When, late that Christmas Eve, the little dragoman knocked on the door of Falcontent’s room in a hotel by the Jaffa Gate, Falcontent had gathered a deal of historical data from the original sources.... And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch on their flocks by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people: for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good-will toward men. And it came to pass that as the angels were going away from them into heaven the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see the thing which has come to pass, which the Lord has made known to us.... And Falcontent had perused the tragedy from that beginning to its heroic end. It was all familiar, to be sure—had continued in Falcontent’s memory since those old New England days; but was now new with reality and meaning.
“I’m tired,” Falcontent protested to the dragoman. “I guess we’d better put the Bethlehem trip off.”
“Ha!” the dragoman ejaculated. “We go,” he announced, calmly. “It is my greates’ ambition to serve my gentlemen. I fail—never! We go. I am flat in it.”
Falcontent was presently rattling over the road to Bethlehem. It was a clear night. There were stars—brilliantly shining. A moon was imminent. A shadowy country—waste like a wilderness in the night—was on either side. The road lay white and dusty. It was an old road—an old, old way of going and coming. It had felt the imprint of dusty feet these many long, forgotten years.... The world was surely very old: that which persisted from generation to generation was of value—new things doubtful.... Falcontent was cold. But the night was warm. Yet Falcontent shivered; his hands trembled—teeth clicked together. He was hardly able to command this nervous spasm.... There came, by and by, dark, winding streets, rough, narrow. The horses stumbled.... There was the Church of the Nativity: it was like a fortification. There was a narrow door—there were wide, cathedral spaces—there was the light of candles—there were ecclesiastical robes—there was incense—there were many voices distantly chanting—there was the wonder of some mystical ceremony by which Falcontent was shaken from his hold on the commonplaces of life.... And Falcontent stared and listened, transported so far from Broadway by the vision and music of these mysteries that Broadway was no longer with his recollection, save as a blurred, contrasting horror.
Thereafter Falcontent stood for a long time midway of a narrow stone stair—gazing awed now into the Grotto of the Nativity. It was a small space. The yellow light of many candles illuminated it.... Many people knelt below in adoration: these were Russian pilgrims—folk of a race cruelly oppressed; yet their countenances gave no sign of oppression, but were clean of guile and fear and suspicion and all manner of trouble. Peace was upon all them that adored: such peace—Falcontent reflected in the terms of other times—as the world can neither give nor take away.... And so it had been: a faith continuing from generation to generation, comforting, inspiring, peace-bringing, giving hope and courage—the integrity of its essentials preserved, after all, against the cocksure philosophies of all these new days.
“Ver’ much regret,” the dragoman whispered in Falcontent’s ear. “Accordin’ my Bethlehem itinerary, it is time for visit Field of Shepherds.”
Falcontent started.
“Oh, we’ll cut that out!” he whispered, hastily. “I guess I better get back to the hotel.”
But Falcontent followed a rocky pathway, leading down, leading on, inclining toward the stars, to a hill, near by some ancient ruins, below which a field lay in a mist of moonlight.... Falcontent was cold; but yet it was a warm night. It was not the cold. He was afraid; he trembled—and was afraid.... Awad withdrew. Falcontent stood alone.... It is related of Saul of Tarsus, as Falcontent then singularly recalled, that, being on the road to Damascus, there shined round about him a light from heaven, and he fell to the earth, and heard a voice, saying unto him, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And the narrative continues: And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus, whom thou persecutest. It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And he trembling and astonished, said, Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?... No light from heaven shined round about James Falcontent, of Groot and McCarthy; but yet he trembled and was astonished—in a great illumination of the spirit. It was a simple thing: it concerned only the realities of Falcontent’s experience.... And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people: for unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour.... And it was true! Salvation had proceeded from that Birth: all liberty in the world, as Falcontent knew the world and the ages of its spinning—every simple kindness—all pure aspiration—every good deed—all true forms of love and virtue and high courage and justice.... And the God of Falcontent’s fathers was the only God Falcontent knew anything about.
There was a peal of bells; the ringing came liquid-sweet through the moonlight from the Church of the Nativity on the hills of Bethlehem.