Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ by Lew Wallace

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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 <DW64> 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 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- 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 Caesarea, 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 Caesars 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 Caesar. 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 <DW72>, 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 <DW72> 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 <DW72>, 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
Caesar"--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 <DW72> 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 Caesar; 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 <DW72> 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 Caesars; 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

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.