Tor was not dead. He was only bruised and beaten and choked into insensibility, and after awhile he revived and crawled feebly away with the faithful Baladan. His begging-cup was gone, and he no longer dared to raise his voice to crave alms from the passers-by. Occasionally one tossed him a coin or a crust, but for the most part the child crouched all day in his corner motionless, starving. And the days and weeks dragged by.
He was sitting thus one morning when the sun had climbed high enough to flood his darkened nook with yellow light. Tor could feel the warmth of its radiance in his chill darkness. He sighed deeply and spread forth his lean hands, wondering dully what it would be like to see once more. He had already forgotten the blue sky and the moving clouds, the flutter of green leaves over high garden walls and the glistening whir of bird-wings in the sunshine. His night was endless, unbroken by morning gleam or noontide glory. It meant cold and hunger and a thousand nameless miseries which he endured because he must endure. It would stretch on and on, he thought, to some far-off, hopeless end, when perchance he might sleep to awaken no more.
Tor had looked upon such sleepers [pg 44]with a scared creeping of the flesh in the old days of seeing. Now the sleep seemed good, and quite stupidly and vaguely he longed for it.
Somewhere, afar off, there was shouting and a sound of voices that chanted musically. The child listened with the sharpened attention which had grown to be his one defence and solace. In the old days his flying feet would have borne him swiftly enough to see what was happening. Now he could only listen, and wonder.
“Perhaps ’tis some great prince come to Jerusalem,” he muttered, and tried to picture to himself the gay pageant of the marching troops, the gorgeous uniforms, the jeweled robes of the nobles, the chariots, the horses. And now the shouting grew louder, there was a noise of swift-hurrying feet, of confused ques[pg 45]tions and answers, while above all rose the clear musical voices of myriads of children crying in the rhythmic measures of the temple chorals: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed—Blessed is the King that cometh in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”
Tor started uncertainly to his feet, a strange, new longing for something he knew not what stealing into his starved soul. Baladan whined uneasily, then, running to the street-corner and back again to his helpless master, began to utter short excited barks.
The child’s thin fingers trailed the rough wall askingly; his timid feet crept nearer to the jubilant procession. “Hosanna—Hosanna to the King! Hosanna to the Son of David!” He had reached the open square, and, fearing to go fur[pg 46]ther, he sank down once more in the shelter of a friendly column, hot tears stealing from his darkened eyes. “Oh, Baladan,” he moaned, “if I could only see!”
And now the sweet chanting was growing momently fainter. Tor followed the procession in fancy. It was moving toward the temple, he knew,—that great pile of stone and marble and gold which towered above the tumultuous streets of Jerusalem like the glistening palace of a dream. Now it had passed into the outer courts, and a great and singular silence fell upon the city.
It was broken after what seemed hours of waiting by light and rapid footfalls. “Tor,” cried an eager, breathless voice. “Where art thou?—Tor!”
“Here!” answered the blind boy, starting to his feet and straining his [pg 47]sightless eyes in the direction of the voice. “Here am I. What wilt thou, Dan?” For he knew the voice and the step of his friend.