The dog, Baladan, led a lonely life in these days. Confined to his own little quarter of Jerusalem by that unwritten yet inexorable law which prevails to this day among the half wild street dogs of oriental cities, he dared not follow his adopted master beyond the corner of the short, dark street which was his chosen haunt. After some mysterious fashion the dog was aware that should he venture alone into the streets and squares beyond he would be instantly torn in pieces.
’Tis seldom that an animal of the pariah breed shows the least regard or [pg 116]affection for men. But Tor was so like a little animal himself that the heart of the great, gaunt beast had gone out to him. And Tor responded in kind. The undivided love of a beast is better than no love at all. Perhaps it is because of this that the heart of a dog is so loving; more than once has it solaced pain that would otherwise be unbearable in the nobler heart of a child.
Baladan was licking with anxious care a fragment of leather once worn by his little master. This done, he laid his ugly head upon it, and dreamed a vague dream of delight in which one figure—the figure of Tor—moved always before him.
Suddenly he sprang up, his rough coat bristling, and listened, then with a whine of delight bounded forward and flung himself upon the small, half-naked figure [pg 117]that was stealing along in the shadow of the high walls.
Tor was breathing fast and his puny chest heaved with an occasional strangling sob as he flung himself down by the dog. “Oh, Baladan,” he whispered, “I can’t find him; what shall I do?”
Baladan covered the child’s feet with warm, wet kisses, his great yellow-brown eyes brimming over with tears of anxious affection. He moaned and gurgled and laid one hard paw on his master’s knee in token of his utter allegiance. Tor wound his thin arms about the dog’s neck, and buried his face in the scanty yellow fur. “Let us sleep, Baladan,” he said drowsily, after a time. And the two curled themselves in their old haunt under the dark archway and presently dreamed and slept.
The sound of voices lowered to a hissing whisper suddenly aroused the child. He touched the dog warningly, and listened. A name had been spoken—the name of his Master—he was sure of it.
“I have a score to settle with the Galilean, I tell thee,” said the whining voice of Chelluh. “The other man is nothing to me.”
“Did he not heal thee of blindness?” demanded the second voice with a touch of impatience.
“He did, and that I will swear to. Since then the matter has been noised abroad, and no one will give me so much as a denarius to buy my daily victual. They tell me to work—to dig—to cut stone—to build walls. May the Furies reward them! I will not work, and I will eat.”