“I fain would be like her, but then to be so seems beyond my capacities.”
“If thou canst not be a satellite of the Sun as Mary, be a satellite of a satellite. Reflect her, and it will be well, since she reflected Him. ’Tis a simple lesson, but profitable; learn it; there is greatness in little things; regarding them we may at the same time lay hold of that that is great. I’d have all women heroines by teaching them what heroism is.”
“Was Mary learned? She had to meet some grand company?”
“Wise, as thou mayst be in the solid culture of God’s word.”
“But I can never be a Mary,” presently the maiden murmured.
“Thou canst be thyself, and what thou canst. A seraph could be no more. God needed for his lofty purpose but one like the Maiden of Nazareth, and for thy comfort remember Mary could not have been the mother of Jesus and Miriamne de Griffin of Bozrah also. She had her mission, thou thine; it is a judgment of God to attempt to say that each in her station was not and is not placed in the way most excellent.”
Their converse ended but to be renewed. At frequent intervals Miriamne advised with her guide upon the subject uppermost in her mind, and more and more became endued with the spirit of the missionary. To all questionings within herself, as to how she might compass her lofty and philanthropic designs, there came but one answer, “To Jerusalem!” It seemed to her that there, at the heart of Syrian life, she might obtain inspiration and wisdom, as well as the widest possible opportunity of applying these for others. To her to believe was to act, and so she soon had completed all her arrangements to join a band of pilgrims passing by way of Bozrah toward the great city. The parting was painful to mother and daughter, and unlike any they had experienced before. The daughter felt a misgiving. Her mother was aged. The tensions of trial and responsibility being removed so largely from the life of the latter by recent events, left her spiritless. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that in the days of excitement and conflict she exerted herself beyond her ability; now, when the motive was gone, nature proclaimed its premature exhaustion. Miriamne was convinced that she would be motherless ere long, and was haunted by misgivings as to ever again seeing her if she left Bozrah. Rizpah herself, though she feared that the present separation and farewell were to be final, urged her child tenderly, earnestly, to go forward as conscience dictated. The parting between these two women was secret, they two being alone. It was affectionate and most tender, and yet cheered by the mutual hope both expressed of an eternal reunion after death. The eventful day and the supreme moment came to find Miriamne and her mother nerved for the parting. That was soon over, and the maiden moved out of the old stone home toward the white camel already caparisoned for her use. Father Adolphus and Sir Charleroy awaited her by its side, having repeated, over and over, to the maiden’s chosen attendant a score of directions, and having in the fussiness of nervousness again and again examined bridle and girt and hamper. The maiden, glancing after the caravan of pilgrims which was to be her convoy, now slowly passing out of the city, turned toward her father to say the last words of parting. She began: “And now, dear father.” Her voice, tremulous to begin with, broke down.
“There, Miriamne,” interrupted the knight, “wait, we’ll accompany thee a little distance.” The three moved out of the city together, the attendant riding on before them. They were all too sorrowful to speak cheerfully, so each said nothing. On the crest of a hillock the old priest paused; simultaneously the father and daughter did likewise. “I’m too weary to go further,” spoke the priest. Miriamne’s eyes filled with tears, and Sir Charleroy, drawing close to the maiden, turned his eyes away. He stood in silence gazing afar, but at nothing. Each at the last seemed to dread to be the first to speak that one word so inexpressibly sad when believed to be about to be spoken as a last “farewell.” The silence became oppressive, and then Father Adolphus murmured, “I suppose we must bid thee adieu, now.” Sir Charleroy shuddered and drew his turban down over his eyes.
Just then all the child and all the woman in Miriamne’s nature was awakened. Her feelings well nigh over-mastered her, and she exclaimed: “Oh, Bozrah, how can I leave thee and thy dear ones!” Bozrah to her meant home; for a moment her world seemed centred there. The old priest, ever adroit in ministering comfort, sought to divert the thoughts of those about him from needless pain, and so shading his eyes looked steadily eastward for a few moments. Then he questioned: “Daughter, canst thou see Salchad, at the Crater’s Mouth. I can not see it for my sight faileth; but I know ’tis yonder.” Miriamne followed the direction of the priest’s pointing hand, though she knew full well without directing, where the grim fortress city lay. Habit had made it natural to follow the guidance of that old, trembling hand. Some way, it helped her; she seemed better to understand what she already partly knew, when it directed.
“Yes, I see it. It is there; changeless and dreary as ever. But why this question?”