CHAPTER VI.
And now the prophecy had been fulfilled. The once fair land lay a barren waste. Egypt so long in thralldom to her myriad gods, was helpless, speechless, and prayerless, before the might of the ONE Jehovah. Hope was dead, courage had fled, and naught seemed left but a remnant of stubborn will in which to still cry out: “Israel shall not go.”
The hour had come in which the last curse was to fall. Scarce had the sun gone down when the idiot King gave up the ghost, and through all the realm there arose a wailing cry: “Oh, my first born; oh, my son, my son!”
CHAPTER VII.
In an upper room in the palace lay the little Prince. Through the open casement the moon looked in. Kneeling beside him was Miriam, her face buried in her hands, her body shaken by sobs. The child was speaking. “Dear Miriam,” he said, “do not bid me linger in this parched land. I fain would go to the better country; one I love waits for me there. Didn’t thou not tell me, that when Israel’s great prophet stood to warn Egypt, that he did bless my father, the King, and promise to him a place in the heaven of heavens? Dear Miriam, the King has gone out of Egypt. Hark! how the heralds cry it through the streets! ‘The King is dead,’ they say. ‘Long live the King.’ I cannot linger here, I must go to him. He will lose his way; he could not find the golden gates; he does not know the angels; I led him here, and I must lead him there. Nay, sweet nurse, do not weep! I fain would go! Hark! he calls me. My father have but patience for a little while! I come.” And then the child fell, panting, back among his pillows.
Rising from her knees Miriam stood for one moment looking down upon him, then, all unnoticed, in the wild confusion of grief that was sweeping like a flood through every home in the city, she made her way out of the palace, and the gates, to the plain beyond, where in a rude hut dwelt the prophet Moses and his brother, Aaron, waiting until the time should come for them to guide Israel out of Egypt. With no asking for admittance, Miriam entered the hut, and seeing Aaron within, she hastened to throw herself at his feet. “Oh, my lord,” she cried, “I come to beg of thee, in the name of Jehovah, take all Egypt, but spare the life of Hatsu’s son, the little Prince! No dearer could he be to me, my lord, had I carried him for nine long moons under my heart, no dearer had I known the pangs that bring the joyous gift to motherhood. My lord, take me, an unworthy daughter of Israel, aye, blot out my soul for all eternity, but spare the child!”
Upon her bowed head the prophet laid a gentle hand.
“Miriam, daughter of Abram,” he said, “no more faithful child hath God of Israel than thou. Thy human form has been used, as a shield, by those to whom thou hast given thy pure love; but they have had no power to touch thy white soul. It is not the will of the ‘All-Wise’ that thine eyes should see, on this earth, that which has been hidden from thee. But be comforted, for thy God is a God of Mercy, and so let the child go in peace. The little one that thou hast reared, to say thy prayers, and call upon the Blessed One of Israel, shall see no evil days, aye, ere thy returning feet shall cross the threshold of the city gates the child shall die, and thou shalt quickly follow him.”
With a moan of hopeless agony, Miriam arose. She said no word of parting. She turned and made her way back across the barren moonlit plain. A cloud now covered the moon, and a strange low-voiced wind arose that was like unto a warning cry; but Miriam heeded naught; she hurried on repeating through her white lips: “God is greater than Moses! God is greater than Aaron! God notes the fall of the bird from its nest, and He will hear my prayer! He will hear! Oh, my Father in Heaven, spare the child, spare the child!”