It was the Syrian battle cry. The camp responded without delay, and Isaac, dashing out of his shadowed retreat, led the first charge against the oncoming robbers, made desperate by the miscarriage of their plans and the surprise of the attack. It was a longer fight than might have been anticipated. Their numbers were almost evenly matched and both sides felt that so much wealth was worth fighting for. Naaman’s party, however, had the handicap of weariness, for its leader was pushing toward Damascus at a forced speed. Isaac never understood how it was that he and his master and Lemuel became separated from the rest and cornered. He only knew, with the clearness of vision which comes in a time of emergency, that the chances were all against them and in favor of the robbers.
In that moment, also, there swept over him the certainty that he had never cared for Naaman the soldier and even less for Naaman the rich man, but that Naaman his master was dearer to him than all the world except the little maid. He saw the battle-line draw closer and closer about them. He noted the spear-thrust which Lemuel avoided and which Naaman, though he did not see, would soon feel unless, by a quick movement on his own part—in Isaac’s side he felt a sharp and agonizing pain as if he were being burned with red hot lead. His strength suddenly forsook him. Crumpled up on the rocky road, held fast in the grip of a dull torture and a nauseating weakness, the struggle surged around and over him and he cared not, nor knew when it ceased.
It was long past daylight when his dull eyes opened upon his surroundings and his stiff lips tried to frame a question. It was Naaman himself who bent over him tenderly and answered with a matter-of-factness in itself reassuring:
“Three of our men have we lost and four beside thyself are dangerously wounded. The others are able to be about the camp and to minister to the sufferers. We shall rest here for two or three days and then resume the journey slowly. Yea, the treasure is safe and we have buried many of our enemies. But rest thou and so shalt thy strength return.”
The speaker gave his patient a drink of something that was cool and refreshing and bathed his wound with a mixture of oil and wine which was supposed to have great virtue in soothing and healing. But Isaac could not rest until one more query was answered.
“And thou?”
His articulation was feeble, but it was understood. As his master stooped to reply two scalding drops fell upon Isaac’s hand and the words came chokingly:
“Safe—thanks to thy fidelity.”
And then Naaman did a strange thing for one who was merely a master. He gathered Isaac within his arms and wept openly over him.
“That I should have forgotten how high flame the fires of youth; its ambition and its courage and its boldness; its longing for achievement and its impatience of restraint. Yet of these is manhood born. Ah, if thou stayest with me, Isaac, I will remember, yea, I will.”