"Hearest thou not my voice? I am thy sister Mary. God of my fathers!
Dost thou not hear?"
"Closed be his ears until the trumpet of the dead shall sound," was the comment.
"Thou dost not mean Lazarus sleeps the sleep of the dead?" Martha cried in pain.
"By evil spirits hath my unfailing skill been set at naught. Thy brother sleepeth the sleep of death."
"No—no!" sobbed Mary, as the physician turned to collect his oil and herbs. "Lazarus is not dead!" and throwing her arms around Martha down whose face tears were streaming, she cried over and over, "He is not dead—he is not dead!"
While the sisters were giving way to their grief, the mourners filed into the room. Some had cymbals, some flutes, some pieces of sackcloth which they put over their heads before turning their faces to the wall. "Alas the lion—alas the hero—alas for him!" wailed the mourners. "Woe! Woe! Death hath entered into the place of the living and hath taken the flower of its strength! Oh, grave! Oh, tomb! Hungry art thou! Woe! Woe! From the garden of woman's smiles hath he gone to darkness and the bat. Corruption hath gathered him to its bosom! Weep! Howl! Never shall he return to the place of the living from the place of the dead!"
Before the mourners had finished their lamentations, the body of Lazarus had been wrapped in a sheet and was being hastily borne from the house. Following the body, with her arms around her sister, Mary sobbed, "If the Master had only been here, my brother had not died."
CHAPTER XVI
HE CALLETH FOR THEE
Three days after the death of Lazarus, Mary sat alone in his room beside the empty couch, which was turned upside down, as were the chairs also. The clothing that hung on the wall was covered with sackcloth and the tightly drawn window curtains were banded with black.