conversations, report them
word for word, together with whatever will serve to expose him, his habits,
motives, life. Understand you? Go quickly! Stay, Malluch: if he leave the city,
go after him—and, mark you, Malluch, be as a friend. If he bespeak you,
tell him what you will to the occasion most suited, except that you are in my
service, of that, not a word. Haste—make haste!”

The man saluted as before, and was gone.

Then Simonides rubbed his wan hands together, and laughed.

“What is the day, daughter?” he said, in the midst of the mood.
“What is the day? I wish to remember it for happiness come. See, and look
for it laughing, and laughing tell me, Esther.”

The merriment seemed unnatural to her; and, as if to entreat him from it, she
answered, sorrowfully, “Woe’s me, father, that I should ever forget
this day!”

His hands fell down the instant, and his chin, dropping upon his breast, lost
itself in the muffling folds of flesh composing his lower face.

“True, most true, my daughter!” he said, without looking up.
“This is the twentieth day of the fourth month. To-day, five years ago,
my Rachel, thy mother, fell down and died. They brought me home broken as thou
seest me, and we found her dead of grief. Oh, to me she was a cluster of
camphire in the vineyards of En-Gedi! I have gathered my myrrh with my spice. I
have eaten my honeycomb with my honey. We laid her away in a lonely
place—in a tomb cut in the mountain; no one near her. Yet in the darkness
she left me a little light, which the years have increased to a brightness of
morning.” He raised his hand and rested it upon his daughter’s
head. “Dear Lord, I thank thee that now in my Esther my lost Rachel
liveth again!”

Directly he lifted his head, and said, as with a sudden thought, “Is it
not clear day outside?”

“It was, when the young man came in.”

“Then let Abimelech come and take me to the garden, where I can see the
river and the ships, and I will tell thee, dear Esther, why but now my mouth
filled with laughter, and my tongue with singing, and my spirit was like to a
roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.”

In answer to the bell a servant came, and at her bidding pushed the chair, set
on little wheels for the purpose, out of the room to the roof of the lower
house, called by him his garden. Out through the roses, and by beds of lesser
flowers, all triumphs of careful attendance, but now unnoticed, he was rolled
to a position from which he could view the palace-tops over against him on the
island, the bridge in lessening perspective to the farther shore, and the river
below the bridge crowded with vessels, all swimming amidst the dancing
splendors of the early sun upon the rippling water. There the servant left him
with Esther.

The much shouting of laborers, and their beating and pounding, did not disturb
him any more than the tramping of people on the bridge floor almost overhead,
being as familiar to his ear as the view before him to his eye, and therefore
unnoticeable, except as suggestions of profits in promise.

Esther sat on the arm of the chair nursing his hand, and waiting his speech,
which came at length in the calm way, the mighty will having carried him back
to himself.

“When the young man was speaking, Esther, I observed thee, and thought
thou wert won by him.”

Her eyes fell as she replied,

“Speak you of faith, father, I believed him.”

“In thy eyes, then, he is the lost son of the Prince Hur?”

“If he is not—” She hesitated.

“And if he is not, Esther?”

“I have been thy handmaiden, father, since my mother answered the call of
the Lord God; by thy side I have heard and seen thee deal in wise ways with all
manner of men seeking profit, holy and unholy; and now I say, if indeed the
young man be not the prince he claims to be, then before me falsehood never
played so well the part of righteous truth.”

“By the glory of Solomon, daughter, thou speakest earnestly. Dost thou
believe thy father his father’s servant?”

“I understood him to ask of that as something he had but heard.”

For a time Simonides’ gaze swam among his swimming ships, though they had
no place in his mind.

“Well, thou art a good child, Esther, of genuine Jewish shrewdness, and
of years and strength to hear a sorrowful tale. Wherefore give me heed, and I
will tell you of myself, and of thy mother, and of many things pertaining to
the past not in thy knowledge or thy dreams—things withheld from the
persecuting Romans for a hope’s sake, and from thee that thy nature
should grow towards the Lord straight as the reed to the sun…. I was born in
a tomb in the valley of Hinnom, on the south side of Zion. My father and mother
were Hebrew bond-servants, tenders of the fig and olive trees growing, with
many vines, in the King’s Garden hard by Siloam; and in my boyhood I
helped them. They were of the class bound to serve forever. They sold me to the
Prince Hur, then, next to Herod the King, the richest man in Jerusalem. From
the garden he transferred me to his storehouse in Alexandria of Egypt, where I
came of age. I served him six years, and in the seventh, by the law of Moses, I
went free.”

Esther clapped her hands lightly.

“Oh, then, thou art not his father’s servant!”

“Nay, daughter, hear. Now, in those days there were lawyers in the
cloisters of the Temple who disputed vehemently, saying the children of
servants bound forever took the condition of their parents; but the Prince Hur
was a man righteous in all things, and an interpreter of the law after the
straitest sect, though not of them. He said I was a Hebrew servant bought, in
the true meaning of the great lawgiver, and, by sealed writings, which I yet
have, he set me free.”

“And my mother?” Esther asked.

“Thou shalt hear all, Esther; be patient. Before I am through thou shalt
see it were easier for me to forget myself than thy mother…. At the end of my
service, I came up to Jerusalem to the Passover. My master entertained me. I
was in love with him already, and I prayed to be continued in his service. He
consented, and I served him yet another seven years, but as a hired son of
Israel. In his behalf I had charge of ventures on the sea by ships, and of
ventures on land by caravans eastward to Susa and Persepolis, and the lands of
silk beyond them. Perilous passages were they, my daughter; but the Lord
blessed all I undertook. I brought home vast gains for the prince, and richer
knowledge for myself, without which I could not have mastered the charges since
fallen to me…. One day I was a guest in his house in Jerusalem. A servant
entered with some sliced bread on a platter. She came to me first. It was then
I saw thy mother, and loved her, and took her away in my secret heart. After a
while a time came when I sought the prince to make her my wife. He told me she
was bond-servant forever; but if she wished, he would set her free that I might
be gratified. She gave me love for love, but was happy where she was, and
refused her freedom. I prayed and besought, going again and again after long
intervals. She would be my wife, she all the time said, if I would become her
fellow in servitude. Our father Jacob served yet other seven years for his
Rachel. Could I not as much for mine? But thy mother said I must become as she,
to serve forever. I came away, but went back. Look, Esther, look here.”

He pulled out the lobe of his left ear.

“See you not the scar of the awl?”

“I see it,” she said; “and, oh, I see how thou didst love my
mother!”

“Love her, Esther! She was to me more than the Shulamite to the singing
king, fairer, more spotless; a fountain of gardens, a well of living waters,
and streams from Lebanon. The master, even as I required him, took me to the
judges, and back to his door, and thrust the awl through my ear into the door,
and I was his servant forever. So I won my Rachel. And was ever love like
mine?”

Esther stooped and kissed him, and they were silent, thinking of the dead.

“My master was drowned at sea, the first sorrow that ever fell upon
me,” the merchant continued. “There was mourning in his house, and
in mine here in Antioch, my abiding-place at the time. Now, Esther, mark you!
When the good prince was lost, I had risen to be his chief steward, with
everything of property belonging to him in my management and control. Judge you
how much he loved and trusted me! I hastened to Jerusalem to render account to
the widow. She continued me in the stewardship. I applied myself with greater
diligence. The business prospered, and grew year by year. Ten years passed;
then came the blow which you heard the young man tell about—the accident,
as he called it, to the Procurator Gratus. The Roman gave it out an attempt to
assassinate him. Under that pretext, by leave from Rome, he confiscated to his
own use the immense fortune of the widow and children. Nor stopped he there.
That there might be no reversal of the judgment, he removed all the parties
interested. From that dreadful day to this the family of Hur have been lost.
The son, whom I had seen as a child, was sentenced to the galleys. The widow
and daughter are supposed to have been buried in some of the many dungeons of
Judea, which, once closed upon the doomed, are like sepulchers sealed and
locked. They passed from the knowledge of men as utterly as if the sea had
swallowed them unseen. We could not hear how they died—nay, not even that
they were dead.”

Esther’s eyes were dewy with tears.

“Thy heart is good, Esther, good as thy mother’s was; and I pray it
have not the fate of most good hearts—to be trampled upon by the
unmerciful and blind. But hearken further. I went up to Jerusalem to give help
to my benefactress, and was seized at the gate of the city and carried to the
sunken cells of the Tower of Antonia; why, I knew not, until Gratus himself
came and demanded of me the moneys of the House of Hur, which he knew, after
our Jewish custom of exchange, were subject to my draft in the different marts
of the world. He required me to sign to his order. I refused. He had the
houses, lands, goods, ships, and movable property of those I served; he had not
their moneys. I saw, if I kept favor in the sight of the Lord, I could rebuild
their broken fortunes. I refused the tyrant’s demands. He put me to
torture; my will held good, and he set me free, nothing gained. I came home and
began again, in the name of Simonides of Antioch, instead of the Prince Hur of
Jerusalem. Thou knowest, Esther, how I have prospered; that the increase of the
millions of the prince in my hands was miraculous; thou knowest how, at the end
of three years, while going up to Cæsarea, I was taken and a second time
tortured by Gratus to compel a confession that my goods and moneys were subject
to his order of confiscation; thou knowest he failed as before. Broken in body,
I came home and found my Rachel dead of fear and grief for me. The Lord our God
reigned, and I lived. From the emperor himself I bought immunity and license to
trade throughout the world. To-day—praised be He who maketh the clouds
his chariot and walketh upon the winds!—to-day, Esther, that which was in
my hands for stewardship is multiplied into talents sufficient to enrich a
Cæsar.”

He lifted his head proudly; their eyes met; each read the other’s
thought. “What shall I with the treasure, Esther?” he asked,
without lowering his gaze.

“My father,” she answered, in a low voice, “did not the
rightful owner call for it but now?”

Still his look did not fail.

“And thou, my child; shall I leave thee a beggar?”

“Nay, father, am not I, because I am thy child, his bond-servant? And of
whom was it written, ‘Strength and honor are her clothing, and she shall
rejoice in time to come?’”

A gleam of ineffable love lighted his face as he said, “The Lord hath
been good to me in many ways; but thou, Esther, art the sovereign excellence of
his favor.”

He drew her to his breast and kissed her many times.

“Hear now,” he said, with clearer voice—“hear now why I
laughed this morning. The young man faced me the apparition of his father in
comely youth. My spirit arose to salute him. I felt my trial-days were over and
my labors ended. Hardly could I keep from crying out. I longed to take him by
the hand and show the balance I had earned, and say, ‘Lo, ’tis all
thine! and I am thy servant, ready now to be called away.’ And so I would
have done, Esther, so I would have done, but that moment three thoughts rushed
to restrain me. I will be sure he is my master’s son—such was the
first thought; if he is my master’s son, I will learn somewhat of his
nature. Of those born to riches, bethink you, Esther, how many there are in
whose hands riches are but breeding curses”—he paused, while his
hands clutched, and his voice shrilled with passion—“Esther,
consider the pains I endured at the Roman’s hands; nay, not
Gratus’s alone: the merciless wretches who did his bidding the first time
and the last were Romans, and they all alike laughed to hear me scream.
Consider my broken body, and the years I have gone shorn of my stature;
consider thy mother yonder in her lonely tomb, crushed of soul as I of body;
consider the sorrows of my master’s family if they are living, and the
cruelty of their taking-off if they are dead; consider all, and, with
Heaven’s love about thee, tell me, daughter, shall not a hair fall or a
red drop run in expiation? Tell me not, as the preachers sometimes
do—tell me not that vengeance is the Lord’s. Does he not work his
will harmfully as well as in love by agencies? Has he not his men of war more
numerous than his prophets? Is not his the law, Eye for eye, hand for hand,
foot for foot? Oh, in all these years I have dreamed of vengeance, and prayed
and provided for it, and gathered patience from the growing of my store,
thinking and promising, as the Lord liveth, it will one day buy me punishment
of the wrong-doers? And when, speaking of his practise with arms, the young man
said it was for a nameless purpose, I named the purpose even as he
spoke—vengeance! and that, Esther, that it was—the third thought
which held me still and hard while his pleading lasted, and made me laugh when
he was gone.”

Esther caressed the faded hands, and said, as if her spirit with his were
running forward to results, “He is gone. Will he come again?”

“Ay, Malluch the faithful goes with him, and will bring him back when I
am ready.”

“And when will that be, father?”

“Not long, not long. He thinks all his witnesses dead. There is one
living who will not fail to know him, if he be indeed my master’s
son.”

“His mother?”

“Nay, daughter, I will set the witness before him; till then let us rest
the business with the Lord. I am tired. Call Abimelech.”

Esther called the servant, and they returned into the house.

CHAPTER V

When Ben-Hur sallied from the great warehouse, it was with the thought that
another failure was to be added to the many he had already met in the quest for
his people; and the idea was depressing exactly in proportion as the objects of
his quest were dear to him; it curtained him round about with a sense of utter
loneliness on earth, which, more than anything else, serves to eke from a soul
cast down its remaining interest in life.

Through the people, and the piles of goods, he made way to the edge of the
landing, and was tempted by the cool shadows darkening the river’s depth.
The lazy current seemed to stop and wait for him. In counteraction of the
spell, the saying of the voyager flashed into memory—“Better be a
worm, and feed upon the mulberries of Daphne, than a king’s guest.”
He turned, and walked rapidly down the landing and back to the khan.

“The road to Daphne!” the steward said, surprised at the question
Ben-Hur put to him. “You have not been here before? Well, count this the
happiest day of your life. You cannot mistake the road. The next street to the
left, going south, leads straight to Mount Sulpius, crowned by the altar of
Jupiter and the Amphitheater; keep it to the third cross street, known as
Herod’s Colonnade; turn to your right there, and hold the way through the
old city of Seleucus to the bronze gates of Epiphanes. There the road to Daphne
begins—and may the gods keep you!”

A few directions respecting his baggage, and Ben-Hur set out.

The Colonnade of Herod was easily found; thence to the brazen gates, under a
continuous marble portico, he passed with a multitude mixed of people from all
the trading nations of the earth.

It was about the fourth hour of the day when he passed out the gate, and found
himself one of a procession apparently interminable, moving to the famous
Grove. The road was divided into separate ways for footmen, for men on horses,
and men in chariots; and those again into separate ways for outgoers and
incomers. The lines of division were guarded by low balustrading, broken by
massive pedestals, many of which were surmounted with statuary. Right and left
of the road extended margins of sward perfectly kept, relieved at intervals by
groups of oak and sycamore trees, and vine-clad summer-houses for the
accommodation of the weary, of whom, on the return side, there were always
multitudes. The ways of the footmen were paved with red stone, and those of the
riders strewn with white sand compactly rolled, but not so solid as to give
back an echo to hoof or wheel. The number and variety of fountains at play were
amazing, all gifts of visiting kings, and called after them. Out southwest to
the gates of the Grove, the magnificent thoroughfare stretched a little over
four miles from the city.

In his wretchedness of feeling, Ben-Hur barely observed the royal liberality
which marked the construction of the road. Nor more did he at first notice the
crowd going with him. He treated the processional displays with like
indifference. To say truth, besides his self-absorption, he had not a little of
the complacency of a Roman visiting the provinces fresh from the ceremonies
which daily eddied round and round the golden pillar set up by Augustus as the
centre of the world. It was not possible for the provinces to offer anything
new or superior. He rather availed himself of every opportunity to push forward
through the companies in the way, and too slow-going for his impatience. By the
time he reached Heracleia, a suburban village intermediate the city and the
Grove, he was somewhat spent with exercise, and began to be susceptible of
entertainment. Once a pair of goats led by a beautiful woman, woman and goats
alike brilliant with ribbons and flowers, attracted his attention. Then he
stopped to look at a bull of mighty girth, and snowy white, covered with vines
freshly cut, and bearing on its broad back a naked child in a basket, the image
of a young Bacchus, squeezing the juice of ripened berries into a goblet, and
drinking with libational formulas. As he resumed his walk, he wondered whose
altars would be enriched by the offerings. A horse went by with clipped mane,
after the fashion of the time, his rider superbly dressed. He smiled to observe
the harmony of pride between the man and the brute. Often after that he turned
his head at hearing the rumble of wheels and the dull thud of hoofs;
unconsciously he was becoming interested in the styles of chariots and
charioteers, as they rustled past him going and coming. Nor was it long until
he began to make notes of the people around him. He saw they were of all ages,
sexes, and conditions, and all in holiday attire. One company was uniformed in
white, another in black; some bore flags, some smoking censers; some went
slowly, singing hymns; others stepped to the music of flutes and tabrets. If
such were the going to Daphne every day in the year, what a wondrous sight
Daphne must be! At last there was a clapping of hands, and a burst of joyous
cries; following the pointing of many fingers, he looked and saw upon the brow
of a hill the templed gate of the consecrated Grove. The hymns swelled to
louder strains; the music quickened time; and, borne along by the impulsive
current, and sharing the common eagerness, he passed in, and, Romanized in
taste as he was, fell to worshiping the place.

Rearward of the structure which graced the entrance-way—a purely Grecian
pile—he stood upon a broad esplanade paved with polished stone; around
him a restless exclamatory multitude, in gayest colors, relieved against the
iridescent spray flying crystal-white from fountains; before him, off to the
southwest, dustless paths radiated out into a garden, and beyond that into a
forest, over which rested a veil of pale-blue vapor. Ben-Hur gazed wistfully,
uncertain where to go. A woman that moment exclaimed,

“Beautiful! But where to now?”

Her companion, wearing a chaplet of bays, laughed and answered, “Go to,
thou pretty barbarian! The question implies an earthly fear; and did we not
agree to leave all such behind in Antioch with the rusty earth? The winds which
blow here are respirations of the gods. Let us give ourselves to waftage of the
winds.”

“But if we should get lost?”

“O thou timid! No one was ever lost in Daphne, except those on whom her
gates close forever.”

“And who are they?” she asked, still fearful.

“Such as have yielded to the charms of the place and chosen it for life
and death. Hark! Stand we here, and I will show you of whom I speak.”

Upon the marble pavement there was a scurry of sandalled feet; the crowd
opened, and a party of girls rushed about the speaker and his fair friend, and
began singing and dancing to the tabrets they themselves touched. The woman,
scared, clung to the man, who put an arm about her, and, with kindled face,
kept time to the music with the other hand overhead. The hair of the dancers
floated free, and their limbs blushed through the robes of gauze which scarcely
draped them. Words may not be used to tell of the voluptuousness of the dance.
One brief round, and they darted off through the yielding crowd lightly as they
had come.

“Now what think you?” cried the man to the woman.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Devadasi—priestesses devoted to the Temple of Apollo. There is an
army of them. They make the chorus in celebrations. This is their home.
Sometimes they wander off to other cities, but all they make is brought here to
enrich the house of the divine musician. Shall we go now?”

Next minute the two were gone.

Ben-Hur took comfort in the assurance that no one was ever lost in Daphne, and
he, too, set out—where, he knew not.

A sculpture reared upon a beautiful pedestal in the garden attracted him first.
It proved to be the statue of a centaur. An inscription informed the unlearned
visitor that it exactly represented Chiron, the beloved of Apollo and Diana,
instructed by them in the mysteries of hunting, medicine, music, and prophecy.
The inscription also bade the stranger look out at a certain part of the
heavens, at a certain hour of the clear night, and he would behold the dead
alive among the stars, whither Jupiter had transferred the good genius.

The wisest of the centaurs continued, nevertheless, in the service of mankind.
In his hand he held a scroll, on which, graven in Greek, were paragraphs of a
notice:

“O Traveller!
“Art thou a stranger?

“I. Hearken to the singing of the brooks, and fear not the rain of the
fountains; so will the Naiades learn to love thee.

“II. The invited breezes of Daphne are Zephyrus and Auster; gentle
ministers of life, they will gather sweets for thee; when Eurus blows, Diana is
elsewhere hunting; when Boreas blusters, go hide, for Apollo is angry.

“III. The shades of the Grove are thine in the day; at night they belong
to Pan and his Dryades. Disturb them not.

“IV. Eat of the Lotus by the brooksides sparingly, unless thou wouldst
have surcease of memory, which is to become a child of Daphne.

“V. Walk thou round the weaving spider—’tis Arachne at work
for Minerva.

“VI. Wouldst thou behold the tears of Daphne, break but a bud from a
laurel bough—and die.

“Heed thou!
“And stay and be happy.”

Ben-Hur left the interpretation of the mystic notice to others fast enclosing
him, and turned away as the white bull was led by. The boy sat in the basket,
followed by a procession; after them again, the woman with the goats; and
behind her the flute and tabret players, and another procession of
gift-bringers.

“Whither go they?” asked a bystander.

Another made answer, “The bull to Father Jove; the goat—”

“Did not Apollo once keep the flocks of Admetus?”

“Ay, the goat to Apollo!”

The goodness of the reader is again besought in favor of an explanation. A
certain facility of accommodation in the matter of religion comes to us after
much intercourse with people of a different faith; gradually we attain the
truth that every creed is illustrated by good men who are entitled to our
respect, but whom we cannot respect without courtesy to their creed. To this
point Ben-Hur had arrived. Neither the years in Rome nor those in the galley
had made any impression upon his religious faith; he was yet a Jew. In his
view, nevertheless, it was not an impiety to look for the beautiful in the
Grove of Daphne.

The remark does not interdict the further saying, if his scruples had been ever
so extreme, not improbably he would at this time have smothered them. He was
angry; not as the irritable, from chafing of a trifle; nor was his anger like
the fool’s, pumped from the wells of nothing, to be dissipated by a
reproach or a curse; it was the wrath peculiar to ardent natures rudely
awakened by the sudden annihilation of a hope—dream, if you will—in
which the choicest happinesses were thought to be certainly in reach. In such
case nothing intermediate will carry off the passion—the quarrel is with
Fate.

Let us follow the philosophy a little further, and say to ourselves, it were
well in such quarrels if Fate were something tangible, to be despatched with a
look or a blow, or a speaking personage with whom high words were possible;
then the unhappy mortal would not always end the affair by punishing himself.

In ordinary mood, Ben-Hur would not have come to the Grove alone, or, coming
alone, he would have availed himself of his position in the consul’s
family, and made provision against wandering idly about, unknowing and unknown;
he would have had all the points of interest in mind, and gone to them under
guidance, as in the despatch of business; or, wishing to squander days of
leisure in the beautiful place, he would have had in hand a letter to the
master of it all, whoever he might be. This would have made him a sightseer,
like the shouting herd he was accompanying; whereas he had no reverence for the
deities of the Grove, nor curiosity; a man in the blindness of bitter
disappointment, he was adrift, not waiting for Fate, but seeking it as a
desperate challenger.

Every one has known this condition of mind, though perhaps not all in the same
degree; every one will recognize it as the condition in which he has done brave
things with apparent serenity; and every one reading will say, Fortunate for
Ben-Hur if the folly which now catches him is but a friendly harlequin with
whistle and painted cap, and not some Violence with a pointed sword pitiless.

CHAPTER VI

Ben-Hur entered the woods with the processions. He had not interest enough at
first to ask where they were going; yet, to relieve him from absolute
indifference, he had a vague impression that they were in movement to the
temples, which were the central objects of the Grove, supreme in attractions.

Presently, as singers dreamfully play with a flitting chorus, he began
repeating to himself, “Better be a worm, and feed on the mulberries of
Daphne, than a king’s guest.” Then of the much repetition arose
questions importunate of answer. Was life in the Grove so very sweet? Wherein
was the charm? Did it lie in some tangled depth of philosophy? Or was it
something in fact, something on the surface, discernible to every-day wakeful
senses? Every year thousands, forswearing the world, gave themselves to service
here. Did they find the charm? And was it sufficient, when found, to induce
forgetfulness profound enough to shut out of mind the infinitely diverse things
of life? those that sweeten and those that embitter? hopes hovering in the near
future as well as sorrows born of the past? If the Grove were so good for them,
why should it not be good for him? He was a Jew; could it be that the
excellences were for all the world but children of Abraham? Forthwith he bent
all his faculties to the task of discovery, unmindful of the singing of the
gift-bringers and the quips of his associates.

In the quest, the sky yielded him nothing; it was blue, very blue, and full of
twittering swallows—so was the sky over the city.

Further on, out of the woods at his right hand, a breeze poured across the
road, splashing him with a wave of sweet smells, blent of roses and consuming
spices. He stopped, as did others, looking the way the breeze came.

“A garden over there?” he said, to a man at his elbow.

“Rather some priestly ceremony in performance—something to Diana,
or Pan, or a deity of the woods.”

The answer was in his mother tongue. Ben-Hur gave the speaker a surprised look.

“A Hebrew?” he asked him.

The man replied with a deferential smile,

“I was born within a stone’s-throw of the market-place in
Jerusalem.”

Ben-Hur was proceeding to further speech, when the crowd surged forward,
thrusting him out on the side of the walk next the woods, and carrying the
stranger away. The customary gown and staff, a brown cloth on the head tied by
a yellow rope, and a strong Judean face to avouch the garments of honest right,
remained in the young man’s mind, a kind of summary of the man.

This took place at a point where a path into the woods began, offering a happy
escape from the noisy processions. Ben-Hur availed himself of the offer.

He walked first into a thicket which, from the road, appeared in a state of
nature, close, impenetrable, a nesting-place for wild birds. A few steps,
however, gave him to see the master’s hand even there. The shrubs were
flowering or fruit-bearing; under the bending branches the ground was pranked
with brightest blooms; over them the jasmine stretched its delicate bonds. From
lilac and rose, and lily and tulip, from oleander and strawberry-tree, all old
friends in the gardens of the valleys about the city of David, the air,
lingering or in haste, loaded itself with exhalations day and night; and that
nothing might be wanting to the happiness of the nymphs and naiads, down
through the flower-lighted shadows of the mass a brook went its course gently,
and by many winding ways.

Out of the thicket, as he proceeded, on his right and left, issued the cry of
the pigeon and the cooing of turtle-doves; blackbirds waited for him, and bided
his coming close; a nightingale kept its place fearless, though he passed in
arm’s-length; a quail ran before him at his feet, whistling to the brood
she was leading, and as he paused for them to get out of his way, a figure
crawled from a bed of honeyed musk brilliant with balls of golden blossoms.
Ben-Hur was startled. Had he, indeed, been permitted to see a satyr at home?
The creature looked up at him, and showed in its teeth a hooked pruning-knife;
he smiled at his own scare, and, lo! the charm was evolved! Peace without
fear—peace a universal condition—that it was!

He sat upon the ground beneath a citron-tree, which spread its gray roots
sprawling to receive a branch of the brook. The nest of a titmouse hung close
to the bubbling water, and the tiny creature looked out of the door of the nest
into his eyes. “Verily, the bird is interpreting to me,” he
thought. “It says, ‘I am not afraid of you, for the law of this
happy place is Love.’”

The charm of the Grove seemed plain to him; he was glad, and determined to
render himself one of the lost in Daphne. In charge of the flowers and shrubs,
and watching the growth of all the dumb excellences everywhere to be seen,
could not he, like the man with the pruning-knife in his mouth, forego the days
of his troubled life—forego them forgetting and forgotten?

But by-and-by his Jewish nature began to stir within him.

The charm might be sufficient for some people. Of what kind were they?

Love is delightful—ah! how pleasant as a successor to wretchedness like
his. But was it all there was of life? All?

There was an unlikeness between him and those who buried themselves contentedly
here. They had no duties—they could not have had; but he—

“God of Israel!” he cried aloud, springing to his feet, with
burning cheeks—“Mother! Tirzah! Cursed be the moment, cursed the
place, in which I yield myself happy in your loss!”

He hurried away through the thicket, and came to a stream flowing with the
volume of a river between banks of masonry, broken at intervals by gated
sluiceways. A bridge carried the path he was traversing across the stream; and,
standing upon it, he saw other bridges, no two of them alike. Under him the
water was lying in a deep pool, clear as a shadow; down a little way it tumbled
with a roar over rocks; then there was another pool, and another cascade; and
so on, out of view; and bridges and pools and resounding cascades said, plainly
as inarticulate things can tell a story, the river was running by permission of
a master, exactly as the master would have it, tractable as became a servant of
the gods.

Forward from the bridge he beheld a landscape of wide valleys and irregular
heights, with groves and lakes and fanciful houses linked together by white
paths and shining streams. The valleys were spread below, that the river might
be poured upon them for refreshment in days of drought, and they were as green
carpets figured with beds and fields of flowers, and flecked with flocks of
sheep white as balls of snow; and the voices of shepherds following the flocks
were heard afar. As if to tell him of the pious inscription of all he beheld,
the altars out under the open sky seemed countless, each with a white-gowned
figure attending it, while processions in white went slowly hither and thither
between them; and the smoke of the altars half-risen hung collected in pale
clouds over the devoted places.

Here, there, happy in flight, intoxicated in pause, from object to object,
point to point, now in the meadow, now on the heights, now lingering to
penetrate the groves and observe the processions, then lost in efforts to
pursue the paths and streams which trended mazily into dim perspectives to end
finally in— Ah, what might be a fitting end to scene so beautiful! What
adequate mysteries were hidden behind an introduction so marvellous! Here and
there, the speech was beginning, his gaze wandered, so he could not help the
conviction, forced by the view, and as the sum of it all, that there was peace
in the air and on the earth, and invitation everywhere to come and lie down
here and be at rest.

Suddenly a revelation dawned upon him—the Grove was, in fact, a
temple—one far-reaching, wall-less temple!

Never anything like it!

The architect had not stopped to pother about columns and porticos, proportions
or interiors, or any limitation upon the epic he sought to materialize; he had
simply made a servant of Nature—art can go no further. So the cunning son
of Jupiter and Callisto built the old Arcadia; and in this, as in that, the
genius was Greek.

From the bridge Ben-Hur went forward into the nearest valley.

He came to a flock of sheep. The shepherd was a girl, and she beckoned him,
“Come!”

Farther on, the path was divided by an altar—a pedestal of black gneiss,
capped with a slab of white marble deftly foliated, and on that a brazier of
bronze holding a fire. Close by it, a woman, seeing him, waved a wand of
willow, and as he passed called him, “Stay!” And the temptation in
her smile was that of passionate youth.

On yet further, he met one of the processions; at its head a troop of little
girls, nude except as they were covered with garlands, piped their shrill
voices into a song; then a troop of boys, also nude, their bodies deeply
sun-browned, came dancing to the song of the girls; behind them the procession,
all women, bearing baskets of spices and sweets to the altars—women clad
in simple robes, careless of exposure. As he went by they held their hands to
him, and said, “Stay, and go with us.” One, a Greek, sang a verse
from Anacreon:

“For to-day I take or give;
For to-day I drink and live;
For to-day I beg or borrow;
Who knows about the silent morrow?”

But he pursued his way indifferent, and came next to a grove luxuriant, in the
heart of the vale at the point where it would be most attractive to the
observing eye. As it came close to the path he was travelling, there was a
seduction in its shade, and through the foliage he caught the shining of what
appeared a pretentious statue; so he turned aside, and entered the cool
retreat.

The grass was fresh and clean. The trees did not crowd each other; and they
were of every kind native to the East, blended well with strangers adopted from
far quarters; here grouped in exclusive companionship palm-trees plumed like
queens; there sycamores, overtopping laurels of darker foliage; and evergreen
oaks rising verdantly, with cedars vast enough to be kings on Lebanon; and
mulberries; and terebinths so beautiful it is not hyperbole to speak of them as
blown from the orchards of Paradise.

The statue proved to be a Daphne of wondrous beauty. Hardly, however, had he
time to more than glance at her face: at the base of the pedestal a girl and a
youth were lying upon a tiger’s skin asleep in each other’s arms;
close by them the implements of their service—his axe and sickle, her
basket—flung carelessly upon a heap of fading roses.

The exposure startled him. Back in the hush of the perfumed thicket he
discovered, as he thought, that the charm of the great Grove was peace without
fear, and almost yielded to it; now, in this sleep in the day’s broad
glare—this sleep at the feet of Daphne—he read a further chapter to
which only the vaguest allusion is sufferable. The law of the place was Love,
but Love without Law.

And this was the sweet peace of Daphne!

This the life’s end of her ministers!

For this kings and princes gave of their revenues!

For this a crafty priesthood subordinated nature—her birds and brooks and
lilies, the river, the labor of many hands, the sanctity of altars, the fertile
power of the sun!

It would be pleasant now to record that as Ben-Hur pursued his walk assailed by
such reflections, he yielded somewhat to sorrow for the votaries of the great
outdoor temple; especially for those who, by personal service, kept it in a
state so surpassingly lovely. How they came to the condition was not any longer
a mystery; the motive, the influence, the inducement, were before him. Some
there were, no doubt, caught by the promise held out to their troubled spirits
of endless peace in a consecrated abode, to the beauty of which, if they had
not money, they could contribute their labor; this class implied intellect
peculiarly subject to hope and fear; but the great body of the faithful could
not be classed with such. Apollo’s nets were wide, and their meshes
small; and hardly may one tell what all his fishermen landed: this less for
that they cannot be described than because they ought not to be. Enough that
the mass were of the sybarites of the world, and of the herds in number vaster
and in degree lower—devotees of the unmixed sensualism to which the East
was almost wholly given. Not to any of the exaltations—not to the
singing-god, or his unhappy mistress; not to any philosophy requiring for its
enjoyment the calm of retirement, nor to any service for the comfort there is
in religion, nor to love in its holier sense—were they abiding their
vows. Good reader, why shall not the truth be told here? Why not learn that, at
this age, there were in all earth but two peoples capable of exaltations of the
kind referred to—those who lived by the law of Moses, and those who lived
by the law of Brahma. They alone could have cried you, Better a law without
love than a love without law.

Besides that, sympathy is in great degree a result of the mood we are in at the
moment: anger forbids the emotion. On the other hand, it is easiest taken on
when we are in a state of most absolute self-satisfaction. Ben-Hur walked with
a quicker step, holding his head higher; and, while not less sensitive to the
delightfulness of all about him, he made his survey with calmer spirit, though
sometimes with curling lip; that is to say, he could not so soon forget how
nearly he himself had been imposed upon.

CHAPTER VII

In front of Ben-Hur there was a forest of cypress-trees, each a column tall and
straight as a mast. Venturing into the shady precinct, he heard a trumpet gayly
blown, and an instant after saw lying upon the grass close by the countryman
whom he had run upon in the road going to the temples. The man arose, and came
to him.

“I give you peace again,” he said, pleasantly.

“Thank you,” Ben-Hur replied, then asked, “Go you my
way?”

“I am for the stadium, if that is your way.”

“The stadium!”

“Yes. The trumpet you heard but now was a call for the
competitors.”

“Good friend,” said Ben-Hur, frankly, “I admit my ignorance
of the Grove; and if you will let me be your follower, I will be glad.”

“That will delight me. Hark! I hear the wheels of the chariots. They are
taking the track.”

Ben-Hur listened a moment, then completed the introduction by laying his hand
upon the man’s arm, and saying, “I am the son of Arrius, the
duumvir, and thou?”

“I am Malluch, a merchant of Antioch.”

“Well, good Malluch, the trumpet, and the gride of wheels, and the
prospect of diversion excite me. I have some skill in the exercises. In the
palaestrae of Rome I am not unknown. Let us to the course.”

Malluch lingered to say, quickly, “The duumvir was a Roman, yet I see his
son in the garments of a Jew.”

“The noble Arrius was my father by adoption,” Ben-Hur answered.

“Ah! I see, and beg pardon.”

Passing through the belt of forest, they came to a field with a track laid out
upon it, in shape and extent exactly like those of the stadia. The course, or
track proper, was of soft earth, rolled and sprinkled, and on both sides
defined by ropes, stretched loosely upon upright javelins. For the
accommodation of spectators, and such as had interests reaching forward of the
mere practise, there were several stands shaded by substantial awnings, and
provided with seats in rising rows. In one of the stands the two new-comers
found places.

Ben-Hur counted the chariots as they went by—nine in all.

“I commend the fellows,” he said, with good-will. “Here in
the East, I thought they aspired to nothing better than the two; but they are
ambitious, and play with royal fours. Let us study their performance.”

Eight of the fours passed the stand, some walking, others on the trot, and all
unexceptionably handled; then the ninth one came on the gallop. Ben-Hur burst
into exclamation.

“I have been in the stables of the emperor, Malluch, but, by our father
Abraham of blessed memory! I never saw the like of these.”

The last four was then sweeping past. All at once they fell into confusion.
Some one on the stand uttered a sharp cry. Ben-Hur turned, and saw an old man
half-risen from an upper seat, his hands clenched and raised, his eyes fiercely
bright, his long white beard fairly quivering. Some of the spectators nearest
him began to laugh.

“They should respect his beard at least. Who is he?” asked Ben-Hur.

“A mighty man from the Desert, somewhere beyond Moab, and owner of camels
in herds, and horses descended, they say, from the racers of the first
Pharaoh—Sheik Ilderim by name and title.”

Thus Malluch replied.

The driver meanwhile exerted himself to quiet the four, but without avail. Each
ineffectual effort excited the sheik the more.

“Abaddon seize him!” yelled the patriarch, shrilly. “Run!
fly! do you hear, my children?” The question was to his attendants,
apparently of the tribe. “Do you hear? They are Desert-born, like
yourselves. Catch them—quick!”

The plunging of the animals increased.

“Accursed Roman!” and the sheik shook his fist at the driver.
“Did he not swear he could drive them—swear it by all his brood of
bastard Latin gods? Nay, hands off me—off, I say! They should run swift
as eagles, and with the temper of hand-bred lambs, he swore. Cursed be
he—cursed the mother of liars who calls him son! See them, the priceless!
Let him touch one of them with a lash, and”—the rest of the
sentence was lost in a furious grinding of his teeth. “To their heads,
some of you, and speak them—a word, one is enough, from the tent-song
your mothers sang you. Oh, fool, fool that I was to put trust in a
Roman!”

Some of the shrewder of the old man’s friends planted themselves between
him and the horses. An opportune failure of breath on his part helped the
stratagem.

Ben-Hur, thinking he comprehended the sheik, sympathized with him. Far more
than mere pride of property—more than anxiety for the result of the
race—in his view it was within the possible for the patriarch, according
to his habits of thought and his ideas of the inestimable, to love such animals
with a tenderness akin to the most sensitive passion.

They were all bright bays, unspotted, perfectly matched, and so proportioned as
to seem less than they really were. Delicate ears pointed small heads; the
faces were broad and full between the eyes; the nostrils in expansion disclosed
membrane so deeply red as to suggest the flashing of flame; the necks were
arches, overlaid with fine mane so abundant as to drape the shoulders and
breast, while in happy consonance the forelocks were like ravellings of silken
veils; between the knees and the fetlocks the legs were flat as an open hand,
but above the knees they were rounded with mighty muscles, needful to upbear
the shapely close-knit bodies; the hoofs were like cups of polished agate; and
in rearing and plunging they whipped the air, and sometimes the earth, with
tails glossy-black and thick and long. The sheik spoke of them as the
priceless, and it was a good saying.

In this second and closer look at the horses, Ben-Hur read the story of their
relation to their master. They had grown up under his eyes, objects of his
special care in the day, his visions of pride in the night, with his family at
home in the black tent out on the shadeless bosom of the desert, as his
children beloved. That they might win him a triumph over the haughty and hated
Roman, the old man had brought his loves to the city, never doubting they would
win, if only he could find a trusty expert to take them in hand; not merely one
with skill, but of a spirit which their spirits would acknowledge. Unlike the
colder people of the West, he could not protest the driver’s inability,
and dismiss him civilly; an Arab and a sheik, he had to explode, and rive the
air about him with clamor.

Before the patriarch was done with his expletives, a dozen hands were at the
bits of the horses, and their quiet assured. About that time, another chariot
appeared upon the track; and, unlike the others, driver, vehicle, and races
were precisely as they would be presented in the Circus the day of final trial.
For a reason which will presently be more apparent, it is desirable now to give
this turnout plainly to the reader.

There should be no difficulty in understanding the carriage known to us all as
the chariot of classical renown. One has but to picture to himself a dray with
low wheels and broad axle, surmounted by a box open at the tail end. Such was
the primitive pattern. Artistic genius came along in time, and, touching the
rude machine, raised it into a thing of beauty—that, for instance, in
which Aurora, riding in advance of the dawn, is given to our fancy.

The jockeys of the ancients, quite as shrewd and ambitious as their successors
of the present, called their humblest turnout a two, and their best in grade a
four; in the latter, they contested the Olympics and the other festal shows
founded in imitation of them.

The same sharp gamesters preferred to put their horses to the chariot all
abreast; and for distinction they termed the two next the pole yoke-steeds, and
those on the right and left outside trace-mates. It was their judgment, also,
that, by allowing the fullest freedom of action, the greatest speed was
attainable; accordingly, the harness resorted to was peculiarly simple; in
fact, there was nothing of it save a collar round the animal’s neck, and
a trace fixed to the collar, unless the lines and a halter fall within the
term. Wanting to hitch up, the masters pinned a narrow wooden yoke, or
cross-tree, near the end of the pole, and, by straps passed through rings at
the end of the yoke, buckled the latter to the collar. The traces of the
yokesteeds they hitched to the axle; those of the trace-mates to the top rim of
the chariot-bed. There remained then but the adjustment of the lines, which,
judged by the modern devices, was not the least curious part of the method. For
this there was a large ring at the forward extremity of the pole; securing the
ends to that ring first, they parted the lines so as to give one to each horse,
and proceeded to pass them to the driver, slipping them separately through
rings on the inner side of the halters at the mouth.

With this plain generalization in mind, all further desirable knowledge upon
the subject can be had by following the incidents of the scene occurring.

The other contestants had been received in silence; the last comer was more
fortunate. While moving towards the stand from which we are viewing the scene,
his progress was signalized by loud demonstrations, by clapping of hands and
cheers, the effect of which was to centre attention upon him exclusively. His
yoke-steeds, it was observed, were black, while the trace-mates were
snow-white. In conformity to the exacting canons of Roman taste, they had all
four been mutilated; that is to say, their tails had been clipped, and, to
complete the barbarity, their shorn manes were divided into knots tied with
flaring red and yellow ribbons.

In advancing, the stranger at length reached a point where the chariot came
into view from the stand, and its appearance would of itself have justified the
shouting. The wheels were very marvels of construction. Stout bands of
burnished bronze reinforced the hubs, otherwise very light; the spokes were
sections of ivory tusks, set in with the natural curve outward to perfect the
dishing, considered important then as now; bronze tires held the fellies, which
were of shining ebony. The axle, in keeping with the wheels, was tipped with
heads of snarling tigers done in brass, and the bed was woven of willow wands
gilded with gold.

The coming of the beautiful horses and resplendent chariot drew Ben-Hur to look
at the driver with increased interest.

Who was he?

When Ben-Hur asked himself the question first, he could not see the man’s
face, or even his full figure; yet the air and manner were familiar, and
pricked him keenly with a reminder of a period long gone.

Who could it be?

Nearer now, and the horses approaching at a trot. From the shouting and the
gorgeousness of the turnout, it was thought he might be some official favorite
or famous prince. Such an appearance was not inconsistent with exalted rank.
Kings often struggled for the crown of leaves which was the prize of victory.
Nero and Commodus, it will be remembered, devoted themselves to the chariot.
Ben-Hur arose and forced a passage down nearly to the railing in front of the
lower seat of the stand. His face was earnest, his manner eager.

And directly the whole person of the driver was in view. A companion rode with
him, in classic description a Myrtilus, permitted men of high estate indulging
their passion for the race-course. Ben-Hur could see only the driver, standing
erect in the chariot, with the reins passed several times round his
body—a handsome figure, scantily covered by a tunic of light-red cloth;
in the right hand a whip; in the other, the arm raised and lightly extended,
the four lines. The pose was exceedingly graceful and animated. The cheers and
clapping of hands were received with statuesque indifference. Ben-Hur stood
transfixed—his instinct and memory had served him faithfully—THE
DRIVER WAS MESSALA.

By the selection of horses, the magnificence of the chariot, the attitude, and
display of person—above all, by the expression of the cold, sharp, eagle
features, imperialized in his countrymen by sway of the world through so many
generations, Ben-Hur knew Messala unchanged, as haughty, confident, and
audacious as ever, the same in ambition, cynicism, and mocking insouciance.

CHAPTER VIII

As Ben-Hur descended the steps of the stand, an Arab arose upon the last one at
the foot, and cried out,

“Men of the East and West—hearken! The good Sheik Ilderim giveth
greeting. With four horses, sons of the favorites of Solomon the Wise, he hath
come up against the best. Needs he most a mighty man to drive them. Whoso will
take them to his satisfaction, to him he promiseth enrichment forever.
Here—there—in the city and in the Circuses, and wherever the strong
most do congregate, tell ye this his offer. So saith my master, Sheik Ilderim
the Generous.”

The proclamation awakened a great buzz among the people under the awning. By
night it would be repeated and discussed in all the sporting circles of
Antioch. Ben-Hur, hearing it, stopped and looked hesitatingly from the herald
to the sheik. Malluch thought he was about to accept the offer, but was
relieved when he presently turned to him, and asked, “Good Malluch, where
to now?”

The worthy replied, with a laugh, “Would you liken yourself to others
visiting the Grove for the first time, you will straightway to hear your
fortune told.”

“My fortune, said you? Though the suggestion has in it a flavor of
unbelief, let us to the goddess at once.”

“Nay, son of Arrius, these Apollonians have a better trick than that.
Instead of speech with a Pythia or a Sibyl, they will sell you a plain papyrus
leaf, hardly dry from the stalk, and bid you dip it in the water of a certain
fountain, when it will show you a verse in which you may hear of your
future.”

The glow of interest departed from Ben-Hur’s face.

“There are people who have no need to vex themselves about their
future,” he said, gloomily.

“Then you prefer to go to the temples?”

“The temples are Greek, are they not?”

“They call them Greek.”

“The Hellenes were masters of the beautiful in art; but in architecture
they sacrificed variety to unbending beauty. Their temples are all alike. How
call you the fountain?”

“Castalia.”

“Oh! it has repute throughout the world. Let us thither.”

Malluch kept watch on his companion as they went, and saw that for the moment
at least his good spirits were out. To the people passing he gave no attention;
over the wonders they came upon there were no exclamations; silently, even
sullenly, he kept a slow pace.

The truth was, the sight of Messala had set Ben-Hur to thinking. It seemed
scarce an hour ago that the strong hands had torn him from his mother, scarce
an hour ago that the Roman had put seal upon the gates of his father’s
house. He recounted how, in the hopeless misery of the life—if such it
might be called—in the galleys, he had had little else to do, aside from
labor, than dream dreams of vengeance, in all of which Messala was the
principal. There might be, he used to say to himself, escape for Gratus, but
for Messala—never! And to strengthen and harden his resolution, he was
accustomed to repeat over and over, Who pointed us out to the persecutors? And
when I begged him for help—not for myself—who mocked me, and went
away laughing? And always the dream had the same ending. The day I meet him,
help me, thou good God of my people!—help me to some fitting special
vengeance!

And now the meeting was at hand.

Perhaps, if he had found Messala poor and suffering, Ben-Hur’s feeling
had been different; but it was not so. He found him more than prosperous; in
the prosperity there was a dash and glitter—gleam of sun on gilt of gold.

So it happened that what Malluch accounted a passing loss of spirit was
pondering when the meeting should be, and in what manner he could make it most
memorable.

They turned after a while into an avenue of oaks, where the people were going
and coming in groups; footmen here, and horsemen; there women in litters borne
slaves; and now and then chariots rolled by thunderously.

At the end of the avenue the road, by an easy grade, descended into a lowland,
where, on the right hand, there was a precipitous facing of gray rock, and on
the left an open meadow of vernal freshness. Then they came in view of the
famous Fountain of Castalia.

Edging through a company assembled at the point, Ben-Hur beheld a jet of sweet
water pouring from the crest of a stone into a basin of black marble, where,
after much boiling and foaming, it disappeared as through a funnel.

By the basin, under a small portico cut in the solid wall, sat a priest, old,
bearded, wrinkled, cowled—never being more perfectly eremitish. From the
manner of the people present, hardly might one say which was the attraction,
the fountain, forever sparkling, or the priest, forever there. He heard, saw,
was seen, but never spoke. Occasionally a visitor extended a hand to him with a
coin in it. With a cunning twinkle of the eyes, he took the money, and gave the
party in exchange a leaf of papyrus.

The receiver made haste to plunge the papyrus into the basin; then, holding the
dripping leaf in the sunlight, he would be rewarded with a versified
inscription upon its face; and the fame of the fountain seldom suffered loss by
poverty of merit in the poetry. Before Ben-Hur could test the oracle, some
other visitors were seen approaching across the meadow, and their appearance
piqued the curiosity of the company, his not less than theirs.

He saw first a camel, very tall and very white, in leading of a driver on
horseback. A houdah on the animal, besides being unusually large, was of
crimson and gold. Two other horsemen followed the camel with tall spears in
hand.

“What a wonderful camel!” said one of the company.

“A prince from afar,” another one suggested.

“More likely a king.”

“If he were on an elephant, I would say he was a king.”

A third man had a very different opinion.

“A camel—and a white camel!” he said, authoritatively.
“By Apollo, friends, they who come yonder—you can see there are two
of them—are neither kings nor princes; they are women!”

In the midst of the dispute the strangers arrived.

The camel seen at hand did not belie his appearance afar. A taller, statelier
brute of his kind no traveller at the fountain, though from the remotest parts,
had ever beheld. Such great black eyes! such exceedingly fine white hair! feet
so contractile when raised, so soundless in planting, so broad when
set!—nobody had ever seen the peer of this camel. And how well he became
his housing of silk, and all its frippery of gold in fringe and gold in tassel!
The tinkling of silver bells went before him, and he moved lightly, as if
unknowing of his burden.

But who were the man and woman under the houdah?

Every eye saluted them with the inquiry.

If the former were a prince or a king, the philosophers of the crowd might not
deny the impartiality of Time. When they saw the thin, shrunken face buried
under an immense turban, the skin of the hue of a mummy, making it impossible
to form an idea of his nationality, they were pleased to think the limit of
life was for the great as well as the small. They saw about his person nothing
so enviable as the shawl which draped him.

The woman was seated in the manner of the East, amidst veils and laces of
surpassing fineness. Above her elbows she wore armlets fashioned like coiled
asps, and linked to bracelets at the wrists by strands of gold; otherwise the
arms were bare and of singular natural grace, complemented with hands modelled
daintily as a child’s. One of the hands rested upon the side of the
carriage, showing tapered fingers glittering with rings, and stained at the
tips till they blushed like the pink of mother-of-pearl. She wore an open caul
upon her head, sprinkled with beads of coral, and strung with coin-pieces
called sunlets, some of which were carried across her forehead, while others
fell down her back, half-smothered in the mass of her straight blue-black hair,
of itself an incomparable ornament, not needing the veil which covered it,
except as a protection against sun and dust. From her elevated seat she looked
upon the people calmly, pleasantly, and apparently so intent upon studying them
as to be unconscious of the interest she herself was exciting; and, what was
unusual—nay, in violent contravention of the custom among women of rank
in public—she looked at them with an open face.

It was a fair face to see; quite youthful; in form, oval: complexion not white,
like the Greek; nor brunet, like the Roman; nor blond, like the Gaul; but
rather the tinting of the sun of the Upper Nile upon a skin of such
transparency that the blood shone through it on cheek and brow with nigh the
ruddiness of lamplight. The eyes, naturally large, were touched along the lids
with the black paint immemorial throughout the East. The lips were slightly
parted, disclosing, through their scarlet lake, teeth of glistening whiteness.
To all these excellences of countenance the reader is finally besought to
superadd the air derived from the pose of a small head, classic in shape, set
upon a neck long, drooping, and graceful—the air, we may fancy, happily
described by the word queenly.

As if satisfied with the survey of people and locality, the fair creature spoke
to the driver—an Ethiopian of vast brawn, naked to the waist—who
led the camel nearer the fountain, and caused it to kneel; after which he
received from her hand a cup, and proceeded to fill it at the basin. That
instant the sound of wheels and the trampling of horses in rapid motion broke
the silence her beauty had imposed, and, with a great outcry, the bystanders
parted in every direction, hurrying to get away.

“The Roman has a mind to ride us down. Look out!” Malluch shouted
to Ben-Hur, setting him at the same time an example of hasty flight.

The latter faced to the direction the sounds came from, and beheld Messala in
his chariot pushing the four straight at the crowd. This time the view was near
and distinct.

The parting of the company uncovered the camel, which might have been more
agile than his kind generally; yet the hoofs were almost upon him, and he
resting with closed eyes, chewing the endless cud with such sense of security
as long favoritism may be supposed to have bred in him. The Ethiopian wrung his
hands afraid. In the houdah, the old man moved to escape; but he was hampered
with age, and could not, even in the face of danger, forget the dignity which
was plainly his habit. It was too late for the woman to save herself. Ben-Hur
stood nearest them, and he called to Messala,

“Hold! Look where thou goest! Back, back!”

The patrician was laughing in hearty good-humor; and, seeing there was but one
chance of rescue, Ben-Hur stepped in, and caught the bits of the left
yoke-steed and his mate. “Dog of a Roman! Carest thou so little for
life?” he cried, putting forth all his strength. The two horses reared,
and drew the others round; the tilting of the pole tilted the chariot; Messala
barely escaped a fall, while his complacent Myrtilus rolled back like a clod to
the ground. Seeing the peril past, all the bystanders burst into derisive
laughter.

The matchless audacity of the Roman then manifested itself. Loosing the lines
from his body, he tossed them to one side, dismounted, walked round the camel,
looked at Ben-Hur, and spoke partly to the old man and partly to the woman.

“Pardon, I pray you—I pray you both. I am Messala,” he said;
“and, by the old Mother of the earth, I swear I did not see you or your
camel! As to these good people—perhaps I trusted too much to my skill. I
sought a laugh at them—the laugh is theirs. Good may it do them!”

The good-natured, careless look and gesture he threw the bystanders accorded
well with the speech. To hear what more he had to say, they became quiet.
Assured of victory over the body of the offended, he signed his companion to
take the chariot to a safer distance, and addressed himself boldly to the
woman.

“Thou hast interest in the good man here, whose pardon, if not granted
now, I shall seek with the greater diligence hereafter; his daughter, I should
say.”

She made him no reply.

“By Pallas, thou art beautiful! Beware Apollo mistake thee not for his
lost love. I wonder what land can boast herself thy mother. Turn not away. A
truce! a truce! There is the sun of India in thine eyes; in the corners of thy
mouth, Egypt hath set her love-signs. Perpol! Turn not to that slave, fair
mistress, before proving merciful to this one. Tell me at least that I am
pardoned.”

At this point she broke in upon him.

“Wilt thou come here?” she asked, smiling, and with gracious bend
of the head to Ben-Hur.

“Take the cup and fill it, I pray thee,” she said to the latter.
“My father is thirsty.”

“I am thy most willing servant!”

Ben-Hur turned about to do the favor, and was face to face with Messala. Their
glances met; the Jew’s defiant; the Roman’s sparkling with humor.

“O stranger, beautiful as cruel!” Messala said, waving his hand to
her. “If Apollo get thee not, thou shalt see me again. Not knowing thy
country, I cannot name a god to commend thee to; so, by all the gods, I will
commend thee to—myself!”

Seeing that Myrtilus had the four composed and ready, he returned to the
chariot. The woman looked after him as he moved away, and whatever else there
was in her look, there was no displeasure. Presently she received the water;
her father drank; then she raised the cup to her lips, and, leaning down, gave
it to Ben-Hur; never action more graceful and gracious.

“Keep it, we pray of thee! It is full of blessings—all
thine!”

Immediately the camel was aroused, and on his feet, and about to go, when the
old man called,

“Stand thou here.”

Ben-Hur went to him respectfully.

“Thou hast served the stranger well to-day. There is but one God. In his
holy name I thank thee. I am Balthasar, the Egyptian. In the Great Orchard of
Palms, beyond the village of Daphne, in the shade of the palms, Sheik Ilderim
the Generous abideth in his tents, and we are his guests. Seek us there. Thou
shalt have welcome sweet with the savor of the grateful.”

Ben-Hur was left in wonder at the old man’s clear voice and reverend
manner. As he gazed after the two departing, he caught sight of Messala going
as he had come, joyous, indifferent, and with a mocking laugh.

CHAPTER IX

As a rule, there is no surer way to the dislike of men than to behave well
where they have behaved badly. In this instance, happily, Malluch was an
exception to the rule. The affair he had just witnessed raised Ben-Hur in his
estimation, since he could not deny him courage and address; could he now get
some insight into the young man’s history, the results of the day would
not be all unprofitable to good master Simonides.

On the latter point, referring to what he had as yet learned, two facts
comprehended it all—the subject of his investigation was a Jew, and the
adopted son of a famous Roman. Another conclusion which might be of importance
was beginning to formulate itself in the shrewd mind of the emissary; between
Messala and the son of the duumvir there was a connection of some kind. But
what was it?—and how could it be reduced to assurance? With all his
sounding, the ways and means of solution were not at call. In the heat of the
perplexity, Ben-Hur himself came to his help. He laid his hand on
Malluch’s arm and drew him out of the crowd, which was already going back
to its interest in the gray old priest and the mystic fountain.

“Good Malluch,” he said, stopping, “may a man forget his
mother?”

The question was abrupt and without direction, and therefore of the kind which
leaves the person addressed in a state of confusion. Malluch looked into
Ben-Hur’s face for a hint of meaning, but saw, instead, two bright-red
spots, one on each cheek, and in his eyes traces of what might have been
repressed tears; then he answered, mechanically, “No!” adding, with
fervor, “never;” and a moment after, when he began to recover
himself, “If he is an Israelite, never!” And when at length he was
completely recovered—“My first lesson in the synagogue was the
Shema; my next was the saying of the son of Sirach, ‘Honor thy father
with thy whole soul, and forget not the sorrows of thy mother.’”

The red spots on Ben-Hur’s face deepened.

“The words bring my childhood back again; and, Malluch, they prove you a
genuine Jew. I believe I can trust you.”

Ben-Hur let go the arm he was holding, and caught the folds of the gown
covering his own breast, and pressed them close, as if to smother a pain, or a
feeling there as sharp as a pain.

“My father,” he said, “bore a good name, and was not without
honor in Jerusalem, where he dwelt. My mother, at his death, was in the prime
of womanhood; and it is not enough to say of her she was good and beautiful: in
her tongue was the law of kindness, and her works were the praise of all in the
gates, and she smiled at days to come. I had a little sister, and she and I
were the family, and we were so happy that I, at least, have never seen harm in
the saying of the old rabbi, ‘God could not be everywhere, and,
therefore, he made mothers.’ One day an accident happened to a Roman in
authority as he was riding past our house at the head of a cohort; the
legionaries burst the gate and rushed in and seized us. I have not seen my
mother or sister since. I cannot say they are dead or living. I do not know
what became of them. But, Malluch, the man in the chariot yonder was present at
the separation; he gave us over to the captors; he heard my mother’s
prayer for her children, and he laughed when they dragged her away. Hardly may
one say which graves deepest in memory, love or hate. To-day I knew him
afar—and, Malluch—”

He caught the listener’s arm again.

“And, Malluch, he knows and takes with him now the secret I would give my
life for: he could tell if she lives, and where she is, and her condition; if
she—no, THEY—much sorrow has made the two as one—if they are
dead, he could tell where they died, and of what, and where their bones await
my finding.”

“And will he not?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I am a Jew, and he is a Roman.”

“But Romans have tongues, and Jews, though ever so despised, have methods
to beguile them.”

“For such as he? No; and, besides, the secret is one of state. All my
father’s property was confiscated and divided.”

Malluch nodded his head slowly, much as to admit the argument; then he asked
anew, “Did he not recognize you?”

“He could not. I was sent to death in life, and have been long since
accounted of the dead.”

“I wonder you did not strike him,” said Malluch, yielding to a
touch of passion.

“That would have been to put him past serving me forever. I would have
had to kill him, and Death, you know, keeps secrets better even than a guilty
Roman.”

The man who, with so much to avenge, could so calmly put such an opportunity
aside must be confident of his future or have ready some better design, and
Malluch’s interest changed with the thought; it ceased to be that of an
emissary in duty bound to another. Ben-Hur was actually asserting a claim upon
him for his own sake. In other words, Malluch was preparing to serve him with
good heart and from downright admiration.

After brief pause, Ben-Hur resumed speaking.

“I would not take his life, good Malluch; against that extreme the
possession of the secret is for the present, at least, his safeguard; yet I may
punish him, and so you give me help, I will try.”

“He is a Roman,” said Malluch, without hesitation; “and I am
of the tribe of Judah. I will help you. If you choose, put me under
oath—under the most solemn oath.”

“Give me your hand, that will suffice.”

As their hands fell apart, Ben-Hur said, with lightened feeling, “That I
would charge you with is not difficult, good friend; neither is it dreadful to
conscience. Let us move on.”

They took the road which led to the right across the meadow spoken of in the
description of the coming to the fountain. Ben-Hur was first to break the
silence.

“Do you know Sheik Ilderim the Generous?”

“Yes.”

“Where is his Orchard of Palms? or, rather, Malluch, how far is it beyond
the village of Daphne?”

Malluch was touched by a doubt; he recalled the prettiness of the favor shown
him by the woman at the fountain, and wondered if he who had the sorrows of a
mother in mind was about to forget them for a lure of love; yet he replied,
“The Orchard of Palms lies beyond the village two hours by horse, and one
by swift camel.”

“Thank you; and to your knowledge once more. Have the games of which you
told me been widely published? and when will they take place?”

The questions were suggestive; and if they did not restore Malluch his
confidence, they at least stimulated his curiosity.

“Oh yes, they will be of ample splendor. The prefect is rich, and could
afford to lose his place; yet, as is the way with successful men, his love of
riches is nowise diminished; and to gain a friend at court, if nothing more, he
must make ado for the Consul Maxentius, who is coming hither to make final
preparations for a campaign against the Parthians. The money there is in the
preparations the citizens of Antioch know from experience; so they have had
permission to join the prefect in the honors intended for the great man. A
month ago heralds went to the four quarters to proclaim the opening of the
Circus for the celebration. The name of the prefect would be of itself good
guarantee of variety and magnificence, particularly throughout the East; but
when to his promises Antioch joins hers, all the islands and the cities by the
sea stand assured of the extraordinary, and will be here in person or by their
most famous professionals. The fees offered are royal.”

“And the Circus—I have heard it is second only to the
Maximus.”

“At Rome, you mean. Well, ours seats two hundred thousand people, yours
seats seventy-five thousand more; yours is of marble, so is ours; in
arrangement they are exactly the same.”

“Are the rules the same?”

Malluch smiled.

“If Antioch dared be original, son of Arrius, Rome would not be the
mistress she is. The laws of the Circus Maximus govern except in one
particular: there but four chariots may start at once, here all start without
reference to number.”

“That is the practise of the Greeks,” said Ben-Hur.

“Yes, Antioch is more Greek than Roman.”

“So then, Malluch, I may choose my own chariot?”

“Your own chariot and horses. There is no restriction upon either.”

While replying, Malluch observed the thoughtful look on Ben-Hur’s face
give place to one of satisfaction.

“One thing more now, O Malluch. When will the celebration be?”

“Ah! your pardon,” the other answered. “To-morrow—and
the next day,” he said, counting aloud, “then, to speak in the
Roman style, if the sea-gods be propitious, the consul arrives. Yes, the sixth
day from this we have the games.”

“The time is short, Malluch, but it is enough.” The last words were
spoken decisively. “By the prophets of our old Israel! I will take to the
reins again. Stay! a condition; is there assurance that Messala will be a
competitor?”

Malluch saw now the plan, and all its opportunities for the humiliation of the
Roman; and he had not been true descendant of Jacob if, with all his interest
wakened, he had not rushed to a consideration of the chances. His voice
actually trembled as he said, “Have you the practise?”

“Fear not, my friend. The winners in the Circus Maximus have held their
crowns these three years at my will. Ask them—ask the best of
them—and they will tell you so. In the last great games the emperor
himself offered me his patronage if I would take his horses in hand and run
them against the entries of the world.”

“But you did not?”

Malluch spoke eagerly.

“I—I am a Jew”—Ben-Hur seemed shrinking within himself
as he spoke—“and, though I wear a Roman name, I dared not do
professionally a thing to sully my father’s name in the cloisters and
courts of the Temple. In the palaestrae I could indulge practise which, if
followed into the Circus, would become an abomination; and if I take to the
course here, Malluch, I swear it will not be for the prize or the
winner’s fee.”

“Hold—swear not so!” cried Malluch. “The fee is ten
thousand sestertii—a fortune for life!”

“Not for me, though the prefect trebled it fifty times. Better than that,
better than all the imperial revenues from the first year of the first
Cæsar—I will make this race to humble my enemy. Vengeance is permitted
by the law.”

Malluch smiled and nodded as if saying, “Right, right—trust me a
Jew to understand a Jew.”

“The Messala will drive,” he said, directly. “He is committed
to the race in many ways—by publication in the streets, and in the baths
and theaters, the palace and barracks; and, to fix him past retreat, his name
is on the tablets of every young spendthrift in Antioch.”

“In wager, Malluch?”

“Yes, in wager; and every day he comes ostentatiously to practise, as you
saw him.”

“Ah! and that is the chariot, and those the horses, with which he will
make the race? Thank you, thank you, Malluch! You have served me well already.
I am satisfied. Now be my guide to the Orchard of Palms, and give me
introduction to Sheik Ilderim the Generous.”

“When?”

“To-day. His horses may be engaged to-morrow.”

“You like them, then?”

Ben-Hur answered with animation,

“I saw them from the stand an instant only, for Messala then drove up,
and I might not look at anything else; yet I recognized them as of the blood
which is the wonder as well as the glory of the deserts. I never saw the kind
before, except in the stables of Cæsar; but once seen, they are always to be
known. To-morrow, upon meeting, I will know you, Malluch, though you do not so
much as salute me; I will know you by your face, by your form, by your manner;
and by the same signs I will know them, and with the same certainty. If all
that is said of them be true, and I can bring their spirit under control of
mine, I can—”

“Win the sestertii!” said Malluch, laughing.

“No,” answered Ben-Hur, as quickly. “I will do what better
becomes a man born to the heritage of Jacob—I will humble mine enemy in a
most public place. But,” he added, impatiently, “we are losing
time. How can we most quickly reach the tents of the sheik?”

Malluch took a moment for reflection.

“It is best we go straight to the village, which is fortunately near by;
if two swift camels are to be had for hire there, we will be on the road but an
hour.”

“Let us about it, then.”

The village was an assemblage of palaces in beautiful gardens, interspersed
with khans of princely sort. Dromedaries were happily secured, and upon them
the journey to the famous Orchard of Palms was begun.

CHAPTER X

Beyond the village the country was undulating and cultivated; in fact, it was
the garden-land of Antioch, with not a foot lost to labor. The steep faces of
the hills were terraced; even the hedges were brighter of the trailing vines
which, besides the lure of shade, offered passers-by sweet promises of wine to
come, and grapes in clustered purple ripeness. Over melon-patches, and through
apricot and fig-tree groves, and groves of oranges and limes, the white-washed
houses of the farmers were seen; and everywhere Plenty, the smiling daughter of
Peace, gave notice by her thousand signs that she was at home, making the
generous traveller merry at heart, until he was even disposed to give Rome her
dues. Occasionally, also, views were had of Taurus and Lebanon, between which,
a separating line of silver, the Orontes placidly pursued its way.

In course of their journey the friends came to the river, which they followed
with the windings of the road, now over bold bluffs, and then into vales, all
alike allotted for country-seats, and if the land was in full foliage of oak
and sycamore and myrtle, and bay and arbutus, and perfuming jasmine, the river
was bright with slanted sunlight, which would have slept where it fell but for
ships in endless procession, gliding with the current, tacking for the wind, or
bounding under the impulse of oars—some coming, some going, and all
suggestive of the sea, and distant peoples, and famous places, and things
coveted on account of their rarity. To the fancy there is nothing so winsome as
a white sail seaward blown, unless it be a white sail homeward bound, its
voyage happily done. And down the shore the friends went continuously till they
came to a lake fed by back-water from the river, clear, deep, and without
current. An old palm-tree dominated the angle of the inlet; turning to the left
at the foot of the tree, Malluch clapped his hands and shouted,

“Look, look! The Orchard of Palms!”

The scene was nowhere else to be found unless in the favored oases of Arabia or
the Ptolemaean farms along the Nile; and to sustain a sensation new as it was
delightful, Ben-Hur was admitted into a tract of land apparently without limit
and level as a floor. All under foot was fresh grass, in Syria the rarest and
most beautiful production of the soil; if he looked up, it was to see the sky
paley blue through the groinery of countless date-bearers, very patriarchs of
their kind, so numerous and old, and of such mighty girth, so tall, so serried,
so wide of branch, each branch so perfect with fronds, plumy and waxlike and
brilliant, they seemed enchanters enchanted. Here was the grass coloring the
very atmosphere; there the lake, cool and clear, rippling but a few feet under
the surface, and helping the trees to their long life in old age. Did the Grove
of Daphne excel this one? And the palms, as if they knew Ben-Hur’s
thought, and would win him after a way of their own, seemed, as he passed under
their arches, to stir and sprinkle him with dewy coolness.

The road wound in close parallelism with the shore of the lake; and when it
carried the travellers down to the water’s edge, there was always on that
side a shining expanse limited not far off by the opposite shore, on which, as
on this one, no tree but the palm was permitted.

“See that,” said Malluch, pointing to a giant of the place.
“Each ring upon its trunk marks a year of its life. Count them from root
to branch, and if the sheik tells you the grove was planted before the
Seleucidæ were heard of in Antioch, do not doubt him.”

One may not look at a perfect palm-tree but that, with a subtlety all its own,
it assumes a presence for itself, and makes a poet of the beholder. This is the
explanation of the honors it has received, beginning with the artists of the
first kings, who could find no form in all the earth to serve them so well as a
model for the pillars of their palaces and temples; and for the same reason
Ben-Hur was moved to say,

“As I saw him at the stand to-day, good Malluch, Sheik Ilderim appeared
to be a very common man. The rabbis in Jerusalem would look down upon him, I
fear, as a son of a dog of Edom. How came he in possession of the Orchard? And
how has he been able to hold it against the greed of Roman governors?”

“If blood derives excellence from time, son of Arrius, then is old
Ilderim a man, though he be an uncircumcised Edomite.”

Malluch spoke warmly.

“All his fathers before him were sheiks. One of them—I shall not
say when he lived or did the good deed—once helped a king who was being
hunted with swords. The story says he loaned him a thousand horsemen, who knew
the paths of the wilderness and its hiding-places as shepherds know the scant
hills they inhabit with their flocks; and they carried him here and there until
the opportunity came, and then with their spears they slew the enemy, and set
him upon his throne again. And the king, it is said, remembered the service,
and brought the son of the Desert to this place, and bade him set up his tent
and bring his family and his herds, for the lake and trees, and all the land
from the river to the nearest mountains, were his and his children’s
forever. And they have never been disturbed in the possession. The rulers
succeeding have found it policy to keep good terms with the tribe, to whom the
Lord has given increase of men and horses, and camels and riches, making them
masters of many highways between cities; so that it is with them any time they
please to say to commerce, ‘Go in peace,’ or ‘Stop,’
and what they say shall be done. Even the prefect in the citadel overlooking
Antioch thinks it happy day with him when Ilderim, surnamed the Generous on
account of good deeds done unto all manner of men, with his wives and children,
and his trains of camels and horses, and his belongings of sheik, moving as our
fathers Abraham and Jacob moved, comes up to exchange briefly his bitter wells
for the pleasantness you see about us.”

“How is it, then?” said Ben-Hur, who had been listening unmindful
of the slow gait of the dromedaries. “I saw the sheik tear his beard
while he cursed himself that he had put trust in a Roman. Cæsar, had he heard
him, might have said, ‘I like not such a friend as this; put him
away.’”

“It would be but shrewd judgment,” Malluch replied, smiling.
“Ilderim is not a lover of Rome; he has a grievance. Three years ago the
Parthians rode across the road from Bozra to Damascus, and fell upon a caravan
laden, among other things, with the incoming tax-returns of a district over
that way. They slew every creature taken, which the censors in Rome could have
forgiven if the imperial treasure had been spared and forwarded. The farmers of
the taxes, being chargeable with the loss, complained to Cæsar, and Cæsar
held Herod to payment, and Herod, on his part, seized property of Ilderim, whom
he charged with treasonable neglect of duty. The sheik appealed to Cæsar, and
Cæsar has made him such answer as might be looked for from the unwinking
sphinx. The old man’s heart has been aching sore ever since, and he
nurses his wrath, and takes pleasure in its daily growth.”

“He can do nothing, Malluch.”

“Well,” said Malluch, “that involves another explanation,
which I will give you, if we can draw nearer. But see!—the hospitality of
the sheik begins early—the children are speaking to you.”

The dromedaries stopped, and Ben-Hur looked down upon some little girls of the
Syrian peasant class, who were offering him their baskets filled with dates.
The fruit was freshly gathered, and not to be refused; he stooped and took it,
and as he did so a man in the tree by which they were halted cried,
“Peace to you, and welcome!”

Their thanks said to the children, the friends moved on at such gait as the
animals chose.

“You must know,” Malluch continued, pausing now and then to dispose
of a date, “that the merchant Simonides gives me his confidence, and
sometimes flatters me by taking me into council; and as I attend him at his
house, I have made acquaintance with many of his friends, who, knowing my
footing with the host, talk to him freely in my presence. In that way I became
somewhat intimate with Sheik Ilderim.”

For a moment Ben-Hur’s attention wandered. Before his mind’s eye
there arose the image, pure, gentle, and appealing, of Esther, the
merchant’s daughter. Her dark eyes bright with the peculiar Jewish lustre
met his in modest gaze; he heard her step as when she approached him with the
wine, and her voice as she tendered him the cup; and he acknowledged to himself
again all the sympathy she manifested for him, and manifested so plainly that
words were unnecessary, and so sweetly that words would have been but a
detraction. The vision was exceeding pleasant, but upon his turning to Malluch,
it flew away.

“A few weeks ago,” said Malluch, continuing, “the old Arab
called on Simonides, and found me present. I observed he seemed much moved
about something, and, in deference, offered to withdraw, but he himself forbade
me. ‘As you are an Israelite,’ he said, ‘stay, for I have a
strange story to tell.’ The emphasis on the word Israelite excited my
curiosity. I remained, and this is in substance his story—I cut it short
because we are drawing nigh the tent, and I leave the details to the good man
himself. A good many years ago, three men called at Ilderim’s tent out in
the wilderness. They were all foreigners, a Hindoo, a Greek, and an Egyptian;
and they had come on camels, the largest he had ever seen, and all white. He
welcomed them, and gave them rest. Next morning they arose and prayed a prayer
new to the sheik—a prayer addressed to God and his son—this with
much mystery besides. After breaking fast with him, the Egyptian told who they
were, and whence they had come. Each had seen a star, out of which a voice had
bidden them go to Jerusalem and ask, Where is he that is born King of the
Jews?’ They obeyed. From Jerusalem they were led by a star to Bethlehem,
where, in a cave, they found a child newly born, which they fell down and
worshipped; and after worshipping it, and giving it costly presents, and
bearing witness of what it was, they took to their camels, and fled without
pause to the sheik, because if Herod—meaning him surnamed the
Great—could lay hands upon them, he would certainly kill them. And,
faithful to his habit, the sheik took care of them, and kept them concealed for
a year, when they departed, leaving with him gifts of great value, and each
going a separate way.”

“It is, indeed, a most wonderful story,” Ben-Hur exclaimed at its
conclusion. “What did you say they were to ask at Jerusalem?”

“They were to ask, ‘Where is he that is born King of the
Jews?’”

“Was that all?”

“There was more to the question, but I cannot recall it.”

“And they found the child?”

“Yes, and worshipped him.”

“It is a miracle, Malluch.”

“Ilderim is a grave man, though excitable as all Arabs are. A lie on his
tongue is impossible.”

Malluch spoke positively. Thereupon the dromedaries were forgotten, and, quite
as unmindful of their riders, they turned off the road to the growing grass.

“Has Ilderim heard nothing more of the three men?” asked Ben-Hur.
“What became of them?”

“Ah, yes, that was the cause of his coming to Simonides the day of which
I was speaking. Only the night before that day the Egyptian reappeared to
him.”

“Where?”

“Here at the door of the tent to which we are coming.”

“How knew he the man?”

“As you knew the horses to-day—by face and manner.”

“By nothing else?”

“He rode the same great white camel, and gave him the same
name—Balthasar, the Egyptian.”

“It is a wonder of the Lord’s!”

Ben-Hur spoke with excitement.

And Malluch, wondering, asked, “Why so?”

“Balthasar, you said?”

“Yes. Balthasar, the Egyptian.”

“That was the name the old man gave us at the fountain today.”

Then, at the reminder, Malluch became excited.

“It is true,” he said; “and the camel was the same—and
you saved the man’s life.”

“And the woman,” said Ben-Hur, like one speaking to
himself—“the woman was his daughter.”

He fell to thinking; and even the reader will say he was having a vision of the
woman, and that it was more welcome than that of Esther, if only because it
stayed longer with him; but no—

“Tell me again,” he said, presently. “Were the three to ask,
‘Where is he that is to be King of the Jews?’”

“Not exactly. The words were BORN TO BE KING OF THE JEWS. Those were the
words as the old sheik caught them first in the desert, and he has ever since
been waiting the coming of the king; nor can any one shake his faith that he
will come.”

“How—as king?”

“Yes, and bringing the doom of Rome—so says the sheik.”

Ben-Hur kept silent awhile, thinking and trying to control his feelings.

“The old man is one of many millions,” he said,
slowly—“one of many millions each with a wrong to avenge; and this
strange faith, Malluch, is bread and wine to his hope; for who but a Herod may
be King of the Jews while Rome endures? But, following the story, did you hear
what Simonides said to him?”

“If Ilderim is a grave man, Simonides is a wise one,” Malluch
replied. “I listened, and he said— But hark! Some one comes
overtaking us.”

The noise grew louder, until presently they heard the rumble of wheels mixed
with the beating of horse-hoofs—a moment later Sheik Ilderim himself
appeared on horseback, followed by a train, among which were the four wine-red
Arabs drawing the chariot. The sheik’s chin, in its muffling of long
white beard, was drooped upon his breast. Our friends had out-travelled him;
but at sight of them he raised his head and spoke kindly.

“Peace to you!—Ah, my friend Malluch! Welcome! And tell me you are
not going, but just come; that you have something for me from the good
Simonides—may the Lord of his fathers keep him in life for many years to
come! Ay, take up the straps, both of you, and follow me. I have bread and
leben, or, if you prefer it, arrack, and the flesh of young kid. Come!”

They followed after him to the door of the tent, in which, when they were
dismounted, he stood to receive them, holding a platter with three cups filled
with creamy liquor just drawn from a great smoke-stained skin bottle, pendent
from the central post.

“Drink,” he said, heartily, “drink, for this is the
fear-naught of the tentmen.”

They each took a cup, and drank till but the foam remained.

“Enter now, in God’s name.”

And when they were gone in, Malluch took the sheik aside, and spoke to him
privately; after which he went to Ben-Hur and excused himself.

“I have told the sheik about you, and he will give you the trial of his
horses in the morning. He is your friend. Having done for you all I can, you
must do the rest, and let me return to Antioch. There is one there who has my
promise to meet him to-night. I have no choice but to go. I will come back
to-morrow prepared, if all goes well in the meantime, to stay with you until
the games are over.”

With blessings given and received, Malluch set out in return.

CHAPTER XI

What time the lower horn of a new moon touched the castellated piles on Mount
Sulpius, and two thirds of the people of Antioch were out on their house-tops
comforting themselves with the night breeze when it blew, and with fans when it
failed, Simonides sat in the chair which had come to be a part of him, and from
the terrace looked down over the river, and his ships a-swing at their
moorings. The wall at his back cast its shadow broadly over the water to the
opposite shore. Above him the endless tramp upon the bridge went on. Esther was
holding a plate for him containing his frugal supper—some wheaten cakes,
light as wafers, some honey, and a bowl of milk, into which he now and then
dipped the wafers after dipping them into the honey.

“Malluch is a laggard to-night,” he said, showing where his
thoughts were.

“Do you believe he will come?” Esther asked.

“Unless he has taken to the sea or the desert, and is yet following on,
he will come.”

Simonides spoke with quiet confidence.

“He may write,” she said.

“Not so, Esther. He would have despatched a letter when he found he could
not return, and told me so; because I have not received such a letter, I know
he can come, and will.”

“I hope so,” she said, very softly.

Something in the utterance attracted his attention; it might have been the
tone, it might have been the wish. The smallest bird cannot light upon the
greatest tree without sending a shock to its most distant fibre; every mind is
at times no less sensitive to the most trifling words.

“You wish him to come, Esther?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to his.

“Why? Can you tell me?” he persisted.

“Because”—she hesitated, then began
again—“because the young man is—” The stop was full.

“Our master. Is that the word?”

“Yes.”

“And you still think I should not suffer him to go away without telling
him to come, if he chooses, and take us—and all we have—all,
Esther—the goods, the shekels, the ships, the slaves, and the mighty
credit, which is a mantle of cloth of gold and finest silver spun for me by the
greatest of the angels of men—Success.”

She made no answer.

“Does that move you nothing? No?” he said, with the slightest taint
of bitterness. “Well, well, I have found, Esther, the worst reality is
never unendurable when it comes out from behind the clouds through which we at
first see it darkly—never—not even the rack. I suppose it will be
so with death. And by that philosophy the slavery to which we are going must
afterwhile become sweet. It pleases me even now to think what a favored man our
master is. The fortune cost him nothing—not an anxiety, not a drop of
sweat, not so much as a thought; it attaches to him undreamed of, and in his
youth. And, Esther, let me waste a little vanity with the reflection; he gets
what he could not go into the market and buy with all the pelf in a
sum—thee, my child, my darling; thou blossom from the tomb of my lost
Rachel!”

He drew her to him, and kissed her twice—once for herself, once for her
mother.

“Say not so,” she said, when his hand fell from her neck.
“Let us think better of him; he knows what sorrow is, and will set us
free.”

“Ah, thy instincts are fine, Esther; and thou knowest I lean upon them in
doubtful cases where good or bad is to be pronounced of a person standing
before thee as he stood this morning. But—but”—his voice rose
and hardened—“these limbs upon which I cannot stand—this body
drawn and beaten out of human shape—they are not all I bring him of
myself. Oh no, no! I bring him a soul which has triumphed over torture and
Roman malice keener than any torture—I bring him a mind which has eyes to
see gold at a distance farther than the ships of Solomon sailed, and power to
bring it to hand—ay, Esther, into my palm here for the fingers to grip
and keep lest it take wings at some other’s word—a mind skilled at
scheming”—he stopped and laughed—“Why, Esther, before
the new moon which in the courts of the Temple on the Holy Hill they are this
moment celebrating passes into its next quartering I could ring the world so as
to startle even Cæsar; for know you, child, I have that faculty which is
better than any one sense, better than a perfect body, better than courage and
will, better than experience, ordinarily the best product of the longest
lives—the faculty divinest of men, but which”—he stopped, and
laughed again, not bitterly, but with real zest—“but which even the
great do not sufficiently account, while with the herd it is a
non-existent—the faculty of drawing men to my purpose and holding them
faithfully to its achievement, by which, as against things to be done, I
multiply myself into hundreds and thousands. So the captains of my ships plough
the seas, and bring me honest returns; so Malluch follows the youth, our
master, and will”—just then a footstep was heard upon the
terrace—“Ha, Esther! said I not so? He is here—and we will
have tidings. For thy sake, sweet child—my lily just budded—I pray
the Lord God, who has not forgotten his wandering sheep of Israel, that they be
good and comforting. Now we will know if he will let thee go with all thy
beauty, and me with all my faculties.”

Malluch came to the chair.

“Peace to you, good master,” he said, with a low
obeisance—“and to you, Esther, most excellent of daughters.”

He stood before them deferentially, and the attitude and the address left it
difficult to define his relation to them; the one was that of a servant, the
other indicated the familiar and friend. On the other side, Simonides, as was
his habit in business, after answering the salutation went straight to the
subject.

“What of the young man, Malluch?”

The events of the day were told quietly and in the simplest words, and until he
was through there was no interruption; nor did the listener in the chair so
much as move a hand during the narration; but for his eyes, wide open and
bright, and an occasional long-drawn breath, he might have been accounted an
effigy.

“Thank you, thank you, Malluch,” he said, heartily, at the
conclusion; “you have done well—no one could have done better. Now
what say you of the young man’s nationality?”

“He is an Israelite, good master, and of the tribe of Judah.”

“You are positive?”

“Very positive.”

“He appears to have told you but little of his life.”

“He has somewhere learned to be prudent. I might call him distrustful. He
baffled all my attempts upon his confidence until we started from the Castalian
fount going to the village of Daphne.”

“A place of abomination! Why went he there?”

“I would say from curiosity, the first motive of the many who go; but,
very strangely, he took no interest in the things he saw. Of the Temple, he
merely asked if it were Grecian. Good master, the young man has a trouble of
mind from which he would hide, and he went to the Grove, I think, as we go to
sepulchres with our dead—he went to bury it.”

“That were well, if so,” Simonides said, in a low voice; then
louder, “Malluch, the curse of the time is prodigality. The poor make
themselves poorer as apes of the rich, and the merely rich carry themselves
like princes. Saw you signs of the weakness in the youth? Did he display
moneys—coin of Rome or Israel?”

“None, none, good master.”

“Surely, Malluch, where there are so many inducements to folly—so
much, I mean, to eat and drink—surely he made you generous offer of some
sort. His age, if nothing more, would warrant that much.”

“He neither ate nor drank in my company.”

“In what he said or did, Malluch, could you in anywise detect his
master-idea? You know they peep through cracks close enough to stop the
wind.”

“Give me to understand you,” said Malluch, in doubt.

“Well, you know we nor speak nor act, much less decide grave questions
concerning ourselves, except as we be driven by a motive. In that respect, what
made you of him?”

“As to that, Master Simonides, I can answer with much assurance. He is
devoted to finding his mother and sister—that first. Then he has a
grievance against Rome; and as the Messala of whom I told you had something to
do with the wrong, the great present object is to humiliate him. The meeting at
the fountain furnished an opportunity, but it was put aside as not sufficiently
public.”

“The Messala is influential,” said Simonides, thoughtfully.

“Yes; but the next meeting will be in the Circus.”

“Well—and then?”

“The son of Arrius will win.”

“How know you?”

Malluch smiled.

“I am judging by what he says.”

“Is that all?”

“No; there is a much better sign—his spirit.”

“Ay; but, Malluch, his idea of vengeance—what is its scope? Does he
limit it to the few who did him the wrong, or does he take in the many? And
more—is his feeling but the vagary of a sensitive boy, or has it the
seasoning of suffering manhood to give it endurance? You know, Malluch, the
vengeful thought that has root merely in the mind is but a dream of idlest sort
which one clear day will dissipate; while revenge the passion is a disease of
the heart which climbs up, up to the brain, and feeds itself on both
alike.”

In this question, Simonides for the first time showed signs of feeling; he
spoke with rapid utterance, and with clenched hands and the eagerness of a man
illustrating the disease he described.

“Good my master,” Malluch replied, “one of my reasons for
believing the young man a Jew is the intensity of his hate. It was plain to me
he had himself under watch, as was natural, seeing how long he has lived in an
atmosphere of Roman jealousy; yet I saw it blaze—once when he wanted to
know Ilderim’s feeling towards Rome, and again when I told him the story
of the sheik and the wise man, and spoke of the question, ‘Where is he
that is born King of the Jews?’”

Simonides leaned forward quickly.

“Ah, Malluch, his words—give me his words; let me judge the
impression the mystery made upon him.”

“He wanted to know the exact words. Were they TO BE or BORN TO BE? It
appeared he was struck by a seeming difference in the effect of the two
phrases.”

Simonides settled back into his pose of listening judge.

“Then,” said Malluch, “I told him Ilderim’s view of the
mystery—that the king would come with the doom of Rome. The young
man’s blood rose over his cheeks and forehead, and he said earnestly,
‘Who but a Herod can be king while Rome endures?’”

“Meaning what?”

“That the empire must be destroyed before there could be another
rule.”

Simonides gazed for a time at the ships and their shadows slowly swinging
together in the river; when he looked up, it was to end the interview.

“Enough, Malluch,” he said. “Get you to eat, and make ready
to return to the Orchard of Palms; you must help the young man in his coming
trial. Come to me in the morning. I will send a letter to Ilderim.” Then
in an undertone, as if to himself, he added, “I may attend the Circus
myself.”

When Malluch after the customary benediction given and received was gone,
Simonides took a deep draught of milk, and seemed refreshed and easy of mind.

“Put the meal down, Esther,” he said; “it is over.”

She obeyed.

“Here now.”

She resumed her place upon the arm of the chair close to him.

“God is good to me, very good,” he said, fervently. “His
habit is to move in mystery, yet sometimes he permits us to think we see and
understand him. I am old, dear, and must go; but now, in this eleventh hour,
when my hope was beginning to die, he sends me this one with a promise, and I
am lifted up. I see the way to a great part in a circumstance itself so great
that it shall be as a new birth to the whole world. And I see a reason for the
gift of my great riches, and the end for which they were designed. Verily, my
child, I take hold on life anew.”

Esther nestled closer to him, as if to bring his thoughts from their
far-flying.

“The king has been born” he continued, imagining he was still
speaking to her, “and he must be near the half of common life. Balthasar
says he was a child on his mother’s lap when he saw him, and gave him
presents and worship; and Ilderim holds it was twenty-seven years ago last
December when Balthasar and his companions came to his tent asking a
hiding-place from Herod. Wherefore the coming cannot now be long delayed.
To-night—to-morrow it may be. Holy fathers of Israel, what happiness in
the thought! I seem to hear the crash of the falling of old walls and the
clamor of a universal change—ay, and for the uttermost joy of men, the
earth opens to take Rome in, and they look up and laugh and sing that she is
not, while we are;” then he laughed at himself. “Why, Esther, heard
you ever the like? Surely, I have on me the passion of a singer, the heat of
blood and the thrill of Miriam and David. In my thoughts, which should be those
of a plain worker in figures and facts, there is a confusion of cymbals
clashing and harp-strings loud beaten, and the voices of a multitude standing
around a new-risen throne. I will put the thinking by for the present; only,
dear, when the king comes he will need money and men, for as he was a child
born of woman he will be but a man after all, bound to human ways as you and I
are. And for the money he will have need of getters and keepers, and for the
men leaders. There, there! See you not a broad road for my walking, and the
running of the youth our master?—and at the end of it glory and revenge
for us both?—and—and”—he paused, struck with the
selfishness of a scheme in which she had no part or good result; then added,
kissing her, “And happiness for thy mother’s child.”

She sat still, saying nothing. Then he remembered the difference in natures,
and the law by which we are not permitted always to take delight in the same
cause or be equally afraid of the same thing. He remembered she was but a girl.

“Of what are you thinking, Esther?” he said, in his common
home-like way. “If the thought have the form of a wish, give it me,
little one, while the power remains mine. For power, you know, is a fretful
thing, and hath its wings always spread for flight.”

She answered with a simplicity almost childish,

“Send for him, father. Send for him to-night, and do not let him go into
the Circus.”

“Ah!” he said, prolonging the exclamation; and again his eyes fell
upon the river, where the shadows were more shadowy than ever, since the moon
had sunk far down behind Sulpius, leaving the city to the ineffectual stars.
Shall we say it, reader? He was touched by a twinge of jealousy. If she should
really love the young master! Oh no! That could not be; she was too young. But
the idea had fast grip, and directly held him still and cold. She was sixteen.
He knew it well. On the last natal day he had gone with her to the shipyard
where there was a launch, and the yellow flag which the galley bore to its
bridal with the waves had on it “Esther;” so they celebrated the
day together. Yet the fact struck him now with the force of a surprise. There
are realizations which come to us all painfully; mostly, however, such as
pertain to ourselves; that we are growing old, for instance; and, more
terrible, that we must die. Such a one crept into his heart, shadowy as the
shadows, yet substantial enough to wring from him a sigh which was almost a
groan. It was not sufficient that she should enter upon her young womanhood a
servant, but she must carry to her master her affections, the truth and
tenderness and delicacy of which he the father so well knew, because to this
time they had all been his own undividedly. The fiend whose task it is to
torture us with fears and bitter thoughts seldom does his work by halves. In
the pang of the moment, the brave old man lost sight of his new scheme, and of
the miraculous king its subject. By a mighty effort, however, he controlled
himself, and asked, calmly, “Not go into the Circus, Esther? Why,
child?”

“It is not a place for a son of Israel, father.”

“Rabbinical, rabbinical, Esther! Is that all?”

The tone of the inquiry was searching, and went to her heart, which began to
beat loudly—so loudly she could not answer. A confusion new and strangely
pleasant fell upon her.

“The young man is to have the fortune,” he said, taking her hand,
and speaking more tenderly; “he is to have the ships and the
shekels—all, Esther, all. Yet I did not feel poor, for thou wert left me,
and thy love so like the dead Rachel’s. Tell me, is he to have that
too?”

She bent over him, and laid her cheek against his head.

“Speak, Esther. I will be the stronger of the knowledge. In warning there
is strength.”

She sat up then, and spoke as if she were Truth’s holy self.

“Comfort thee, father. I will never leave thee; though he take my love, I
will be thy handmaid ever as now.”

And, stooping, she kissed him.

“And more,” she said, continuing: “he is comely in my sight,
and the pleading of his voice drew me to him, and I shudder to think of him in
danger. Yes, father, I would be more than glad to see him again. Still, the
love that is unrequited cannot be perfect love, wherefore I will wait a time,
remembering I am thy daughter and my mother’s.”

“A very blessing of the Lord art thou, Esther! A blessing to keep me
rich, though all else be lost. And by his holy name and everlasting life, I
swear thou shalt not suffer.”

At his request, a little later, the servant came and rolled the chair into the
room, where he sat for a time thinking of the coming of the king, while she
went off and slept the sleep of the innocent.

CHAPTER XII

The palace across the river nearly opposite Simonides’ place is said to
have been completed by the famous Epiphanes, and was all such a habitation can
be imagined; though he was a builder whose taste ran to the immense rather than
the classical, now so called—an architectural imitator, in other words,
of the Persians instead of the Greeks.

The wall enclosing the whole island to the waters edge, and built for the
double purpose of bulwark against the river and defence against the mob, was
said to have rendered the palace unfit for constant occupancy, insomuch that
the legates abandoned it and moved to another residence erected for them on the
western ridge of Mount Sulpius, under the Temple of Jupiter. Persons were not
wanting, however, who flatly denied the bill against the ancient abode. They
said, with shrewdness at least, that the real object of the removal of the
legates was not a more healthful locality, but the assurance afforded them by
the huge barracks, named, according to the prevalent style, citadel, situated
just over the way on the eastern ridge of the mount. And the opinion had
plausible showing. Among other pertinent things, it was remarked that the
palace was kept in perpetual readiness for use; and when a consul, general of
the army, king, or visiting potentate of any kind arrived at Antioch, quarters
were at once assigned him on the island.

As we have to do with but one apartment in the old pile, the residue of it is
left to the reader’s fancy; and as pleases him, he may go through its
gardens, baths, halls, and labyrinth of rooms to the pavilions on the roof, all
furnished as became a house of fame in a city which was more nearly
Milton’s “gorgeous East” than any other in the world.

At this age the apartment alluded to would be termed a saloon. It was quite
spacious, floored with polished marble slabs, and lighted in the day by
skylights in which colored mica served as glass. The walls were broken by
Atlantes, no two of which were alike, but all supporting a cornice wrought with
arabesques exceedingly intricate in form, and more elegant on account of
superadditions of color—blue, green, Tyrian purple, and gold. Around the
room ran a continuous divan of Indian silks and wool of Cashmere. The furniture
consisted of tables and stools of Egyptian patterns grotesquely carved. We have
left Simonides in his chair perfecting his scheme in aid of the miraculous
king, whose coming he has decided is so close at hand. Esther is asleep; and
now, having crossed the river by the bridge, and made way through the
lion-guarded gate and a number of Babylonian halls and courts, let us enter the
gilded saloon.

There are five chandeliers hanging by sliding bronze chains from the
ceiling—one in each corner, and in the centre one—enormous pyramids
of lighted lamps, illuminating even the demoniac faces of the Atlantes and the
complex tracery of the cornice. About the tables, seated or standing, or moving
restlessly from one to another, there are probably a hundred persons, whom we
must study at least for a moment.

They are all young, some of them little more than boys. That they are Italians
and mostly Romans is past doubt. They all speak Latin in purity, while each one
appears in the in-door dress of the great capital on the Tiber; that is, in
tunics short of sleeve and skirt, a style of vesture well adapted to the
climate of Antioch, and especially comfortable in the too close atmosphere of
the saloon. On the divan here and there togas and lacernae lie where they have
been carelessly tossed, some of them significantly bordered with purple. On the
divan also lie sleepers stretched at ease; whether they were overcome by the
heat and fatigue of the sultry day or by Bacchus we will not pause to inquire.

The hum of voices is loud and incessant. Sometimes there is an explosion of
laughter, sometimes a burst of rage or exultation; but over all prevails a
sharp, prolonged rattle, at first somewhat confusing to the non-familiar. If we
approach the tables, however, the mystery solves itself. The company is at the
favorite games, draughts and dice, singly or together, and the rattle is merely
of the tesserae, or ivory cubes, loudly shaken, and the moving of the hostes on
the checkered boards.

Who are the company?

“Good Flavius,” said a player, holding his piece in suspended
movement, “thou seest yon lacerna; that one in front of us on the divan.
It is fresh from the shop, and hath a shoulder-buckle of gold broad as a
palm.”

“Well,” said Flavius, intent upon his game, “I have seen such
before; wherefore thine may not be old, yet, by the girdle of Venus, it is not
new! What of it?”

“Nothing. Only I would give it to find a man who knows everything.”

“Ha, ha! For something cheaper, I will find thee here several with purple
who will take thy offer. But play.”

“There—check!”

“So, by all the Jupiters! Now, what sayest thou? Again?”

“Be it so.”

“And the wager?”

“A sestertium.”

Then each drew his tablets and stilus and made a memorandum; and, while they
were resetting the pieces, Flavius returned to his friend’s remark.

“A man who knows everything! Hercle! the oracles would die. What wouldst
thou with such a monster?”

“Answer to one question, my Flavius; then, perpol! I would cut his
throat.”

“And the question?”

“I would have him tell me the hour— Hour, said I?—nay, the
minute—Maxentius will arrive to-morrow.”

“Good play, good play! I have you! And why the minute?”

“Hast thou ever stood uncovered in the Syrian sun on the quay at which he
will land? The fires of the Vesta are not so hot; and, by the Stator of our
father Romulus, I would die, if die I must, in Rome. Avernus is here; there, in
the square before the Forum, I could stand, and, with my hand raised thus,
touch the floor of the gods. Ha, by Venus, my Flavius, thou didst beguile me! I
have lost. O Fortune!”

“Again?”

“I must have back my sestertium.”

“Be it so.”

And they played again and again; and when day, stealing through the skylights,
began to dim the lamps, it found the two in the same places at the same table,
still at the game. Like most of the company, they were military attaches of the
consul, awaiting his arrival and amusing themselves meantime.

During this conversation a party entered the room, and, unnoticed at first,
proceeded to the central table. The signs were that they had come from a revel
just dismissed. Some of them kept their feet with difficulty. Around the
leader’s brow was a chaplet which marked him master of the feast, if not
the giver. The wine had made no impression upon him unless to heighten his
beauty, which was of the most manly Roman style; he carried his head high
raised; the blood flushed his lips and cheeks brightly; his eyes glittered;
though the manner in which, shrouded in a toga spotless white and of ample
folds, he walked was too nearly imperial for one sober and not a Cæsar. In
going to the table, he made room for himself and his followers with little
ceremony and no apologies; and when at length he stopped, and looked over it
and at the players, they all turned to him, with a shout like a cheer.

“Messala! Messala!” they cried.

Those in distant quarters, hearing the cry, re-echoed it where they were.
Instantly there were dissolution of groups, and breaking-up of games, and a
general rush towards the centre.

Messala took the demonstration indifferently, and proceeded presently to show
the ground of his popularity.

“A health to thee, Drusus, my friend,” he said to the player next
at his right; “a health—and thy tablets a moment.”

He raised the waxen boards, glanced at the memoranda of wagers, and tossed them
down.

“Denarii, only denarii—coin of cartmen and butchers!” he
said, with a scornful laugh. “By the drunken Semele, to what is Rome
coming, when a Cæsar sits o’ nights waiting a turn of fortune to bring
him but a beggarly denarius!”

The scion of the Drusi reddened to his brows, but the bystanders broke in upon
his reply by surging closer around the table, and shouting, “The Messala!
the Messala!”

“Men of the Tiber,” Messala continued, wresting a box with the dice
in it from a hand near-by, “who is he most favored of the gods? A Roman.
Who is he lawgiver of the nations? A Roman. Who is he, by sword right, the
universal master?”

The company were of the easily inspired, and the thought was one to which they
were born; in a twinkling they snatched the answer from him.

“A Roman, a Roman!” they shouted.

“Yet—yet”—he lingered to catch their
ears—“yet there is a better than the best of Rome.”

He tossed his patrician head and paused, as if to sting them with his sneer.

“Hear ye?” he asked. “There is a better than the best of
Rome.”

“Ay—Hercules!” cried one.

“Bacchus!” yelled a satirist.

“Jove—Jove!” thundered the crowd.

“No,” Messala answered, “among men.”

“Name him, name him!” they demanded.

“I will,” he said, the next lull. “He who to the perfection
of Rome hath added the perfection of the East; who to the arm of conquest,
which is Western, hath also the art needful to the enjoyment of dominion, which
is Eastern.”

“Perpol! His best is a Roman, after all,” some one shouted; and
there was a great laugh, and long clapping of hands—an admission that
Messala had the advantage.

“In the East” he continued, “we have no gods, only Wine,
Women, and Fortune, and the greatest of them is Fortune; wherefore our motto,
‘Who dareth what I dare?’—fit for the senate, fit for battle,
fittest for him who, seeking the best, challenges the worst.”

His voice dropped into an easy, familiar tone, but without relaxing the
ascendancy he had gained.

“In the great chest up in the citadel I have five talents coin current in
the markets, and here are the receipts for them.”

From his tunic he drew a roll of paper, and, flinging it on the table,
continued, amidst breathless silence, every eye having him in view fixed on
his, every ear listening:

“The sum lies there the measure of what I dare. Who of you dares so much!
You are silent. Is it too great? I will strike off one talent. What! still
silent? Come, then, throw me once for these three talents—only three; for
two; for one—one at least—one for the honor of the river by which
you were born—Rome East against Rome West!—Orontes the barbarous
against Tiber the sacred!”

He rattled the dice overhead while waiting.

“The Orontes against the Tiber!” he repeated, with an increase of
scornful emphasis.

Not a man moved; then he flung the box upon the table and, laughing, took up
the receipts.

“Ha, ha, ha! By the Olympian Jove, I know now ye have fortunes to make or
to mend; therefore are ye come to Antioch. Ho, Cecilius!”

“Here, Messala!” cried a man behind him; “here am I,
perishing in the mob, and begging a drachma to settle with the ragged ferryman.
But, Pluto take me! these new ones have not so much as an obolus among
them.”

The sally provoked a burst of laughter, under which the saloon rang and rang
again. Messala alone kept his gravity.

“Go, thou,” he said to Cecilius, “to the chamber whence we
came, and bid the servants bring the amphorae here, and the cups and goblets.
If these our countrymen, looking for fortune, have not purses, by the Syrian
Bacchus, I will see if they are not better blessed with stomachs! Haste
thee!”

Then he turned to Drusus, with a laugh heard throughout the apartment.

“Ha, ha, my friend! Be thou not offended because I levelled the Cæsar in
thee down to the denarii. Thou seest I did but use the name to try these fine
fledglings of our old Rome. Come, my Drusus, come!” He took up the box
again and rattled the dice merrily. “Here, for what sum thou wilt, let us
measure fortunes.”

The manner was frank, cordial, winsome. Drusus melted in a moment.

“By the Nymphae, yes!” he said, laughing. “I will throw with
thee, Messala—for a denarius.”

A very boyish person was looking over the table watching the scene. Suddenly
Messala turned to him.

“Who art thou?” he asked.

The lad drew back.

“Nay, by Castor! and his brother too! I meant not offence. It is a rule
among men, in matters other than dice, to keep the record closest when the deal
is least. I have need of a clerk. Wilt thou serve me?”

The young fellow drew his tablets ready to keep the score: the manner was
irresistible.

“Hold, Messala, hold!” cried Drusus. “I know not if it be
ominous to stay the poised dice with a question; but one occurs to me, and I
must ask it though Venus slap me with her girdle.”

“Nay, my Drusus, Venus with her girdle off is Venus in love. To thy
question—I will make the throw and hold it against mischance.
Thus—”

He turned the box upon the table and held it firmly over the dice.

And Drusus asked, “Did you ever see one Quintus Arrius?”