Produced by Al Haines

THE COMING OF THE KING

BY

BERNIE BABCOCK

AUTHOR OF

THE SOUL OF ANN RUTLEDGE, ETC.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS —— NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT 1921

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

To

THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE—THE CHILD

Part One A. D. 32

CHAPTER

I IN THE NET II AT TIBERIAS III UNDER THE FOX'S NOSE IV IN THE VALLEY OF LILIES V HULDAH AND ELIZABETH VI HARD SAYINGS VII LOST—AN ANKLET VIII STRANGE TALES ABE ABOUT IX SWEET IS THE SCAR X I WOULD SEE JESUS XI ON WITH THE DANCE XII ON THE ROOF XIII ORANGE BRANCHES XIV WITH WHAT EYES XV THE DEATH OF LAZARUS XVI HE CALLETH FOR THEE XVII THINK ON THESE THINGS XVIII THOU ART THE KING

Part Two A. D. 33

XIX CATACOMBS COMRADES XX THE LITTLE TALLITH XXI ANOTHER PASSOVER XXII BRIDAL CHAMBER TALK XXIII YE GENERATION OF VIPERS XXIV BY THIS WITNESS XXV IN THE GARDEN XXVI CLAUDIA AND PILATE XXVII CAESAR'S FRIEND XXVIII ROSES AND IRIS AND TEARS XXIX SWIFT MESSENGERS XXX CLAUDIA'S DREAM XXXI KING OF THE JEWS XXXII IN THIS SIGN XXXIII I AM

THE COMING OF THE KING

PROLOGUE

THE CHILD

"The fangs of the she-wolf are whetted keen for Galilean flesh and else the wrath of Jehovah palsy the arm of Rome, Galilean soil will run red with blood from scourged backs ere the noon of a new day."

The speaker, a slender woman wearing the garb of a peasant, lowered a water-jar from her shoulder and stood beside the bench of a workman, who paused at his task to get news from the market place.

"The souls for the cross—are they many?" he asked.

"A score of hundred I hear whispered, but at market place and fountain the spear of the soldier presseth hard against the ribs of those who congregate to exchange a word."

The man, who was fashioning a heavy yoke, lifted his bearded face to that of the woman. "A score of hundred!" he exclaimed. "To-morrow's sun will climb over Tabor to the ring of axes cutting green timber for twenty hundred crosses! The mercy of God on the victims!"

"Yea—and to-morrow's sun will set with the breeze of evening wafting one great groan of agony over the hills and vales of Galilee—one great sob of lamentation—one great curse on the barbarians of the city on the Tiber. And this for no crime save that of poverty!"

"Insurrection," the man corrected. "The Gaulonite raised, not a popular revolt, alas. It is but insurrection."

"Insurrection!—and why not insurrection? The Gaulonite may hang on a cross until the black winged ravens pick his bones and wild dogs carry them to desert places, but the Gaulonite speaks the voice of our fathers for verily, verily, the soil of the earth belongs to God, not men, and the toiler should eat of the increase of his labor! Doth not our toil yield the barley harvest, yet are we not ofttimes hungry? Doth not our toil make the vine hang heavy in the vineyard, yet do not our bottles droop empty of wine? Doth not the substance of our bitter toiling go to the tax-gatherer? Aye, Joseph, thou knowest I speak truly. It is tax—tax—tax,—land tax, temple tax, poll tax, army tax, court tax—always tax; and when there is to be a great orgy in the banquet halls of Rome, or Herod is to give a mighty feast for that brazen harlot, his brother's wife, are we not reduced to the bran and vinegar fare of slaves to pay the cost? A curse on Rome! A curse on Herod!"

"Hist, Mary, hist! Know'st thou not there may be ears listening even now behind the pomegranate?"

The woman glanced nervously toward the door where a leather curtain hung. She crossed the room, lifted the curtain and looked out into the court. It was empty save for a group of children. She returned to the room and from the wall took several small skin bottles which she placed by the water-jar. Then she called, "Jesu! Jesu!"

In answer a lad of six or eight years appeared from the court.

"Fill the bottles and hang them under the vine where the night breeze will cool them for the morrow."

When the child had done her bidding he stepped to the door. "Mother," he said, "hear thou? There is weeping in the home of Jael's father! Listen! Hear thou—the children calling—calling?"

The woman went to the door. She listened a moment and as the wail of a child sounded over the court she said, "Aye, sore weeping. Why, Jesu?"

"Jael's father went away yester morning and hath not come again. A man saw him with many others driven in chains like cattle. A stain of blood was on his face—and he will not come again. Why did the soldiers take Jael's father?"

"Hist, child. Talk not of Jael's father. Run and play."

* * * * * *

The next morning before the rising sun had climbed above Mount Tabor, little Jesu with his peasant mother left Nazareth, carrying between them a new-made yoke. They had not yet reached the end of the footpath around the slope of the hill to the highway, when they heard a heart-sickening moan.

The child stopped suddenly saying, "Something doth suffer?"

The woman took a few steps forward and looked out into the roadway. Then she too stopped, and with a sharp cry threw her hand across her eyes. Having received no answer to his inquiry the child pushed past her to the highroad. Then he too gave a cry, half fear, half pain, saying, "It is the father of Jael—and, mother—mother—there is a dog." And with a scream he dashed into the roadway. As he did so an animal slunk across his path and disappeared behind a cactus thicket hedging a barley field.

The moan gave way to a feeble call as the child appeared. "Jesu!
Jesu, I thirst!" were the words the parched lips uttered.

Helpless, the man hung crucified. The cross was not more than four feet high, all in this wholesale crucifixion being purposely low that wild dogs and jackals might tear the vitals, the bodies thus exposed emphasizing the power and cruelty of Rome. Naked the crucified one hung, his palms clotted with blood where spikes held them on the green cross-beam, and the wood behind the body stained dark from thong-cuts on the back. His legs lay on the ground. Flies swarmed wherever there was blood and the gray face of the victim was yet grayer from dust cast up by travelers on the roadway.

"Jesu! Jesu! Water for my burning tongue!" the man moaned.

"Give him to drink," the woman said in low tones to the child, who stood before the cross, his large dark eyes fixed on the helpless one in horror and in pity. "Give him water and I will watch that none spy you at the deed. Hasten!"

The child opened his water-bottle and held it toward the lips of the man. Pinioned hands, stiffened shoulders and weakened muscles made the effort to drink difficult. Pulling his kerchief from his neck, the child sopped it with water and held it to the dry lips.

In wavering tones the man, refreshed, said, "Since yester noon have I hung here. With the morning came the dog; thrice came he sniffing. Once, before weakness overcame me, with kicking and fierce screams I frightened the brute. Again, a herdsman drove him far across the field. And now you come, Jesu. Ah, that you might tarry until the numbness creeping over my back where the flies swarm, and into my hands that have burned, reached my brain, that you might stay until the darkness of death hides from me the skulking form waiting to rend my flesh."

"Woman," said the child, raising his dark eyes to his mother's face, "dost fear to leave me?"

"Yea, my little one, lest seeing thee minister to a malefactor some spy or guard might take thee."

"And would they take one young like me, who never did Rome harm?"

"All do Rome harm who cry beneath her heel."

"I fear not. I can hide in the bushes and keep the evil beast away.
And when the road is clear I can wet the dry lips of Jael's father."

The woman hesitated.

"Canst carry the burden alone, woman?" and there was concern in the child's voice. "The way is long, the road rough and the yoke a heavy one."

"The burden is naught save the burden of fear on my heart lest thou meet harm, my beloved one—my little Jesu!"

"Be not afraid. Will not the God of our fathers save me from the soldier's spear as once our father David was saved from the spear of Saul? Find me but a stout club with which to keep the bristled dog from Jael's father."

Throughout the day the child kept watch over the cross and its victim by the dusty wayside. There were passers-by, most of them Galileans muttering curses on the powers that had put him on the cross, but offering no comfort to the malefactor. Twice the gaunt dog came nearer but drew back before the raised club, and with blinking eye and restless tongue, bided his time. As the sun dropped behind the trees, the moaning from the cross grew almost too faint to be heard, and when, after a long stillness, there came a sharp strange cry from the lips of the crucified, the child gave a start and then hastened to offer the wet kerchief. But before he reached the cross the head had fallen limp over the bosom, and the feet lay quiet in the roadside dust.

The child spoke. There was no answer. He went back to his shelter in the bushes. A strange hush seemed to have fallen over the earth. With searching eyes he now watched the long road for a sight of his mother. When he turned his gaze for a moment from the roadway to the cactus hedge he noticed the watching dog had drawn closer and with fierce eagerness eyed the limp body on the cross. Fear now took possession of the child, and he moved nearer the highway and shuddered as he noticed that the dog moved nearer also.

When at last his mother came he buried his face in her breast and sobbed: "His head hangs like a flower broken at the stem. He can not lift it, and he thirsts no more for water."

"Peace be to Jael's father," the mother replied, choking back a sob, "and peace be to thee, my brave little Jesu."

"Nay, I am not brave. I was afraid—afraid!"

"Nay, nay. My little Jesu is not afraid of a dog."

"Nay, not a dog. But after the head of Jael's father fell low, something seemed reaching out long dark arms to gather me in—in to Jael's father—and I feared."

The mother pressed the hand of the child in hers. Reassured by the warm strong clasp, he smiled as his mother said, "It were but childish fear. There is nothing by the roadside reaching dark arms out to you."

"Nay, nothing—nothing, woman," replied the child, laughing at his own fear, "nothing save the shadow of the cross."

PART ONE

A.D.32

CHAPTER I

IN THE NET

Through the open doorway and latticed window of a peasant's hut, the sunset colors of a Palestine sky glowed red. The only occupant of the room was an aged woman, thin haired and bent, who moved slowly about preparing the evening meal. She stopped beside a dingy little oven on one end of the bed platform, and bending stiffly to the floor gathered up a few handsful of stubble which she thrust into the fire. As the quick flames rose under her kettle she stirred her brew muttering: "Do not two sparrows go for a farthing and yet have we no flavor for our sop. It was not so in the days of our fathers."

Stirring and muttering she did not notice the approach of a young girl who had entered the room, until an armful of chaff was dropped by the oven. With a start she, turned about.

"Sara!" she cried, "thou comest like a thief in the night. Singing doth better become thee."

"There is no song in me. Empty is my stomach, and look you," and she pointed across the room to a pile of nets beside a wooden bench. "There are three score rents to mend and the day is done." She turned to the doorway and for a moment stood looking out, barefooted, meanly clad and unkept, yet of comely form and with abundant dark hair falling around an oval face of more than ordinary beauty. She sighed and turned back into the room.

"Thou shalt eat," and the aged woman took bread from the oven and placed it on a wooden table in the center of the room. "Sit thee down."

Sara sat down and glanced over the small table. "Bread and unseasoned sop!" she exclaimed.

"And water," cheerfully added Grandmother Rachael, as she poured the contents of a skin bottle into a pitcher.

After the washing of hands from a bowl on a stool at the table side, the aged woman muttered thanks and the evening meal began.

"It goeth down hard," Sara complained.

"But it was not so in the days of our fathers," her companion reminded her. "Then there was plenty and each man sat under his own vine and fig tree, for by the law of Moses no man was allowed to collect usury, so sayeth the Rabbi."

Hardly had the meal begun when, unnoticed by either of the women, a fisherman entered. His muscular arms were uncovered; the short skirt of his garment scarce reached his knees. His heavy dark hair was pushed back from his forehead and the dying sunset falling over his swarthy face and neck gave him the appearance of bronze. He stopped behind Sara and spoke her name.

"It is the voice of Jael," she cried, looking back. "My Jael."

"And he hath brought a fish!" Grandmother Rachael exclaimed, laughing. "The blessing of God on thee, my son Jael. Sit thee down and sup with us."

"Thy hospitality exceedeth thy stores," he answered, "yet could I not swallow food if thy table did groan with milk and honey."

"Thou art not sick?" Sara asked, concern in her voice.

"Nay, and yet have I a fever, the consuming fever of wrath, for again hath the tax-gatherer been abroad. Robbed are our tables of fat, milk and honey; lean are our bellies for food; stripped are our bodies of covering. Yet doth the tax ever increase that Herod may add to his vast stores. It is tax—tax—tax until at night the waves of the sea beat against the shore calling 'Tax—tax,' and in the solitary places the wild dogs bark 'Tax—tax,' and in the homes of the peasant the children cry for bread while over their roofs the wind calls 'Tax—tax.'"

"It was not so in the days of our fathers," Grandmother Rachael muttered, beating her palms slowly together.

"Her heart is not without Israel's hope of the coming of the King even though her lips make much muttering," Sara said, as Jael turned to the aged woman who again wailed:

"It was not so in the days of our fathers."

"Nay, nor will it ever be so in the days of our fathers' sons," he answered her. "Was it for this that Israel was called to be God's chosen people—this—that they should toil and starve and be spit upon by heathen dogs? That they should till the soil and be robbed of the increase that Herod might buy gold platters in which to serve good Jew heads to dancing harlots? It hath been and ever will be among men struggling for bread, as among dogs fighting over a carcass that the strong shall overcome the weak. But our fathers every fifty years took back the land from the strong and gave it again to the toiler that he might have a new start. So shall it be."

While he had been speaking he had dropped the leather curtain hanging at the door. Sara lit a lamp.

"And when shall come again the days of our fathers?" Grandmother
Rachael asked.

"When we rise up and wrest from the oppressor our stolen inheritance."

"Aye, but, my Jael, hast thou forgotten the Gaulonite?" Sara asked.
"Did he not with two thousand followers rise up to take back the land?
And were not his followers hanged on two thousand crosses until the
wild dogs of Palestine broke their fast on Jewish flesh?"

Jael had grown excited as Sara questioned him. He paced the floor. "Yea," he answered, "yea, did wild dogs feast on Jewish flesh, even the flesh of thy Jael's father! Forget not shall I until the stone of my father's tomb be rolled against my bones, how he was hung where two roads meet! Forget will I—nor forgive. And in the time of Israel's revenge will my own hands spill blood to settle the debt."

"Sh- sh- sh-" warned Sara. "Methought I saw the curtain move. Fear even now doth catch my heart in its pinching fingers."

"Fear not, my fair Sara," Jael said. "Could harm befall thee with Jael, the fisherman, nigh? Look thou at the strength of my arm and the keen edge of my tough fishing knife!" and he held forth his shining blade.

"Not for myself do I feel fear, but for thee. Thy life would not be worth a farthing were thy fierce words heard by the dogs of Rome. Thy knife is long and keen, but the sword of the enemy is longer—and methought the curtain moved again."

"Nay, but to stay thy fears I will look."

Jael turned toward the door but had taken only a step when the leather was thrust aside and two soldiers sprang in.

"Jael! Thy strong arm! Thy knife!" Sara cried.

"Give me the knife, dog of a Jew," commanded one of the soldiers, drawing his sword. "Give me, else will I strike thy head from thy body and kick it like offal into the darkness of the night! Give me," and he held out his hand.

"Get the knife," was Jael's reply as he flung it through the uncovered door.

"By the gods! Now shalt thou come before the bar of justice to answer the charge of sedition against the mighty Caesar and his king, thy Herod."

"Nay, no king of mine is that Idumean fox whose brother's wife doth defile his bed. Such for Rome, but not for Israel!"

"Dog of a Jew!"

"Swine of a Roman!"

For a moment the two measured glances. Then Jael was seized on each side by one of the soldiers, the first spitting in his face with the question, "Swine of a Roman am I?"

"Yea, verily—son of a she-swine," and Jael blew the contents of his mouth in the face of the soldier, who struck him across the cheek with his sword, exclaiming: "This for thy portion to-night, then the cross."

Grandmother Rachael had taken refuge on the oven step and was wringing her hands and muttering prayers, while Sara was keeping as close as possible to Jael.

"Have pity, sir," she begged of the soldier when the cross was mentioned. "Have pity, he hath done thee no harm."

"Hold your tongue, woman," the soldier replied without looking at her, "else the cross will be thy portion also."

"And to the cross I choose to go if there my Jael goeth," she replied.

Then the second soldier, casting admiring glances on Sara, said, "She is a fair maiden; she shall be my spoil."

"Jove Almighty!" exclaimed the other, catching his sword-point in the front of her bodice and laying it open. "A fair maiden indeed. Not thine, but mine shall she be," and he motioned his fellow soldier to stand back.

"The God of our fathers strike thee dead!" Jael shouted in wrath.

"The God of thy fathers! Ha! Ha! The God of thy fathers hath no more power than yonder driveling granny. By Rome hath the God of thy fathers been smitten. To Rome belongs the maiden."

"Of all the spoil," the soldier who had discovered the beauty of Sara said to his companion, "of all the spoil that hath been taken between us, you have the larger portion. I first saw the maiden. She shall be mine!"

"Nay, mine—first mine. Then shall she be yours."

"Lord God Almighty!" Jael cried. "Is it the name of my Sara your polluted lips pass back and forth? Is it the virgin innocence of my betrothed you would trade between you? Nay!"

And with a tremendous effort he freed himself and attacked the soldiers with his naked hands. In the thick of the conflict, Sara, who had seized the lamp, went out with it to search for the knife. In the dark the struggle continued, but when Sara returned with the knife she found Jael on the floor with blood running from a wound in the head. She screamed, but no attention was paid her until her lover had been securely enmeshed in the pile of fish nets and thrown upon the wooden bench. Then the first soldier, wiping his brow and regaining his helmet, said, "Now shall I take my own?" and he moved toward Sara.

Turning the point of the fishing knife against her breast she whispered, "If thou takest me, thou takest me dead."

"'Twas I who first saw her," the second soldier protested, stepping up.

"Hold thy tongue," his companion exclaimed angrily, "else will I tie thee in the fish net with the Jew. Art thou ready to go with me?" turning toward Sara.

"Touch me not!" she commanded, drawing back.

The soldier laughed. "Touch thee not, when thou hast set my blood running like fire? Touch thee not?" and he snatched the knife from her hand and flung it into the pile of nets, as he said, "Flame doth become thy cheek and fire thine eye! Come, nay—thou comest not? Then will Jael hang on a cross. Then will Jael's flayed back draw many stinging flies. Then will Jael's moans for water to cool his veins drained dry of blood, make sweet music. Then will the smell of Jael's flesh draw dogs with whetted fangs. Then—"

"Stop! Stay!" cried Sara. "Wilt thou spare Jael?"

"When thou art mine, then Jael shall be spared."

Sara turned to the bench. "Jael—Jael—Jael," she called, drawing her long hair across her face.

"Tangle not thy fair tresses. Soft must they lie across my cheek when thou art mine. Come," and the soldier lay hands upon her, but she shrank away and throwing herself down beside the bench cried:

"Oh, Jael—Jael—save me!"

"Come here," the first soldier called to the second, "thy sword. A live Roman is better than a dead Jew. Why wait we for the cross?"

Turning on her knees before the soldier, Sara caught the upraised sword saying, "Nay—nay—spare him."

"Wilt thou come with me?"

"Yea—God of my fathers—God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, I come! But ere I leave my home forever, let me have the blessing of my mother Rachael. Stand thou beyond the threshold lest thy presence pollute the air."

"Thou wouldst be blessed?" and the soldier laughed. "I await beyond the threshold," and pushing the other soldier in front of him, he stepped outside and stood where he could watch the pile of fish nets, from which came the sound of heavy breathing.

"My blessing," Sara whispered, "the bitter hemlock!"

With tears streaming down her withered cheeks while she muttered and cursed, the aged woman fastened Sara's torn bodice, binding the deadly herb within easy hand's reach.

CHAPTER II

AT TIBERIAS

A Tyrian merchant-ship manned by three galleys of oarsmen, turned its high and proudly arched red and gold neck into the harbor of Tiberias.

After the manner of that master builder his father, Herod the Great, in building Caesarea, Herod Antipas had built Tiberias as a home of luxury for himself and a fitting tribute to the ruling Caesar. The great semicircular harbor reared its colossal pillars in a mighty curve flanked far out in the sea by massive towers of gray stone. On a hill rising gradually from beyond the harbor stood the royal palace of Antipas, its polished marble gleaming through the tops of palms and the lace-like green of shittah trees. Against this background of pillared stone and shining marble and living green was the shipping in the harbor. Hugged against the dock near by was a load of silver from Tarshish. Near it was a ship from Caprus bearing copper. A cargo of wine from Damascus and a cargo of linen from Egypt rocked side by side; and a low boat piled with shells of dye fish had just come into port from the far Peloponnesus, while everywhere ships of different size and kind from those centers of commercial activity, Tyre and Sidon, were changing sails and dipping oars.

In the prow of the Tyrian merchant-ship stood Zador Ben Amon, by race and faith a Jew; by political alignment a Sadducee; by occupation an importer of precious stones, owner of a number of shops in Jerusalem where cunning work was done in gold and ivory, and a money-changer in the Temple. Zador Ben Amon was returning from a prosperous trip that had taken him as far as Rome, and having business with Herod Antipas had sent word of his visit to Tiberias. It was with a smile he stroked his perfumed beard as he caught sight of an equipage making its way to the water-front. A flock of goats and rams being driven by Arabs across the wharf, scattered, and to both right and left sailors and slaves made way for the driver of Herod's horses.

Black as ravens were the horses of Herod Antipas, and shiny as satin. Their manes and tails hung in closely curled, glossy ringlets and their heavy harness was thickly studded with polished gold buttons. The glossy black hair of Antipas was also curled, and the crown-like head-gear he wore was thickly studded with jewels, as was also the richly gold embroidered border of his robe. In his ears he wore rings which swung down against the upper edge of his curled and greased beard.

The greeting between Antipas and the money-changer was cordial; and before they went to the palace, Zador Ben Amon was driven about the city to see the stadium, the new theatre, the streets and the underground watercourses. And he was taken to the famous hot baths a mile down the seaside, considered by Romans one of the great curiosities of the world. It was in the feast room Zador made known his business, and yet, not until some discussion of other matters had taken place, beginning with a description of a Roman banquet at which the Jew had been a guest.

"The table at which we sat was of citron wood from Mauritania, more precious than gold. And it was covered with a plateau of massive silver weighing five hundred pounds—five hundred pounds, mind you, chased and carven. Dost thou marvel that I made friends with the Romans?"

"Thou art wise, Son of Amon," Antipas answered.

"After the feast, young slave girls strewed the mosaic with sawdust dyed saffron and vermilion, mixed with sparkling powder, and naked virgins danced—naked virgins!"

Herod Antipas rubbed his palms and smiled, showing the tips of several sharp teeth.

"And the next day," continued the guest, "we went to the circus and waved our ribbon-decked palms while half a score of combatants were dragged to the spoilarium and carted through the Gate of Death. A bloody sport, but they enjoy it, and gladiators are plenty. Gorgeous the shows of Rome; like the waters of the Tiber doth her wine flow, and her gold is like the stars for plenty."

"And the populace, doth it not mutter even as our own?"

"Into the feast halls comes no mention of the populace. Yet it hath been said they stand about trembling lest they starve because of the delay of an Alexandrian corn ship. But what of the populace? Whether her hordes be corn fed or not corn fed, Rome careth not. What souls have these?"

"It is the naked virgins that possess souls," and Antipas showed his pointed teeth a little more.

"Nay, it is the naked virgins that set souls on fire," Zador Ben Amon corrected.

"Rome hath not all the naked virgins that do dance. Antipas hath had a dance for his wife's sake." With this remark his sharp-toothed smile gave way to laughter.

"Which wife?" Zador asked.

"Herodias, sister of Agrippa the Great. Her Salome danced until like fire my blood chased itself into a fever. Then did I tell her to name her price. And the price was none other than the head of John—John Baptist, who for defiling the name of Antipas' wife had been put in a dungeon under the castle of Machaerus. Antipas is not cursed with poverty. Yet are there prices too great, for since the head of the brawler came blinking on a platter, do the people declare he were Elias, and that he is not dead but walks the dungeon by day and whither he will by night."

"Thou shouldst be a Sadducee and declare against a hereafter. They eat, drink and be merry while the Pharisees speak darkly of a hereafter of which they know nothing, and beget fear of ghosts."

"Yea, but in the hearts of the people great hope of a hereafter is ever alive. This do the Pharisees know and teach."

"The Pharisees are hypocrites. But let us to business for it meaneth more stores of gold to Antipas and Zador."

The Idumean leaned forward with his eyes on the Jew. "Speak on," he said.

"There is a reason Rome ruleth the world. She knoweth how. In the Senate are the laws made. By the sword of her vast army are they enforced. And lest insurrection be plotted against the throne of the Caesars, Rome hath a system of spies sufficient to hear a whisper in the bowels of the earth. It hath not been so determined, but it is suspected that there is some sort of a union of toilers. Such societies would be like a worm in the heart to our profits, Antipas."

"Fear not such worms. Some wild dream is this—that those who toil bind themselves together. Ever do cattle contend among themselves and not unite."

"It hath been done. What hath been done by slaves and men, might be done again. It hath not yet outlived the memory of man how the slaves in the Laurian silver mines arose, killed their guards, took the citadel of Sunium to sleep in, raided the armory for weapons and laid Attica waste for a great season. Nor was it because they were not well enslaved. Naked did their men and women toil under the lash. Yet they became as one man and, at the word, rose as one man. And was it not in Macedonia at the gold mines of Pangaetus that another bloody uprising took place at vast cost to the gold industry because they rose as a man? Suppose you, that the silversmiths, gold-gilders, pearl and ivory and filigree workers should secretly band themselves together, hast thou knowledge to compute the loss to my profit?"

Herod Antipas had covered his sharp teeth with his lip and was listening intently to Zador Ben Amon.

"Would it mean naught to thee if in thine own province thy hewers of stone and builders of ships, thy tent-makers and herdsmen and corn growers should secretly unite and rise against thee?"

"Thy words sink deep," Antipas said, taking up his cup. Finding it empty, he looked behind him. The stewart who had been standing there had gone out. "More wine!" Antipas shouted. "And keep thee by the cups," he gave order as the stewart came hastily in. Antipas and his guest drank freely. Then the Jew spoke again.

"Here is Herod Antipas," he said, holding up his left hand and marking its first finger with the stubby forefinger of his right hand. "And here is Pilate, Procurator of Judea, and here is the High Priest of the House of Annas. And the three have much gold. But between them hath Annas the greater portion. From the tax on all the world getteth Pilate his. From Galilean tax getteth Antipas his, but from the Temple getteth Annas his through the hands of Caiaphas. The tribute money from all the earth, the Sanctuary half shekel and the Temple Bazaars and money-changers bring riches untold to Annas. Did not Crassus when he went out against the Parthians carry from the Temple gold uncounted? Did Pompey not take one hundred million of shekels in gold beside the beams of gold hidden in the hollow wood?"

"Yea, much fine gold," Antipas replied. "But thou art thyself a money-changer in the Temple, and its riches cometh to thy hands also."

"Thou dost not know Annas. Bled I am of my lawful profits else another get my place. Annas is all powerful. Yet have I a plan."

"What planneth thou?" and Antipas leaned across the table with eager eyes on the Jew.

"Let these three mighty ones—Herod of Tiberias, Zador Ben Amon of Jerusalem and Pilate of Rome—form a secret union for their profit and for breaking the power of Annas. What thinkest thou of such a union?"

"Thou art the son of a fool," and Antipas straightened up stiffly.

"A fool thou sayest? And wherefore?" Zador Ben Amon asked, somewhat confused by the sudden change in the attitude of his host.

Antipas leaned forward. His lips were securely drawn over the points of his teeth. His eyes, somewhat watery from much drinking, looked with anger into the steady eye of Zador. "Pilate," he began, "doth come riding to the Passover in a gold inlaid ivory chariot and with royal lictors, and in the Palace of Herod the Great doth he revel. Who builded this palace? What man should be seated on its throne?" He paused and held out his cup to the stewart who filled it afresh. "Who was the friend of Cleopatra and Anthony? Was it not Herod the Great, father of Antipas? Who went to Rome in a three-decked ship he builded, was taken to the Roman Senate and made King of the Jews? Was it not the father of Antipas? Who builded Caesarea at the fountains of Jordan? Who builded the Temple, the arches, the monuments, the streets, the aqueducts, the walls, the towers and the Palace of Herod the Great, King of the Jews? Was it not Herod the Great, father of Antipas? And when he had died and the worms eaten him who was given command of the Tower of Antonio? Into whose hands was the Palace of Herod the Great given? Who is this Pilate—impostor of a Roman? Is he not the son of a heathen of Seville? Was not his father Marcus Pontius who deserted his countrymen when Rome made conquest in his land? Was he not rewarded for his treachery with the sharp-edged pilatus which gave to him the new name 'Pilate'? Did not the son of this heathen dog follow Germanicus and through him creep in among the Romans of high estate? Did he not wed Claudia Procula, granddaughter of Augustus? And shortly thereafter was he not made Procurator at Jerusalem? Who should sit in state in Herod's palace in Jerusalem? Antipas, son of the King of the Jews, who builded it, or Pilate who would grind him beneath his clanking Roman heel? And wouldst thou have me to form union with this?"

With flushed face Antipas paused to get breath. "More wine!" he called. He drained the cup and throwing it across the table, arose and walked the length of the room and back with heavy strides. Then he sat down and pounded the table shouting, "Hear, oh, Zador Ben Amon! not until the desire of Pilate be the desire of the son of Herod the Great shall Antipas and Pilate come together! Dost thou understand? Like fleas on a dog these secret societies thou fearest may vex Rome. That is Rome's grievance. In Galilee know they better for the Gaulonite is yet remembered. Yet will I comb the province clean with teeth of steel that not one breaching insurrection may escape."

Antipas was trembling with rage. Zador Ben Amon saw that he had done little less than insult his host by his untimely suggestion about Pilate.

"Let not the peace of Antipas be disturbed by the power of Pilate in Jerusalem," he said quietly, moving nearer Antipas. "Like the mist of the morning his days pass, and what man knoweth who shall be Procurator then?"

"What meanest thou?" and the Tetrarch leaned forward with returning interest.

"We must be alone."

Antipas turned around to his stewart. "Begone!" he commanded. When the door had closed behind him, Zador's host with burning eyes whispered, "A plot? Hast thou heard in Rome of a plot against the life of Pilate?"

"Whether plot I know not. But by evil omens is the day marked for him, deadly as the Ides of March."

"Evil omens? From an oracle?"

"From an oracle under the wings of a raven and bat. Came the omen from the entrails of a falcon which, when spread before the oracle, did lift themselves one against the other. Then did they tremble without touch of hand and did wrap themselves in a knot and struggle together until they did burst asunder. And from that which was hidden therein came forth the hind foot of a hare."

"The meaning thereof?" and Antipas waited.

"That which be hidden is no Roman. That which hideth it shall meet death by strangulation. Then shall that which hath been swallowed come forth to run a swift race."

Antipas reflected a moment. His anger was leaving him, but the tips of his teeth were not yet showing.

Zador Ben Amon turned to his cloak and from a wallet took out three leather cases, two of which he opened and placed on the table. The first contained a ring, the second a frontlet. "Of so excellent a nature hath been thy entertainment," said the Jew, "thou makest me to forget my gifts," and taking up the frontlet he handed it to Antipas. "This is a gift for the High Priest. Look thou at the filigree work around the amethyst, and the hyacinth color of the ribbon."

Antipas took it and Zador noticed that his fingers seemed to stick as he relinquished his hold.

"And this," Zador took the ring, "hath been made by workers of rare skill. Its jaspers came from far India. This is for Herod Antipas from his friend Zador Ben Amon," and he handed it to Herod.

The keen edge of the sharp teeth now came into view for a smile of long duration. When the ring had been duly admired, Antipas glanced at the third leather case. Zador opened it and drew forth an anklet which Antipas reached for. Slipping it over the fingers of his hand he held it up, and after examining its jewels, he shook it until it tinkled, and enjoyed it as a child enjoys a toy. When he had played with it a few moments he lifted his eyes to the Jew and studied him. "Thy desire is buried well under thy itch for gain," he said. "Yet do I now remember the eye of the money-changer when he spoke of the naked virgins."

"Is a money-changer not as other men?"

"With his two eyes ever set on gold and his ten fingers ever counting treasure, what eye or finger touch hath he left for woman? Is this for the profit of thy purse or the pleasure of the flesh?"

"It is a betrothal gift."

"Thou sayest! Beware an Asmonean princess!" and Antipas smiled broadly.

"A princess of Israel she is. I saw her in the shop of a Jerusalem silk dealer named Joel who will wed her sister. Her hair is fine as webs spun at night. She hath arms and a bosom her veil did but half conceal. So was I stirred into loving her. Her brother liveth at Bethany where she too abides and there have I been. Fair she is and not upper-minded, and I go to make her my betrothed."

"And doth this fit?" Taking the circlet from his fingers Antipas put it on his wrist and shoved it as far up on his hair-grown arm as it would go. He then placed his broad hand on the table and gave an imitation of a woman walking. Both men roared with laughter as the hairy leg skipped and danced and hobbled while the bangles tinkled merrily.

"Thou art a keen Jew, my friend," Antipas said. "Thou tellest not the name of the woman. If she shall scorn thy gift then canst thou give it to another for, ever there are women whose softness can be thine for a jeweled trinket." And with a broad showing of sharp teeth, Herod Antipas removed the anklet from his arm and handed it back to Zador Ben Amon.

CHAPTER III

UNDER THE FOX'S NOSE

Behind the well guarded doors of a mud plastered house not far from the shores of Genassaret, a small company of Galilean peasants and fishermen had gathered to meet a kurios[1] from a Phoenician thiasos,[2] who was making a pilgrimage to gather information and organize societies. When introduced to the little group, the kurios said, "I see the table spread for the supper. Around such a table have I sat in Greece and Asia Minor as well as in Italy. Great is its power of breaking down the hatred between races and of making strong the spirit of the Brotherhood. In every land, though customs are not the same and the tongues are strange, yet do those who enter in know the bath of acceptance; the common table; the common treasury; love of the living; care for the dead; hope for the future; worship of a divinity and belief that a Savior cometh. Long hath it come to the ears of the thiasos how Galilee doth suffer. By the sword hath not a whole village of thy race been taken? Were not thy men shackled and thy maidens ravished? And ye who remain, art thou not taxed to the death?"

The words were spoken in low tones, yet there was a strange force in them. The speaker bent forward and the index finger he pointed at his hearers seemed to have been thrust suddenly from between his eyes. When the sleeve of his mantle fell back it disclosed upon his arm a fish, having a lion's head with a circle in its mouth.

"To gather news of thy distress, that is not hear-say, and to learn of thy hope, if hope thou hast, have I come. Speak on."

There was a moment of silence. Then a peasant stepped forward.

"Look thou!" and he threw back his skirt. "See thou these grievous wounds? I was set upon at the thrashing floor by a band of ruffians who demanded my wheat. And when I did say, 'Nay,' they did beat me, take the wheat and cast me into the chaff to die. And it hath since come to me that these ruffians are none other than servants of Annas, High Priest, who go about to pillage and destroy. Is it not so?" and turning to one side he lay hold of another man's arm. "Here is Herod's stewart. Hear him."

"Are the doors well barred and the court guards alert?" the stewart questioned. "Are there watchmen on the housetop? Herod hath said he will comb Galilee with teeth of steel for such as this. Yea, one wounded and robbed brother hath spoken truly. Nor is this the worst. The Sicarii, those murderers that do so grievously afflict the whole province, these too ply their bloody business at the hands of Herod and Annas. For no sooner have the pirates been caught than they give over to Herod and Annas their booty except a small stipend. Then are these murderers turned loose to get yet more booty for the accursed bloodsuckers called priests and kings. Am I not of the household of Herod? Do I not know of these things? And of virgins despoiled do I not know?"

"Yea, yea—thou knowest!" The answer came sharply from a young fisherman whose head was bound in a faded red turban and who carried one arm in a sling.

"Yea! Yea!" cried several other voices. "Let Jael speak!"

"Oh, that Jael might speak!" he answered fiercely. "That Jael might find tongue to curse those thrice accursed heathen who but three days ago stole from him the maiden Sara. Oh, that he might find words to speak her fate, for rather than be polluted by the serpent touch of Belial, took she the bitter hemlock! Oh, that Jael could know where her body lieth that a pile of stones might cover it from open corruption! Behold—" and from his breast he took a cord with a bit of cloth attached, which he held up. "Behold all that Jael the fisherman hath left of his betrothed—a little tallith found upon the floor where she had struggled! And look! Look, thou!" and he snatched from his head the dull red cloth which had bound an angry wound and waved it with savage swiftness before the kurios. "Behold all that is left of the father of Jael, the fisherman who followed the call of the Gaulonite to liberty from oppression, nor was the head that once this covering clung to, allowed its right to rot in a decent tomb. What hast thou of help to offer the oppressed?" and with a sudden twist he wrapped the cloth about his outstretched hand and held it toward the kurios.

In a well controlled voice strongly contrasting with that of Jael, the answer came. "If thou didst know the meaning of that which once didst bind thy father's head, then would thy question have its answer. If thou didst know the tongue the colors speak, the eyes of thy understanding would be open. The white of the gens families and the priests, hath it not from the hidden past meant 'washed' and 'set apart' from the soil of the world? And what is red the color of the toiler since those flaming deities, Ceres and Minerva, first presided over their destinies? Who first gave homage to the crimson of the rising sun? Kath it not ever been he who labors? Whose strength bringeth forth the wheat and wine that maketh the red blood of mankind? Cometh it not of the toiler? Is it not told in ancient song that those of white robes dwell on thrones of gold in Mount Olympus while their vaulted dome doth rest on the shoulders of the slaves and humble, whose red robes have grown dun and murk and brown with soil and toil? Verily there are blood makers and devourers of that blood. Thy father, Jael the fisherman, didst know that the way of hope is the way of Brotherhood. So did he bind himself with others. The hand of Rome destroyed him. Yet the way of Brotherhood liveth."

A woman had entered the room as he spoke. She hastily put some cups on the table and then, in a voice vibrant with gladness, she repeated the words, "The way of Brotherhood," and lifting her hands high, palms upward, exclaimed, "My soul doth magnify the Lord!"

All eyes were turned to her. A beautiful woman she was about whose face, which shone as if fresh from a glory bath, silvery threads shone like a dim halo. Her fine dark eyes were lit with radiant brightness.

"James," she said addressing the master of the abode, "canst thou not see—canst thou not hear thy brother as he read from the Word when first he taught? Hear him; 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. He hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to captives, to set at liberty them that are bruised.' Hath not the Spirit of the Lord been upon him as he doth teach the way of Brotherhood and pray that this kingdom may come on earth? Yet he hath not spoken of a red banner."

"The kingdom he would set up," said a man of gentle voice and spiritual countenance who had not yet spoken, "cometh not with swords and banners, for hath he not said 'They that lift the sword shall perish by the sword?' There is a better way of Brotherhood. It cometh by the law that he doth teach."

"And what is the law of this, thy teacher that would bring Brotherhood?" and there was interest in the voice of the kurios as he asked the question.

"There is but one law. On it hangeth all law and all prophecy. Verily a new law it is so that no more forever shall an eye be given for an eye or one sword-thrust for another, for God is love."

"Love? No longer a sword for a sword? Thou dost speak a strange language! Shall naught be paid to robbers and murderers and despoilers of women but love? Yet until the time of the great Brotherhood, vain is the sword, for while the oppressed do rise here and there in small revolt, swift and terrible is their cutting down. Slow grows the Brotherhood. Yet since the mighty Solomon did weld into one whole his stone-cutters and builders, hath those of like kind in toil and poverty come together; fruit sellers, wool carders, perfume makers, fortune-tellers, linen weavers, patch workers, wash women, dyers, image makers, ivory carvers, bridge builders, poets and singers, dwarfsmiths, sea-farers, wonder workers, hunters for the amphitheatre, brothel keepers, all these and many others shall be gathered into one great society and in that day—" The words of the kurios were stopped suddenly by the sound of three quick knocks on the roof over their heads.

"The enemy is upon us!" James exclaimed. "Mary, bring the roast kid with great haste! Let every man be gathered about the table ready for a feast—and be merry."

A steaming kid was hurriedly brought and the men moved quickly to their places except Jael, who stepped behind the door and drew from his mantle, his long keen knife. When the soldiers entered shortly, with steps as stealthy as those of a cat, he moved out where their faces might be seen and scanned them swiftly, concealing his knife under his skirt.

"What goeth on?" one soldier shouted, while the other walked across the room and looked into the kitchen.

"I have a guest," James replied. "A kinsman whose father is my father's father. With him we feast."

"Feast?" and the soldier turned his attention to the table. "They do feast! Ha! Ha! Come hither."

The second soldier came, saying, "A banquet they give—Ho! Ho! For a better one would I take me to the stables of Herod."

"A kid have they that shineth with grease."

"Is it a kid? Methought it a sparrow."

"By its size, its bones will but breed a quarrel."

"Let us be keepers of the peace—for this hath Herod not appointed us?" and lifting his sword he brought it down on the roast kid severing it in two halves. "A sharp blade cutteth clean!"

"And a stiff leg maketh a good handle." And with the words each soldier seized with his left hand a half of the kid which he fell greedily upon, while holding his sword aloft in his right hand. With hungry teeth the soldiers tore the flesh from the bones, spewing such as they did not want on to the floor, and devouring the tender, until their cheeks shone like ruddy apples and their beards were drabbled with gravy. Then they dropped the remains on the floor and with their boot toes rubbed them over the mud that had dropped from their heels. When the flesh was well covered with filth, the two halves of the carcass were lifted by the sword point and flung back on the table with the words, "A feast they would have!" The soldiers cast their eyes over the angry but silent company, and broke into roars of laughter.

"A flock of sacred goats!" one said.

"Nay—by the stink of them, fish long rotten. Let us go hence! Ugh!" and pinching their noses, the soldiers left the abode.

There was silence in the room for a moment before the kurios said in low tones, holding his hand toward the door to enjoin caution, "What think ye, men of Galilee—needest thou a Brotherhood?"

"Yea—yea," came like a growl from the throats of the company.

"And who wilt thy leader be?"

All eyes were turned to James as his name was spoken.

"This night hast thou seen the fruit of the tree of oppression. What sayest thou?"

With the light of indignation in his eye and the tremor of wrath in his voice, the master of the house said, "In the words of one greater than I, 'Let the ax be laid at the roots of the tree.' And this also do I say, Go to, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you! Your riches are corrupted, and your garments moth-eaten! Your gold and silver is cankered and the rust of them shall be a witness against you and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure together for the last days! Behold! The hire of the laborers who have reaped down thy fields, which you kept back by fraud, crieth, and the cries of them which have reaped have entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth! Ye have lived in pleasure on the earth and been wanton! Ye have nourished thy hearts as in a day of slaughter! Ye have condemned and killed the just!" Then addressing his words more closely to those about the table he said, "Be patient, therefore, brethern, unto the coming of the Lord. Be patient, for the coming of the Lord draweth nigh—draweth nigh."

The Hallelujah, "My soul doth magnify the Lord!" broke the stillness that had fallen after the words of James. All eyes were turned again to the woman who had spoken once before.

"He hath put down the mighty from their seats;
And exalted them of low degree:
He hath filled the hungry with good things,
And the rich hath he sent away empty."

As she stood with face aglow and arms extended, a strange pervading hush filled the room. Her voice, while mellow with sweetness and glad as a song yet had a depth that betokened mysterious strength.

"Who is this," the kurios asked, "that seeth what is to be while it is yet forming in the womb of pain? Who is this that shouteth victory before it hath been brought forth?"

"The woman speaketh of her son who hath come to establish the Kingdom,"
James answered. "And her soul doth greatly magnify the Lord."

"Who is her son?" and there was keen interest in the question.

"A Galilean even as we, and son of a carpenter. But he doth many mighty works and his heart turneth to the lowly. Jesus his name."

"I would see this Jesus. Where is he?"

"He hath gone apart into a mountain to pray, as is his custom. But tarry thou among us until he come, for of a truth he speaketh as never man hath spoken."

"I tarry," answered the kurios.

[1] Lord and contract maker of ancient working man's society.

[2] One of several names of ancient working man's society.

CHAPTER IV

IN THE VALLEY OF LILIES

Thanks to the untiring labor of Martha and her slow-moving servant Eli, the house of her brother Lazarus of Bethany was set in order three days before the expected arrival of Passover guests. Followed by Eli, who was girt about with a long towel, Martha made a last survey of the large and well furnished living-room, looking for a truant speck of dust. She paused for a moment at a table containing writing materials and bade the servant wipe it carefully and place it, with a case of scrolls, at one end of the wide, latticed window-couch, for here on the comfortable cushions Lazarus spent much time reading. She had just turned from the window-seat to a watering jar of fresh palm leaves when from the open way leading into the garden, two maidens entered.

"Martha," the first to enter said, laughing, "my guest Debora from Capernaum hath already arrived and I have brought her to see Mary's beds of lilies. Where is Mary? I saw her not in the garden," and she glanced about the room.

When greetings had been exchanged, Martha bade the man-servant go into the garden and look at the dial while she polished the already glossy palms. To Anna she said, "Thou knowest Mary. Was ever there another such Mary? Look you at these palms. Is it not enough that the garden be full to overflowing with vines and herbs? Yet would Mary fill the house with flowers of the wayside did I not struggle against it. Even now is she wandering off to a valley of lilies she hath found by the wady beyond Olivet, searching a strange lily for her beds. Ere the threefold blast of the Temple Priests awoke Jerusalem, were her eyes open. And look you at the sun mark on the dial, and yet Mary, dreamer of gardens and lilies and sweet odors, hath not yet returned."

"Nay—call not Mary a dreamer," Anna protested, "for names that are once given stick. Call they not my father 'Simon the Leper' for no reason than that in his youth he had an issue of blood? And while the world knows that his home could not be among the clean were he a leper yet doth the name hang to him. To fasten on her the title of 'dreamer' might lose Mary a good husband, for who wants a dreamer when the sparrow pie is burning to the pot?"

"Such is Mary, yet would I not spoil her chance of a husband though it be left for me to look after food and the pots and my stupid Eli. And if such a chance as Zador Ben Amon should be hers—would not my heart rejoice?"

"Hath he spoken to Lazarus for her hand?"

"Nay, nor hath he supped with us for many months, nor even sent a message."

"Hath Mary's heart been heavy?"

"Nay, Mary hath not had time to grow heavy-hearted, for since the winter gave place to spring hath she been in the garden searching a warm spot for some chicken yet wet from the shell, or scratching the sod from some struggling seed. This is Mary," and Martha laughed good-naturedly as she finished rubbing the palms.

"Debora would see the garden," Anna said. "Such a lovely garden!"

"Yea," answered Martha, as they passed into the court, "yet doth Mary have strange ideas, for on top of the old wall that she would let no man tear down because of its vines which bind the stones together, she hath grasses growing, such grasses as grow by the wayside to be eaten of asses and goats. And when I asked Lazarus to have the wild green pulled out by the roots, he said since they injure not the wall and delight the heart of Mary by their playful wagging in the spring breeze, they shall stay. So there is a fringe of green blades set thick with blue blossoms on top of the old wall with vines, and of these, as of the valley of lilies she hath found, doth Mary throw up her hands and cry—'Beautiful!'"

Anna and Debora laughed as Martha acted the part of Mary and they passed on toward the lily beds. Between the garden wall and the winding roadway, grew a luxurious grove of date palms which gave to the home of Lazarus its name. Inside the garden, pomegranates and grapes and figs grew, with melons and lentils and aromatic plants, in addition to Mary's garden of many colored lilies. In the center of the courtyard near the house was a water pool in a stony basin, and from the top of a pile of stones in the middle of the pool, water bubbled and dropped over the aquatic plants that grew along its sides. On the side of the pool nearest the house was the sun-dial. Close to the stairs which went to the housetop from the outside, was an olive tree of unusual size, the wide extended branches of which shaded a corner of the house and its roof garden, for Mary had shade-loving plants here also. Under this gnarled and ancient tree was a thick stone slab hewn into a seat and here Martha and her guests sat down, after walking through the garden, to talk of the Passover celebration just at hand, of Martha's lover Joel, the silk merchant, and Zador Ben Amon's wealth.

As Martha had said, her sister had set forth in the sunrise for a yet damp wady around the foot of Olivet, where, before the time of blossoms, she had discovered beds of lilies. After an uninterrupted walk of a mile or two, Mary paused on the brow of Olivet and stopping to rest, turned her face to the east. Against the flood light of the rising sun the far distant Mountains of Moab cast dim blue sky-lines. Emerging from the many-hued green hills that rose in the foreground, like a twisted thread, stretched the Jericho road which led past the garden wall of Lazarus' home in Bethany. Even at this early hour pilgrims on foot and on donkeys were journeying toward the scene of the great Passover.

From the east Mary turned her face to the west. Often had she seen Jerusalem before, yet now she gave an exclamation of joy as the ascending sunlight fell in floods of golden glory over the snowy towers and gold minarets of the City of David, secure on its summit of rugged fastness. "Who has not seen Zion knows not what beauty is!" she exclaimed. "Zion—fairest throughout the earth!" The veil which she had loosely bound about her head had fallen from her shoulders and the morning breeze touching her soft dark hair was moving it gently around her face while unseen fingers stirred the hem of her woolen skirt above her dew wet sandals. The altar smoke of the morning offering was ascending from the Temple of snow and gold, casting delicate and ever changing spirals of gray and black against the rosy sky, and now and then the silver glint of a dove's wing caught the eye as it circled over one of the shining domes. Filled with racial pride as well as with artistic admiration, Mary looked to the west, hidden, except its sky, by the battlements of Jerusalem. But she knew that at the West Gates the great highway to Joppa and the sea entered the city and although no glimpse of it could be seen, she knew that the long and dusty miles would soon resound to the call of the driver, as caravans of wares for the Passover sale came through the gates.

After a last long look at the shining Temple, Mary turned to the south. As she did so the exquisite fragrance of grape blossoms came to her on the changing breeze and she laughed with joy as her eager eyes took in the panorama, of vineyards here and there with their gray watch towers set in nature's most delicate filigree of green; of billowing fields of grain; of groves of olives turning color from green to gray and white as moved by the breeze, and back of it all the mountains of Judea, their rugged outlines softened by the rose and purple mist of the morning. In this direction the road leaving Jerusalem went into the south as far as Hebron.

Before pursuing her way she turned to see what signs of life appeared on the great Damascus road which led to the north through Samaria and Galilee. Here, as far as the eye could reach, glimpses of companies which seemed but slowly-moving specks in the distance, drew nearer the Holy City to worship or to profit. At the foot of a near-by hill a flock of goats, with herdsmen keeping close watch, were browsing among the prickly pears, feeding their last before being driven into the Temple stalls as sacrificial beasts. On another road a company of Arabs was putting up its mean and ragged tents and just beyond some Galilean peasants were building booths. Turning from the brow of the olive-green Mount, Mary made her way down a dim trail toward the valley of lilies she had discovered. Around her feet the gently sloping hillside was a mass of flowers, blood red anemones, spotted tulips and blue star blossoms. In the winter, with the bare gray stones scattered about in confusion, this place was dreary as poverty itself. But now the wealth of beauty that lay over it suggested the joy of the Passover to the whole world.

It was while picking golden narcissus in her lily valley, Mary's heart was gladdened by the sudden outburst of a nightingale in a thicket close at hand. Careful watching was rewarded by a sight, not only of the singer but of a nest with three little ones in it. While she yet peeped at the nestlings, a man appeared with an ax. He was looking for boughs with which to thatch his booth and his eye was on the nightingale's home. Taking the nest from its hiding-place Mary tucked it under her veil, wrapped her lily stems in wet leaves and started away. A moment later a stroke of the ax felled the bush that had housed the birds. Looking back Mary saw the mother bird fluttering wildly about over the cast-off pile of leaves. "Knowing not her little ones are safe she suffers pain," she said to herself.

She had not gone far along the roadway when she came upon the tent of a Bedouin. A woman holding an infant on one arm had just stepped out. She looked about anxiously until her eye caught sight of a goat grazing at no great distance. By its broken tether the goat had made its escape. The milk and cheese of the family depended on the goat. In no spoken word could Mary converse with the woman, but she understood, and holding out her arms for the child, pointed toward the goat. The swarthy woman nodded, placed the little brown baby in the arms of the unknown friend, and hurried after the goat.

Sitting on a flat stone behind the tent, Mary, who had for the moment removed from her bosom the veil in which she had wrapped the nestlings and was quieting their calls for their mother by fitting her warm palm close over them, was suddenly startled by what seemed to be an infinite throb, a passion unspeakable and mysterious. She did not know that the mouth of a sucking child is a vortex in which the interplay of universal forces starts into vibration a thousand generations of instinctive motherhood. Nor did the little brown baby know aught of this. Moved by the first impulse of Nature which makes every mother a universal mother, the instinct of self-preservation had turned the face of the child to the breast of Mary. Looking about with a glance of apprehension lest she should be discovered in some unworthy act, she hastily moved the infant from her arm and the nestlings from her veil which she gathered over her shoulders and bosom. The birds she tied in a loose end of the veil and hid in the front of her garment. Meantime the baby was crying lustily and making feeble and aimless motions of protest or desire with its tiny brown fingers. Mary was trying to quiet it by walking when the Bedouin woman returned with the goat.

The sun was shining high and the roads were peopled with pilgrims as she made her way back to Bethany with her nestlings and narcissus. But the way did not seem long, for out of her visit to the valley of lilies had come a new mystery for her mind to dwell upon—the eternal mystery of motherhood awakening. "Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings shall come wisdom." The words of one of the Rabbis kept coming to her. But what was the wisdom? Her only impression at the time was the strange suggestion that because both nestlings and Bedouin babe had mistaken her for their mother, they must be brothers. When Mary reached home she found Martha and her guests in a state of pleased excitement. News had just been brought by Lazarus that Zador Ben Amon had arrived in Jerusalem after a long journey in far lands, and would sup with them the day following. Especially had he sent his respects to Mary.

"Thou canst feed him, and Lazarus entertain him with his merry speech-making," Mary observed quietly as she took the nestlings from her veil.

"And what wilt thou do for thy distinguished guest?" Anna asked of Mary.

"I will watch with great care these little nightingales so that they may live in the thicket by the spring just over the garden wall. And next year when Zador Ben Amon doth pass with his camel train from Damascus will their sweet song welcome him home."

"No greater guest doth come to the Passover than Zador Ben Amon—and he hath an interest in thee, Mary."

"Yea—a greater than he hath come to the Passover," said Anna. "From Rome hath Pilate come, so sayeth my father, and with a retinue of servants that doth make Herod green with envy. And speech hath it that the wife of Pilate doth dazzle the eye with such gorgeous apparel as is seen only in the Roman circus."

"Glad is my heart," said Martha, "that Herod be undone in the glory of display for apeth he not the Romans? Herod is great when there is none greater, but ever doth Rome send the greatest."

"Nay, not Rome sends the greatest to the Passover." It was Debora who spoke. "From Capernaum cometh he."

"Capernaum of Galilee?" Martha exclaimed. "The home of fishermen?"

"Yea, verily. From Galilee doth a prophet come the like of which hath not been seen since Elias was taken in a chariot of fire and whirlwind."

"Thou dost speak strange words," Mary observed. "Who is this prophet?"

"He is called Jesus of Nazareth, for there did he live before his home was at Capernaum."

"Nazareth," Anna repeated with curling lip. "Nazareth is a town of beggars and thieves, so sayeth my father. Can any good thing come out of Nazareth? My father hath mentioned the name of Jesus—was he at the Passover feast last year?"

"Yea, and the Feast of Tabernacles," Debora answered.

"Jesus of Nazareth," Martha repeated, putting her hand to her forehead. "Methinks Lazarus did mention the name when Joseph of Arimathea was our guest. Dost thou remember, Mary?"

"The name? Yea, I remember. But what of it? None said he was a prophet."

"Listen," Debora said, leaning eagerly forward and half whispering: "Knowest thou not that Israel hath long been dispersed and scattered like sheep without a shepherd? Knowest thou not that the cohorts of Rome guard the Sacred Temple and profane the Sanctuary of the Most High? Knowest thou not the heart of Israel hath long waited for the king who shall restore again the throne of David? And knowest thou not that the time is at hand for the coming of the promised one? Aye, even so hath he already come, and his name is Jesus."

"By what sign is he the Messiah?" Mary asked.

"By the sign of a prophet, and the greatest of all prophets is he. Once was I at the home of Peter when his wife's mother lay sick of a fever. Her skin was hot as if her couch were in a bake oven; her eyes did shine and vain was her babbling. Then came the Prophet of Galilee. On her head where the heat raged he placed his hand. Close and firm he held it as if he were holding down a struggling world. And lo! The struggling world grew quiet. The vain babbling of the parched lips ceased. Then did he speak. Aye—Mary, Martha, Anna—to hear his voice—deep like unsounded depths, mellow like the music of the viol and restful as when small waves play upon smooth shores. Twice did he speak. There was stillness. His eyes were fastened kindly on the face of her who lay beneath his touch. Then did she open her eyes. Her lips did part in a smile. She arose and by the open casement did stand to breathe deep of the cool air. And those who had gathered in the street to set up the death-wail, did cry, 'A miracle! A miracle!'"

"But it is not a miracle to heal those who are not dead. Do not the
Rabbis heal the sick?" Mary asked.

"And the prophets are all dead," Martha added.

"Wait and see," was Debora's answer.

CHAPTER V

HULDAH AND ELIZABETH

In a gala dress of blue with silver embroidery, Martha, her faithful Eli close at hand and girt in a clean towel, awaited the coming of Passover guests, for the few days preceding the Feast were used for visiting, and Lazarus and his sisters had many friends. The first guest to arrive was Huldah, wife of a Temple scribe. Martha opened the door. The servant took his place behind a stool near the door with a basin of water.

"Sit thee down," Martha said after greetings. "Let thy feet be cooled.
The way is dusty for ten thousand feet press to the City of David."

"Yea, from all the world they come to see the Temple of the Jews," Huldah answered. "For a week hath the ring of the hammer sounded over the hills where the roadways are made safe, and tombs are fresh whitened that none be rendered unclean. All Jerusalem is a guest chamber. Where is Mary?" and she glanced about the room.

"She is in the garden with Anna and her Capernaum guest Debora. And Debora hath been saying a prophet hath arisen the like of which hath not been seen since Elijah went up in his fiery chariot."

"A prophet! A prophet!" exclaimed Huldah, greatly interested. "Whence cometh he?"

"From Galilee—but the maidens are coming. Ask Debora."

In festive attire and carrying flowers, Anna and Debora entered the room, followed by Mary, gowned in clinging white caught high on her breast and falling away leaving her arms bare. Her hair had blown softly about her face. Her cheeks were like almond blossoms and a white veil caught around her head by a carved silver chaplet, fell over her shoulders. After the greeting, Huldah turned to Debora.

"Hast thou said a prophet cometh from Galilee?"

"So I have spoken."

"Out of Galilee ariseth no prophet."

"From Galilee cometh Jesus of Nazareth."

"Jesus of Nazareth!" Huldah exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

"Hast heard of him?" Martha inquired.

"Jesus son of Gamaliel, successor to Jesus son of Damneus; Jesus son of Sie; Jesus son of Phabet! Be there no end to the Jesus' sons? And now cometh the worse of them all. Yea, I have heard of him. A wolf in sheep's clothing—a false prophet is he. Never was he taught in the Temple school, yet doth he dare within its sacred portals to teach others. By an evil one is he led."

"Why dost thou say by an evil one?" asked Debora.

"Dost thou, a daughter of Israel, so ask? Aye, is it not evil to speak against the traditions of the Elders? No worse to blaspheme the Temple itself! Is not Israel the chosen of God, and hath it not been written there is no salvation outside Israel? Had there been no Jew the Law from Sinai had not been given and we too would be unclean as the Gentiles. What worse could one do than set at naught the traditions of the Elders? But this is not all. He doth both harvest and winnow on the Holy Sabbath."

"Harvest and winnow on the Sabbath?" Martha asked in surprise.

"Yea, and this is not all. He is a friend of publicans."

"Publicans? Those vile wretches who filch from the pockets of Israel to pay for the pageantry of Rome?" It was Anna who questioned.

"Yea, and this is not all. He is also a friend of the defiled Samaritan, friendly as a brother is he with these heathen—and—and—" she whispered, "he keepeth company with harlots."

"Harlots!" exclaimed the maidens under their breath.

"Yea—what manner of prophet thinkest thou this be?"

"Hast thou thyself seen the evil things of which thou beareth witness?"
Debora asked of Huldah.

"Nay, but such are the reports."

"Our guest Debora hath both seen the face of him and heard his voice,"
Mary observed.

Huldah laughed. "And what so easy for a false prophet to deceive with smooth speech and searching eyes, as a maiden's heart? But enough of such talk as doth vex the Rabbis. See thou my cloth of gold? With my needle I shall make it gay with crimson pomegranates." Huldah took her embroidery from her bag, and the young women stood around admiring her work when voices were heard outside. Martha turned to the lattice window and looked out.

"More pilgrims are coming. A mother in Israel is to be our guest. She cometh with a neighbor and leaneth heavily on her staff. Mary—Mary! It is Elizabeth. Hasten to meet her."

Mary hurried out. When she had gone Huldah asked, "Who is this aged
Elizabeth?"

"Knowest thou not? She is the mother of John the Baptiser whose head Herod did give as a bauble to the vile Herodias." Huldah rose hurriedly and looked out the window.

"The mother of John Baptist, he who did come from the caves of the mountains with the garment of a wolf, the beard of a lion and the voice of a bear. Jerusalem turned out to hear the man. Possessed of a devil was he. Aye, and the hair of his mother be white like the cap of snow that sits on Hermon's head. Verily a foolish son bringeth down his mother's hair in sorrow. If the Rabbis are not able to teach the Law, shall one wild from the desert be able? For attending to business not his own lost he his head."

"Lean on me," said Mary, just outside the door. "My feet have not traveled the hard path so long."

"The blessing of Jehovah on thee, my daughter," Elizabeth replied as they came up the steps. In ample black drapery and wearing a widow's headdress, the aged woman entered. "Peace be to this house and to thy hearts, my daughters," she said with upraised hands. She was conducted to a wide armchair, and Mary threw back her black mantle and Eli unloosed her sandals.

"There are many pilgrim feet pressing toward the Passover Feast,"
Huldah said.

"Yea, my daughter. And some whose feet pressed the pilgrim path last year have gone on a longer pilgrimage, a farther journey than to the City of Zion—yea to the Heavenly Zion have they gone." Elizabeth rested her head wearily against the back of the chair and tears rolled down her withered cheeks. Mary knelt beside her and taking her hands said gently, "Weep not! From our brother have we heard what Herod hath done. It was cruel, aye, cruel as the grave to take thine son—the only son of thine old age. But weep not!"

"Cruel as the grave! So seemeth it. Yet the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. The Lord truly blessed me in that it was given me to be the mother of a prophet. Strange too, was it, for the spring-time of my life had gone. Yea, the ten years had passed after which the Israelite may give a writing of divorcement to a barren wife. Yet did the love of my husband live and in the fulness of time to us a son was born. A Nazarene did he grow, neither cutting his beard, nor drinking wine nor looking on women. And as Elijah came from the wilds of Gilead to confound Ahab, so came the son of my bosom from the wilds of Judea crying in the ear of an adulterous generation, 'Prepare ye! Prepare! There cometh one after me whose shoe latchet I am not worthy to unloose.' And as he did declare, so hath that mightier appeared—aye, the hope of Israel. Not a Nazarene is he. Came he both eating and drinking and loving womankind, and lo! of him they say 'a wine bibber and a glutton.' But, daughters, wisdom be justified of her children. Lo, he that hath been promised to restore again the glory of Israel is even now in the City of our God!"

"Strange words thou speakest," said Huldah.

"Thou dost not speak of Jesus of Nazareth?" Mary asked.

"Even of him," the aged woman answered.

"Art thou of his acquaintance?" Debora asked with interest.

"Even more, for was not the mother of her who bare Jesus even the sister of my father?"

"Thy kinsman he is? Thou hast looked upon his face and heard the wondrous voice that doth drive away fever?"

"Yea, have I seen and heard, both the son and his mother and father, for twice did I visit under the roof of my cousin."

"His mother—what of her? Is she skilled in savoring rich sop?" Martha asked.

"She hath not possessed the wherewithal to make rich sop, yet in her veins runneth the blood of kings. Of the house of David hath she come."

"And where hath she been in hiding, this royal-blooded Jewess?" Huldah asked.

"In the rude home of a Galilean peasant, for poverty hath been her lot.
Yea, in the stone feed-trough of a cattle shed was Jesus born because
his father had not the price of keep at the inn. A little lad at
Nazareth was he when I first saw him."

"A little lad," Mary repeated. "What manner of little lad was he?"

"Beside his mother's knee he heard stories of the brave and mighty of Israel. He walked with his mother by the sea and in the fields. He loved the fowls of the air, the hares and the foxes. And such questions did he ask as no man hath wisdom to answer. While his mother toiled he played with the children of the village. When they played funeral right vigorously would he weep with the mourners. When they played wedding with those who piped, piped he, and with those who danced, danced he until his small garments, like wings, flew apace. Mild was he and obedient, yet when his hand was lifted in wrath it did strike hard. Once he did fight. Aye, and a good fight it was and over the wall did he send with the speed of a wild ass and fierce blows, a lad twice his size. His mother did bind his black eye in a fig leaf poultice and tell him fighting were not good for little lads. I remember yet his face as he did make answer, 'Woman, know'st thou not our father David did smite a giant which did torment Jehovah's chosen ones? Even so did I smite him who was plucking hair from the head of a feeble child who could do naught but cry out. For this did I send him over the wall, and no more will he do this evil thing when I am nigh.'"

"Blessings on him," laughed Debora, clapping her hands.

"My heart goeth out to such a lad," Mary said.

"What for?" Huldah asked. "For making bloody another lad's nose?"

"If so be that to bloody a nose is the only way to stay the hand of oppression."

"And yet another time did I see him," Elizabeth continued. "At a wedding in Cana, when he had grown to man's estate. Merry were the guests with feasting and shouting when the wine did fall short. In an outer room were some firkins which Jesus did order filled with water. When the water was drawn out, it was wine."

"This is no sign of a prophet," Huldah answered quickly. "Ofttimes have I with a cup of grape sirup well thickened, made a kid skin of wine. What sign hath he given of being a prophet that hath not already been given?"

"From the dungeon my John asked this question," Elizabeth answered slowly. "After other things did Jesus say, 'Tell John I have come to bring the gospel to the poor.'"

Huldah laughed heartily. Then she said, "Of a surety this is a sign no prophet hath given. The poor? Who taketh account of the poor? Poverty is a visitation of Jehovah. Ever have the poor been despised and forsaken. Cursed be the lot of the poor—yea, thrice cursed!"

"Yea, cursed be the lot of the poor. Even was this the lot of Jesus of Galilee. Oft was his food but dried locusts. Oft bore his thin garments many patches. Oft was a heavy yoke put on the burden of his childish shoulders. For this pitieth he the poor."

"Locusts for the belly; patches for the back; a yoke for the shoulders!
Shame on Israel that of this sort it would call a king—even from
Galilee where women labor in the field and men like cattle toil!" and
Huldah's lip curled with scorn.

"The toiler toileth that Herod may make great banquets. Pilate doth ride in a golden chariot and Caesar feed men to tigers. When cometh the King of the Jews, such will be done away with, for again will slaves be set free and the Year of Jubilee proclaimed."

"A king must be a King—not a herder of sheep or a driver of oxen," was
Huldah's emphatic reply.

"Was not our glorious David a keeper of sheep before the crown was put upon his head? Not whence he cometh, but the kind he is, doth decide the quality of kings," Mary observed thoughtfully.

CHAPTER VI

HARD SAYINGS

The table was set for the evening meal in the home of Lazarus. Martha was in the kitchen urging Eli to more speed in final preparations, and Mary was arranging a bowl of vari-colored lilies on the table. Entering the room Martha paused to look at her sister. "Mary," she exclaimed, "thou dost spend time as though lilies made fit eating."

"Fit eating? Nay, but Zador Ben Amon doth sup with us to-night. From the splendors of Rome hath he come. Shall we not set forth for him the better splendors of lilies in all their glory? And should I not help make joyful the coming of Joel who hath been away two weeks?"

"It is wine in the cup and meat well seasoned that doth delight the heart of man."

"The perfume of flowers doth breathe of giving. So do they breathe of love which doth ever give, until a woman giveth herself to be loved of a man as thou art promised to Joel. How strange and holy a thing is love!"

"Mayhap it is strange; mayhap is [Transcriber's note: it?] is holy.
But get thou the sop bowls. Joel and Lazarus are coming."

"Ha! ha! ha!" The laughing voice sounded just outside the door. "The face of him was like—ha! ha!—it was like—like—" and again the words ended in laughter.

"Like what was the face of him?" a second voice asked.

"A mild ass well beaten,—ha—ha!"

"Lazarus is in a merry mood to-day," Mary said to Martha.

"It taketh not much to gladden his heart," was Martha's answer, as the two men entered the room. When Joel had kissed Martha and exchanged greetings with Mary, she said to Lazarus, "Thou comest in good spirits, my brother."

"Yea," replied Joel, "a bit of wit doth make him to bubble over like sour wine in a kid skin, and thrice doth he bubble at wit from the lips of a prophet."

"Is there a prophet given to wit?" Mary inquired.

"Nay, not to wit," Lazarus answered. "To wisdom he is given, yet in his wisdom doth often sparkle wit."

"Who is this prophet that causeth thy pleasure?" Mary asked.

"Another Jesus—Jesus of Nazareth this one is."

"Is there none other at the Passover Feast than he to talk of?" was Martha's question. "Naught have we heard from our guests to-day save of him. Now again hear we more."

"Lazarus is much taken with his teachings which he calleth wisdom.
Methinks his sayings are hard, eh, Lazarus?"

"Yea, hard sayings," the master of the house replied seriously, as he settled himself on the window couch. "Yet is there that within them which giveth wine its flavor," and again he laughed.

"What was the saying that did please thee?" Mary asked.

"Knowest thou what the Law sayeth about graven images? Aye, to touch one defileth a Jew. With fierce righteousness do those in authority contend for observance of the letter of the law. Was not much blood spilled when Pilate sought to put an image of Caesar in the Temple? The Galilean Prophet oft setteth aside the Law. For this reason do the Scribes and Pharisees seek to entangle him. Taking council, they did say to him, 'What thinkest thou? Is it lawful to give tribute to Caesar, or not?' Hard by stood many with their ears well open. And near at hand stood I. Upon him who spoke and those his followers, did the Galilean look. Then did he say, 'Why tempt me, ye hypocrites?' With these words did the countenances of his tempters grow long like their beards and take on a grievous expression like a beast unjustly berated. 'Show me the tribute money,' said he. With exceeding quickness were their hands thrust into their pockets, while the eyes of those who stood by watched close. As the Prophet of Galilee did take on his palm the coins, the corners of his beard did twitch yet was his voice grave as he said, 'Whose is this image and superscription?' With one voice they did answer, 'Caesar's'—and by my most precious beard so bore the coins the image of Tiberius! Dost thou get the flavor of the situation? Breathing out fierce contention for the letter of the Law, go they about with their wallets stuffed with images—stuffed with images of Tiberius! Ha! ha! ha! Thou shouldst have seen their faces when those who stood by to see them entrap the Galilean laughed at them boisterously."

The story told by the young man ended in a hearty laugh, which was entered into by the others.

"Did he make answer?" Mary asked.

"Aye. Listen now if thou wouldst hear wisdom. Giving their images back to those who sought to entangle him, he said, 'Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's.'"

"Had they an answer?" It was Mary again who questioned.

"None save the face of them. It were enough—ha! ha!"

"Lazarus is much taken with this man," Martha observed. "Art thou, too, gone after him, Joel?"

"Nay. I like him not. Far be it from the business of a Galilean peasant to tell a merchant of Jerusalem that riches be a curse."

"And hath he said this to thee?" Martha inquired in astonishment.

"Yea, at the gate where my camel did stick and skin his nether quarters."

Lazarus laughed again as he exclaimed, "Enough it were to make dry bones shake! Such a sight! Tell it, Joel."

"Lazarus doth make light of matters sorely vexatious," Joel said without smiling.

"What did happen, Joel?" and there was concern in Martha's question.

"My camel train bearing great stores of silks had come from Damascus. The city gates were gorged with pilgrims so that my men did lead their beasts to the far side of the city wall where the small gates are. Here, when the camel would have walked under, he could not for the bales of silk that did wedge against the stones. Then did we strip the beasts, yet were their frames too large. Then did we get them on their knees and while some did pull, others did push. I stood with those in the rear and most mightily did I push until sweat did drop from my head and much straining did rend my kittuna."

"Didst get the camel through?" Martha asked anxiously.

"Yea, save the patch of hide he did leave sticking on the stone walls."

"Thou shouldst have seen," Lazarus laughed, "thou shouldst have seen thy Joel. Like a dog of the hills did he pant and like the swine of the heathen did he grunt."

"Were there bystanders to witness thy sad plight?" Martha asked the question of Joel.

"Yea, hard by stood a small company, one of them in the garment of a Rabbi. Beholding the struggling he said, 'Verily, verily, it is easier for a camel to get through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into Heaven.' Then did those about fasten searching eyes on me, and I like him not."

"The truth doth fit close, friend Joel. Now to me did he also make a hard speech, yet I like him the more for his plain speaking."

"And hast thou too had speech with the Galilean? Tell me, my brother?"
Mary asked.

"Lazarus would be his disciple," Joel remarked.

"Lazarus! Our brother? The son of a Sanhedrin Pharisee be the disciple of a Galilean?" and there was consternation in the voice of Martha.

"Thou hast spoken," he replied quietly, arranging himself more comfortably on the couch. "The Law have I studied since the days of my father. Hillel and Shammiah have I poured over and of Philo have I sought knowledge. Yea, even of the heathen Socrates have I sought knowledge. But, it is vain. The traditions of the Elders do weary me for at last tradition is no more than tradition. What avails fierce contentions over the ashes of the red heifer, the waving of willows or the pouring of holy water? Whether the Sadducees or the Pharisees gain the contention the burden remaineth the same. At times have I thought of turning to the spade and apron and white robe of the Essenes where there be no Aaronic priesthood or bloody sacrifice."

"But this Jesus—is he an Essene? Hast thou heard aught of his teachings?"

"Yea, Mary. In the Temple doth he tell of a Kingdom where the Law shall be less and justice and liberty more, a Kingdom of Brotherhood which the sword bringeth not but which cometh as spring-time brings a new earth. Wonderful did this teaching sound, and as I did drink it in, turned he his face to me as if my lips had called him. And I did know, even as his eye rested on mine, that I should love him, yea, as if he were a brother. Again did I draw near as he did pass on Solomon's porch, and again did his eyes find my face. Then did I ask what I should do to be his disciple. 'Keep the commandments,' was his answer. 'All these have I kept from my youth up,' I made answer. But it were not enough."

"It should be enough. What more doth the Law require?" Joel asked.

"Yet," observed Mary thoughtfully, "there be no virtue in keeping the Law which bids us not steal, so long as the belly is full of red wine and rich mutton."

"Or in coveting thy neighbor's fat wife when a shapely Martha is promised. Eh, Joel?" Lazarus questioned.

They all laughed. Joel's reply was, "Not virtue, nay. But where is virtue in the hard sayings he did put to Lazarus?"

"A hard saying truly," Lazarus repeated. "He did bid me sell my possessions and give to the poor."

"The Law doth not allow but a certain portion for the poor."

"Thou sayest truly, Mary. Yet him whose disciple I would be, says,
'Give all.'"

"Thy vineyards and wine presses?" and Martha's face was troubled.

"Thy olive orchard?" and Mary too expressed concern.

"Yea, and thy home and garden and fountain and thy chickens and lilies,
Mary," Joel answered quickly.

"An evil spirit doth work in his head," was Martha's observation.

"Why said he this to thee, my brother?" and Mary stood by Lazarus with perplexed face.

"That I should love him more than all these."

"He doth require much love."

"Yea, verily, much love doth he require for much doth he give and everything doth he make of love. Sorrowful I turned away. Yet will I see him again. But, Mary—Martha—look thou at the western sky. Hast thou made ready for our honored guest, Zador Ben Amon, who arriveth shortly? Fortunate is he as those of the House of Annas since with the money-changers hath the High Priest given him a place so that he hath riches more abundant than us all. Since he hath been our guest before, his heart hath become settled on Mary and of her hand hath he spoken to me already."

"And thou wert not slow to say 'yes.'" There was joy in Martha's question, though it was not a question.

"'The heart of a woman should go out to him whose wife she would be; and the heart is not worn on the hand. Tell thy desire to Mary.' This said I to Zador who seeks her hand."

"Listen!" exclaimed Martha.

The sound of wheels on the pebble strewn incline just outside, told the approach of Zador Ben Amon.

CHAPTER VII

LOST—AN ANKLET

The face of Zador Ben Amon was divided into two halves, the upper of which reached from the line of his black beard that ran straight under his cheek-bones, to the lower edge of his elegant head covering. Prominent in this half were the eyes of Zador Ben Amon, but whether those of a wolf, a fox or a saved son of Israel, was a matter of reciprocity depending on the kind and condition of profit-making at hand. The lower portion of the money-changer's face was again divided into two halves by a thin white line running from lip to chin; this line was preserved by choice oils applied liberally to his beard hair. The solidity of Zador Ben Amon, whether financial or otherwise, was suggested by the broad back of his short body and in the square shape of his feet, whose bones bulged in spite of the best of sandals. To cover his broad back, Zador had a wonderful cloak of blue with a purple stripe above the border where crimson pomegranates were embroidered. With this cloak over his arm, for the season was getting too warm for more back covering than the usual garment, with new hand-wrought silver buckles on his sandals, a jaunty sash with deep knotted fringes, and with hair and beard perfumed, he made his way to the home of Lazarus at Bethany.

The wheels of his carriage had not yet turned from the door when Zador Ben Amon was welcomed by Lazarus and bidden through the open door, inside which stood Mary and Martha and Joel. His greeting to Martha was brief. Toward Mary he advanced with smiling face, as if to embrace her. "Nay?" he questioned as she drew back. "Didst not thy brother tell thee I have decided to make thee my betrothed?"

"The words my brother spake I did not so understand," she replied, stepping yet farther back from him.

"Then hath the pleasure been left for Zador, son of Amon, to tell Mary of the House of Dates that he hath come to make her his betrothed and hath brought her a fit gift."

"But I know thee not save as a friend of my brother Lazarus, nor dost thou know me."

"And what needst thou to know save that I am among Israel's rich and mighty and would take thee to wife? And what need I to know of thee more than that thou art fair and a woman? Doth the hungry beast not know its heart's desire? To thy brother have I spoken."

"And hath Lazarus given you knowledge that my heart is in his keeping?"
Mary asked.

"Hearts!" Zador exclaimed, laughing like one well fed. "Lazarus, thy fair sister doth take hearts into account rather than shekels and talents of gold."

"Perhaps there is wisdom in the words she speaketh when she saith you know her not," and Lazarus smiled. "Seat thyself and make ready for a better acquaintance."

"Thou speakest," Zador answered heartily, glancing toward the window-seat. "But before thou layest my cloak aside would I show it to the maidens. At a great price I secured this," and he held it toward Martha and Mary.

"Its colors are most beautiful," Mary said.

Martha had slipped her hand inside the folds and was closely examining the needlework.

"From hem to hem the pomegranates reach," Zador explained, noticing
Martha's interest. "Doth not the needlework far exceed that of
Israel's workers in fine thread?"

"The workmanship is wonderful. Yet here are loose stitches at the top of the border."

Zador caught up the cloak hem and examined it with careful eye as he said, "Thou knowest. On the morrow will it be mended. But now, since Zador hath come to know that Mary and Martha delight in rich apparel, let him tell them of garments that dazzle the eye for glory and riches."

"Robes of Rome?" Martha asked with keen interest

"Yea, as I saw them in banquet hall and amphitheatre."

When the guest's cloak had been carefully put aside and his feet washed, the group gathered in the wide window-seat where he reclined, to hear news from Rome. "Hath the fame of the garment of Lolilla Pauline come to your ears?" he asked.

"Nay," answered Martha.

"Of seed pearls was it covered and over the pearls lay leaves of emerald. Forty million sesterces did it cost. Thou holdest up thy hands? Then will I tell thee of one that did cost fifty million sesterces—the like of which eye hath not seen before. On a robe of pearls sprinkled with diamonds, sat a peacock of great size so that his head did rest on the shoulders of the wearer and the tail of the bird did cover her back. And of rare jewels was this bird made; emeralds and rubies and topaz and sapphire and amethyst and opals and jacinths, set with such skill as to make the breast-plate of the High Priest a bauble. What delighteth the heart of a woman more than rich wearing apparel?" The question followed his description of the jewels and he laughed heartily at Martha's expression of amazed delight.

"Yet another garment would I tell thee of, such a one as eye hath not before seen." He stopped to laugh heartily. "A garment it also was of many colors," and again he laughed. "In that which is filthy and cast away do rag-pickers stir and strive. And when they have great stores of that which is vile and useless, do they sew it together into a garment and sell it for a pittance to a slave to cover his naked body. Such a rag-picker's garment saw I. Such a sight—sold for such a pittance."

"But might not the pittance paid for a rag-picker's garment be more to the slave than fifty million sesterces to one whose toil earned not even the first of them?" asked Mary.

"Ask me not questions about slaves, the rabble. Thou knowest they are but broilers and vile."

"Perhaps," Mary answered thoughtfully, "if slaves and the rabble were better fed they would broil less. Doth not Baba Metzia say 'When the barley in the jar is finished, quarrels come thundering through the house'?"

"Thou knowest nothing of slaves and the rabble, fair Mary. Never are the poor content. Give them bran and vinegar and they want herbs. Give them herbs and they want lentils. Give them lentils and they want sop of mutton. And once sop-fed will they cry aloud for the mutton itself. Cursed be the poor, by God. Let them be accursed." And the money-changer nodded his head in approval of his speech.

"Yea, accursed be the poor," said Lazarus. "Yet it seemeth not so much according to the curse of God as to the greed of man. To the rich their riches come by inheritance as came mine. Or cometh riches by great cunning and skill in taking from others."

"As cometh mine," Zador Ben Amon laughed, rubbing his hands and looking from one to the other for approval. "And even now my palms grow hot for that which shall come into them from my Temple booths at the Passover. But how dost thou reason, Lazarus? If there are rich and mighty must there not of necessity be the poor and weak?"

"Yea. Yet is this according to the Law of Moses? According to the Law was not grain left in the corners for the gleaners? Was not stealing and lying forbidden among Israelites? Was usury not forbidden under great penalty? And was not the year of Jubilee proclaimed? Hath the Law no meaning?"

"Like fire is the Law, a good servant but a bad master, my friend
Lazarus. But let us not talk of the Law but of the Great Feast.
Gorged with pilgrims from all the earth is Jerusalem and this year's
Temple business will exceed all bounds. Never did I see so many and
strange peoples."

"Even wonder workers—eh, Mary?" Joel said.

Zador Ben Amon looked toward Mary for an answer.

"He speaketh of Jesus of Nazareth, methinks," she replied.

"Who is he?" and he turned to Lazarus.

"A Galilean Rabbi."

"Galilee is not noted for furnishing Rabbis. Hath he been taught in the Temple?"

"Nay. Yet in the Temple teacheth he such wisdom as hath not before been taught by any Rabbi."

"And he works wonders," Martha added.

Zador Ben Amon laughed heartily. "Women believe all things," he said. "There are no wonder workers but sorcerers. Even Eunus, who had the whole Isle of Sicily bewitched, did spit out fire by first putting fire in his mouth. So doeth this Jesus his wonders by Beelzebub—if indeed he doeth them."

As the time for dining drew near, the scent of cooking meat reached the nostrils of Zador. He sniffed and smiled approval, saying, "The savory odor of thy well seasoned meat bringeth to mind the meat and wine of the banquet at which the Roman noblewoman wore the blazing peacock." Again Martha showed keen interest. "In myrrhine and jeweled vases were the wines served and the nightingales' tongues on platters of pure gold," and he watched for the effect of his words.

"Nightingales' tongues!" Mary exclaimed.

"Of a truth. It seemeth past reason that enough of meat so small should be secured to banquet on. Yet when Rome would banquet, all things are hers. Into far places goeth the fowler with his snare and by the thousand are the fowls of the air sent in, to be burned, save the tongues of them."

The eyes of Mary were fastened on the face of her guest in bewildered amazement. "And you ate nightingales' tongues?" she again exclaimed.

"By the gold plate full. Savory beyond telling was the dish and my appetite was at best."

The eyes of Mary turned from the face of Zador.

"Mary hath three unfeathered ones she spendeth much time feeding," Joel remarked after a short silence. "She would have them grow large."

Zador looked at Mary, leaned his head against a pillow and laughed. "And so our Mary would sup after the manner of Rome. Three nightingales? The tongues of them all will not make a taste!"

A flush tinged Mary's face as she said, "Dost thou think I would nourish the lives of nestlings to pluck from their throats their tongues?" and she cast a straight glance at the reclining man.

"Of what other use are they?" and a mild expression of interest showed on Zador's face.

"Hast thou forgotten the song?"

"Song? Hear the woman, Lazarus, my friend! But a moment ago she did put a value on hearts. Now songs have a value. The heart of a woman and the song of a bird! Are they worth shekels or talents, my fair Mary?"

"The love of the heart is priceless," she replied, "and there is music of value more than gold talents."

"Are not the silver trumpets of the Temple music enough for thee?"

"Such music is indeed sweet. But there is yet other music."

After Mary had excused herself and gone into the garden a few moments later, Martha said, "She hath gone to feed her nestlings."

"Then will I show you the rare gift I brought thy sister," and from a leather case taken from inside his cloak Zador drew a delicately wrought anklet of gold set thick with shining green chalcedony. From it hung bangles, like bits of fine gold lace, carrying, each in the center, a precious stone of changing color. At sight of it Martha gave an exclamation of delight, and Lazarus and Joel looked at it with interest. "My betrothal gift to Mary," Zador Ben Amon said with undisguised admiration as he turned it about and shook it so that the tinkling of the bangles sounded. "From Ceylon came the garnets and the emerald from Ethiopian mines. When hath man given his betrothed so rich a gift? Proud will thy fair sister be to receive it."

"I would have Mary come," Lazarus said, and leaving the house, he went into the garden. At the far end Mary was sitting under a glossy green pomegranate which was in full crimson blossom. Clad in white and with her silver bound veil falling softly about her, she made a picture worth pausing a moment to view. She held the nest of young birds in one hand and moved the other slowly over them, until, roused by the wing-like motion, they opened wide their yellow mouths for the food she dropped in. Lazarus watched a moment before seating himself near her. "Mary, my sister," he said, "Zador Ben Amon is an Israelite high and mighty and hath set his heart on thee."

"Nay. Nay," she replied quickly. "He is a heathen and his heart is set on shekels and talents."

"He hath brought thee a betrothal gift."

Mary was silent until she had closed her hand over the crying nestlings. Then she turned to Lazarus. "Dost thou want me to leave thee, my brother?"

"Nay, nay, Mary. Not so. I would keep thee always if thou wouldst. Yet there cometh a time when a woman's heart goeth out to another man than her brother. Thou art different from Martha and setteth much store on things not sold in market places. Let not thy answer come from the mouth of a nightingale. When thy arms grow hungry for little ones and thy breast casts about for him who shall be father to them, Zador Ben Amon—"

Further words were cut short by an exclamation from Mary who drew back in horror.

"What is it?" and Lazarus looked about. "What abominable thing cometh nigh thee?"

For a moment Mary made no reply. With her brother's reference to little ones which should come of her union with the money-changer, she had felt again the passion unspeakable that had for the moment gripped her at touch of the Bedouin baby's lips. Yet as it swept through her now it was the passion of utter revulsion, such passionate revulsion as had stamped itself on her face when her brother looked about for some ugly, creeping reptile. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings cometh wisdom," she seemed to hear the Rabbi say again, and without understanding the mystery of the wisdom, she knew it had come through the mouth of the Bedouin baby. "Not from the mouth of a nightingale shall my answer come," said Mary. "But if thou lovest me, speak no more forever of wedding me with this Jew. It hath been revealed to me there is no wisdom in it."

"He will press the matter with thee. He is a guest under my roof and a
Sadducee of power. Choose well thy way."

"I have already made choice. To the home of Anna do I go for the night. She hath called me, for her father is in Jerusalem."

"Is this wisdom?" asked Lazarus thoughtfully.

"It is a favor to Anna, and Zador Ben Amon will not miss a foolish lover of songs when he doth lay hold of Martha's choice meat."

Together Mary and Lazarus walked toward the house. When they reached the big stone bench, Zador stood waiting. Lazarus passed on, and because he insisted, Mary sat beside the Temple money-maker. He put the cloak carefully over the back of the seat and from its folds drew the anklet. Uncovering it, he thrust it suddenly before her, watching eagerly for her first impression.

"What thinkest thou? Is this not a fit betrothal gift for a Roman noblewoman?"

"It is most beautiful," she answered quietly.

"It is thine, my Israelitish princess—my Mary!" he exclaimed with all the interest she had not shown. "Draw up thy skirt for with my own hand would I fit it to thy white and shapely ankle," and his narrow black eyes shone with the anticipated pleasure.

Mary drew away saying, "Nay, nay. I wear no anklets."

"See," and he held it toward her. "Its jewels will tinkle on thy skirt like the silver bells on the High Priest's robe. What soundeth more pleasant to the ears of a woman?"

"But I care not for wagging nose rings and tinkling anklets," she replied.

"And thou wouldst have another gift than this?" Zador asked, his disappointment apparent.

"Nay. No gift would I have. When there is no betrothal what need of a gift?"

Zador Ben Amon turned his eyes on Mary. "No betrothal!" he exclaimed. "No betrothal! Thou dost jest. Where is the woman who would do less than be betrothed to Zador Ben Amon? Take thou the gift. As the price of thy heart was it fashioned and I make my oath that no other woman shall possess it. Here," and he held it toward her. She made no move. He placed it carefully on the wide stone arm of the bench. "There is thy gift and palsied be my arm if my hand toucheth it again. It is thine." And Zador waited for Mary to speak. "Thou dost disturb me much!" And his voice suggested anger when she made no move to take the gift, and arising he went to the pool beside which he stood with bowed head.

After watching him a moment, Mary's hand sought the border of his cloak. Her fingers felt the loose thread in the wide hem. Lifting the anklet, she slipped it inside the hem and pushed it around to one side of the garment.

"On the morrow when he mends the rent he will find that I neither took it nor must his arm suffer palsy for withholding it from me," and she smiled. Then she arose. "Zador Ben Amon," she said, "I go to the home of Anna whose father doth not return from Jerusalem to-night. Farewell."

With a start he turned his face to her. A few quick steps brought him to her side and he would have thrown his arms about her but she gathered her veil tightly and said, "Touch me not!"

"Touch thee not? Am I a god of wood?" and before she had stepped aside his fingers touched her.

"My brother sitteth just behind the lattice. Wilt thou that I call him?" Zador Ben Amon stopped. Mary cast one swift glance at him. "Devourer of songs unsung," she said slowly, turning her back on him.

He watched her cross the court and pass through the gate into the yard of Simon the Leper. When she was beyond sight he stepped hurriedly back to the bench. He glanced cautiously toward the house. He ran his hand over the stone where he had placed the anklet. He shook his cloak. He dropped on his hands and knees and searched the grass carefully. "The woman hath taken it and I have me no recourse," he muttered angrily. "A curse upon her! But this is not the end of it!"

CHAPTER VIII

STRANGE TALES ARE ABOUT

The palace occupied by Pilate, Roman Procurator of Judea, during his visitations to the once Jewish capital, was one of the gorgeous and perpetual monuments to the architectural skill of Herod the Great and his almost inconceivable expenditure of gold. Had Pilate built it for himself it could not have been more to his liking, containing as it did apartments in size from the closet of a slave maiden to halls of state large enough to banquet whole companies. The favorite state apartment of Pilate was always first set in order. A palace within a palace was it, pillared into twelve compartments which yet made one whole. The frieze of the twelve compartments was surmounted with the twelve signs of the Zodiac and paintings of meat eaters. The side walls were decorated with fauns and naked bacchantes carrying vases of flowers. The gleaming pillars that reached to a ceiling of great height were entwined with carved ivy and vine branches. There were couches, one of bronze ornamented with tortoise shell and gold, the cushions of which were Gallic wool dyed purple; another near it was of ivory and gold and across it was thrown a wolf skin robe. Corinthian vases nobly wrought of fine brass were filled with palms tied with gay ribbons, such as were waved in the Roman circus. Back of the couch covered with wolf skin was a pedestal wreathed with fresh flowers, and the fragrance of incense from cunningly wrought metal lamps perfumed the air.

With the coming of Pilate came a retinue of servants and soldiers, and always guards stood at all entrances inside and out of the palace. In the palace of Pilate all was in readiness for the Passover guests certain to be on hand, for Rome sent many visitors annually to Jerusalem. Claudia, wife of the Procurator, herself enjoyed the impressive crowds that gorged the great city and was out sight-seeing daily. On the third day before the great Feast, she returned to the palace before the time of Pilate's arrival, and pushing aside one of the magnificent hangings that lent a touch of barbaric color to the gorgeous apartment, she entered and looked about.

"Margara! Zenobe!" she called. At sound of her voice, from behind another hanging, two slave maidens appeared. "Take thou my cloak, Zenobe," she said, uncovering a splendid gown heavy with spangles of silver and rare lace, "and bring back the jewels that have been under guard since we left Rome. And thou, Margara, freshen my hair while I sit and rest, for Pilate doth come shortly."

"Aye, Pilate doth come shortly—and for Pilate doth Claudia dress her hair." The words were spoken softly.

"Yea," Claudia said, laughing, "for Pilate doth bring guests from the
Senate at Rome. In the court of Caesar have these men oft dined, and
Roman women wear jewels the gods envy. But so hath Claudia jewels,
rare jewels that have been handed down to her from her grandfather
Augustus and her mother Julia."

Zenobe returned shortly with a closed casket which she handed to Claudia with a key. From it ornaments and strings of jewels were taken and handed to the maid.

"On my arms fasten thy bands and make my throat to sparkle, and when
Margara hath dressed my hair, twine it thick with shining stones."
Claudia rested herself on the wolf skin couch and as the two slaves
dressed her hair and ornamented her body, she talked with them.

"Strange sights I saw in Jerusalem this day. The city is packed with odd peoples from every land. Indian princes saw I from beyond the Ganges. African lion hunters, their black bodies bare save for strings of golden nuggets; Arabians swinging on crimson decked camels; chieftains from Assyria whose purple cloth was gay with blue and yellow stones; Scythian savages whose garments were no more than suns and moons and fishes marked upon their knees, all these I saw. Aye, strange peoples making a strange show and a strange babel."

"Yea, and strange tales are about," Zenobe half whispered.

"What tales hast thou heard?"

"No more than that the dead are turned to life."

"A strange tale indeed—too strange, my little maid."

"It doth come from a Roman centurion."

"Hath a centurion died?"

"Nay, but his servant, sick unto death, was restored by a wonder worker."

"Whence came this wonder worker?"

"He is a Jew. I know not more, but the centurion telleth it broadly."

"Whence got thou the story?"

"From thy scarred eunuch, my mistress."

"From my scarred eunuch? And where got he the story?"

"I know not save he hath it."

"Call thou my eunuch to me."

With flying feet Zenobe hastened to obey. Meantime Margara finished her work of hair dressing, exclaiming, "Thy hair is most beautiful!"

Claudia arose, arranged the folds of her luxurious train and twisted several strings of jewels over her bare arms. She had started across the shining mosaic floor when Zenobe returned followed by a large and finely shaped slave with a scarred face. His swarthy body was scantily attired. Claudia gave him recognition, and stopping in front of her he made low obeisance and then stood straight and rigid as a statue.

"To-day," Claudia said, "I stood in the portico of the Tower of Antonio from which watch is kept over the Temple of the Jews, and gazed upon the surging crowds. Saw I all manner of mankind from infants to giants, black, brown, red and Roman, and of every kind methought. Yet doth my maiden tell me there is one I have not seen—a wonder worker that is a Jew. Hast thou heard aught of this?"

"Yea. A wonder worker is Jesus of Nazareth."

"Never did I hear his name. Whence came the Jew?"

"From Galilee. There liveth the centurion who told of him."

"Galilee? Galilee? It is somewhere I know not of. Whence got thou the story?"

"A slave of the centurion chanced to be in thy palace garden. He did tell much."

"How went the story?"

"The servant of the centurion was ill unto death. The Jew did turn death to life. To turn mourning into joy, they say, hath he come into the world."

"To turn mourning into joy. A glad mission. Hast thou heard aught else?"

"The centurion's slave did tell much."

"What?"

"That the Jews are a strange people. Long before thy mighty Rome was dreamed of by the gods, most noble mistress, was the Kingdom of the Jews great. In this same Jerusalem was there a temple of pure gold which did throw back the sun itself into the sun's face for brightness. And a king sat on a throne of gold. Wealth had this king surpassing that of every nation, and wisdom had he so that among the wise of all the earth none had such wisdom. Also, had this great people seers and prophets from whose eyes the veil of time was lifted so that clear as noonday did their vision behold that which was to be. And, lo, most noble mistress, out of the mouths of three soothsayers hath a prophecy been recorded of a king who shall restore again the throne of their glory. This do the Jews believe, aye, as they believe in sun and air. And it is whispered, most noble mistress, that this wonder worker from Galilee is the long looked for king. Ah, that his kingdom might come!"

"What mattereth his kingdom to thee?"

"It doth hold promise of liberty to those in bondage and freedom to those sore wounded. It would let men be free, as Rome doth not. Such a king would be a saviour, and I would love him, even as I hate Rome!"

"As thou hatest Rome? Fear'st thou not to speak thus?"

The eunuch moved a step nearer Claudia and threw back his shoulders, exclaiming, "What have I to fear at the hand of Rome? Nothing save my life hath Rome left me, and this I scorn. By sword or cross or ravening beast may Rome take my life and I would smile in her face. Ah, have I not sore scars to speak my hatred? Here"—and he drew his finger over a long scar on his face—"here is where the sword of Rome lay open my face, yea, wide open as the lips of a crying child. And on my back, most noble mistress, thou mightest hide thy white fingers in the welts cut by the stinging thong. And seest thou my arm? Here is flesh cooked sere as the shell of a tortoise. Thus have blade and thong and branding iron of Rome marked me with wounds and commanded my lips to silence. Yet have these scars each one a thousand silent tongues crying ever 'Hate! Hate! Hate!' But here," and he threw back his tunic and placed three fingers over a scar on his breast, "here is a scar I love. My life it is—my satisfaction—my victory over Rome which Rome hath no power to take. Aye, the victory of this scar, most noble mistress, Rome with her armies, her spears, her torch nor her power of stretching writhing bodies on hewn trees, hath no power to take! In this I glory! This is my victory and sweet is the scar to the heart of thy scarred eunuch."

Claudia moved near the slave and looked closer at the scar. "It doth lie snugly near thy heart," she said. "Thou art a strange scarred eunuch to call such a one sweet—aye, to call a wound in thy flesh a victory."

"There is a story, most noble mistress."

"My scarred eunuch hath a story? I have thought so since Pilate made thee mine."

"Yea, a story. Would that my lips might tell into the ear of the noble
Claudia the story of the scar thy late-bought slave doth bear."

"There is yet time before Pilate cometh. Tell on."

CHAPTER IX

SWEET IS THE SCAR

"Where the blue Aegean washes the shores of sunny Thrace," the eunuch began, with a far-away look in his eye. "Yea, in the land of Sparticus, that bravest of all fighters for the freedom of mankind, there lived my people and there lived I save when to gain knowledge I attended the schools of Greece. Fields had my people where the vine hung purple as the sky at midnight and grain did we garner golden as the belly of the tiger hide beside our hearthstones. Rich was my father's house in fields, and rich were his sons in wine and stores and flocks. Golden were my arms with cunningly wrought bracelets and around my neck hung gems from far lands.

"But richer than purple wine, or golden bands, or jewels, was the look of her whom I loved. White were the arms she hung around my neck, as milk and ivory. Pink like the first flush of the morning were the cheeks my lips pressed. Dark was her hair and soft like smoke in the evening, and her eyes shone like stars on the bosom of the sea. Blue as the summer sky were the veins that lay like tender lace over her virgin bosom. Her breath was fragrant like flowers behind damp stones and sweet was her voice as the music of waves when rainbow foam kisses rainbow foam and is lost in one embrace. And she was mine; and I was hers and a cot at the foot of a violet hill was ours.

"The sun shone. The breezes blew. The flowers bloomed. The clusters hung purple. The grain stood golden. And then—aye, then came Rome—Rome the scourge! Rome the curse! Rome the wolf! With fire, sword, rapine, murder—came Rome! When the invading army crossed the bounds we took refuge in a walled city. Soon we were surrounded by a forest of glittering spears. I was an archer on the wall, and we showered the brutes that hid under the bristling steel. But their shields made a phalanx which did toss back our arrows as a bull tosses stubble. Against the wall did they hurl mighty stones which did come with fierce fury, and with a great beam did they batter our walls as a ram doth batter a thin hedge. For days did we withstand. I fought with mad fierceness, for she whom I loved cheered me from beneath the wall.

"Then did the enemy without the city throw balls of burning pitch. Our men did fight the fire until their hands were blistered, yet came those balls of fire. And when flames were consuming us, the gates of the city were broken and the hand of Rome did have us in its power. With many of my fellows was I taken away and made fast to a great tree near by the tent where a Roman chieftain did collect spoil. Of the lithe of limb who were taken captive, some were to be made gladiators, but the fierce screams of others of my countrymen, mingled with Roman curses, told of a more ignominious fate than the arena. For this was I marked. Fierce was the passion of my bosom that my heritage of the gods should be sacrificed on the bloody edge of a Roman knife. While yet I stood chained did my eye catch a sight that did freeze my boiling blood fast in my veins, steep my breath in curses and turn my vision to mad blackness, for into the tent of the Roman chief I saw her carried whom I loved—she who was mine.

"I tore at the chain until blood did ooze from my flesh. Aye, and the gods did see my plight. My weapons had the hand of Rome taken save a knife hid in my tunic. Shortly was I to be taken to the chief to be robbed of my armlets. Then did all the gods show me favor, for as I went into the tent the chief was called out. Save for the time an eye doth twinkle was he called out. Yet I rushed behind the curtains which did hide the maiden. Swift were my words as the falcon flies and gleaming was my blade in my hand ere the words did pass my lips. And swift as light falls, bared she her bosom, and here, on the spot where we had dreamed a little head would lie which should be ours, I drove the keen blade in deep—deep drove I the blade, kissing her lips. And she did laugh—laugh like a happy child and press her lips to mine. I drew the dagger dripping red from the heart of my Thracian love and stuck it to my bosom bidding her strike it hard. But the stroke fell short. Even as the first blood met the blade was I struck low by the sword of Rome which lay open my face. Aye, seest thou? Seest thou the face of thy slave? And when he beheld blood bubbling from my face and pumping from my breast, did the Roman chieftain laugh.

"Aye, how Rome doth love blood! Rivers of blood! Seas of blood! With the blood of my face dripping on to the blood of my breast I looked into the face of him who had laughed at my blood, and I did laugh—laugh in the face of Rome and shout with victorious shouting, 'My blood may'st thou have! Aye, from a thousand wounds may thou steal it—shout over it—drink it, if thou wilt! But never shall the hand of Rome pollute her whom I loved! Never shall the feverish lips of thy foul lust stain her sweet breathing!' Again did the chieftain smite me across the head, and darkness came. When I awoke blood was there from a third wound, yea, most noble mistress, that wound which did rob me of man's most sacred possession. Yet again did I laugh in the face of Rome, laugh with the joy of a victor and praise the gods, for around the neck of him who had smitten me would never twine the ivory arms of her I loved. Neither would the hand that had made me a thing of wood, caress the blue veined breast of her who was mine. For this I love the scar! Sweet is the scar, most noble mistress, of thy eunuch's sore scarred love! Sweet is the scar!"

During the recital of her slave's tragic story, Claudia had shown much interest. "Is there more?" she asked, when he paused.

"Yea, that which doth delight the heart of Rome—the Triumph. When as captives we first saw Rome, great was the rejoicing in the city whose sword rules the world. With garlands were the buildings gay. The streets were strewn with flowers, and the populace was robed in white. The victor came in a golden chariot with its four white horses and its stately lictors. Proud was he in purple robe and crown of laurel and he smiled as the trumpet tones of the heralds rang out and the populace shouted praise in thunderous tones. With the captives and the spoils of war came I, chained, and the rabble did shout in my face. So also did my heart shout. For far from the marble courts and gilded palaces that hid the polluted couches of helpless maidens, she who was mine rested in the dust of Thrace with the winds of the Aegean sobbing where she lay. And as these desecrators did exult, so did my heart thank the gods for the steel of my blade, the strength of my arm and the pale dead face of my love! Most noble mistress, I have done. Dost thou understand?"

"I understand thou hast been cruelly robbed," she answered.

"Yet have I not been robbed of that which maketh a man to think."

"Hast thou thoughts? What is the wisdom of thy thinking?"

"On the shores of the sea have I seen the storm make mountains of water, yet the depths were not moved from their holdings. Down from the mountains hath the wind raged and hath fought me for my mantle, which ever I held tighter. From the hand of Rome comes the sword which doth scar and rob and pollute. Yet it doth not subdue."

"This thou hast observed. What meaning hath it?"

"Even this. What the storm can not do with much thundering, the tide doeth at will. What the wind can not do with loud battling, the sun doeth in silence. What the sword can not do though blood be spilled like water, the mind of man can accomplish."

"Thou speakest wisdom. But how doth this put a light on thy scarred face?"

"A vision hath been given of a kingdom greater than that of Caesar's, wherein the bruised and beaten and scarred who toil and starve that idlers may gorge, shall be accounted greater than those who rule by the might of the sword."

Claudia crossed and recrossed the room several times after the slave spoke these words, the silence unbroken save by the tinkle of her strings of ornaments. Pausing before him she said, "As the tide is greater than the storm; as the sun is greater than the wind; as the mind of man is greater than the sword, so shall there be a kingdom greater than that of Caesar? Is this what thou sayest?"

"Not I, but the Jew that teacheth in the Temple."

"Hast heard this from his own lips?"

"Thou knowest I have not. Save as the centurion's slave hath spoken know I nothing."

Claudia bent toward the slave, so near the jewels swinging from her shoulders lay on his arm, as she whispered, "Wouldst thou hear the Jew?"

"Ah, that I might—that I might," and the sad eyes of the eunuch filled with tears.

"Thou hast my permission. Nay, even more, it is my command. Go thou daily to the Temple of the Jews and bring me word."

"Be it permitted a slave of Rome to enter the Temple of the Jews?
Sweet is one scar, but there are no others like it."

"The Tower of Antonio stands guard against the Temple and behind its frowning walls hides the arm of Rome. Into one court thou art permitted to go. Here if any say thee nay, reply thou, 'I am the property of Claudia, wife of Pilate.'"

"Thy kindness doth make my heart glad. With rejoicing will I go and come again to thee with the wisdom of the Jew."

"Keep thou thy ears open and thy mouth shut. Understandest thou? Go now. Bring wreaths of flowers. Thy master, Pilate, will soon come with Roman Senators."

CHAPTER X

I WOULD SEE JESUS

The busy days immediately preceding the Passover had gone, and on the eve of the New Year the hush of expectancy brooded over Jerusalem. The family of Lazarus, at the time of the evening meal, awaited the coming of Joseph of Arimathea who was to spend the night with them and with Lazarus go to offer his sacrifice on the next day. The rays of the setting sun shone through the big lattice window and fell across the table.

"Look at those clouds of flame!" Mary exclaimed. "Lazarus—Joel—hast thou ever seen aught more gorgeous? In my garden I have a lily red like the sky. In honor of our guest I shall pluck it."

"Unless he tippeth it over Joseph will not see Mary's red lily," Joel said as she left the room.

"Where is Mary?" Martha called from the kitchen a moment later.

"Gone to the garden to pluck a red lily," called Joel in answer.

Martha appeared in the doorway. "Already," she complained, "hath she plucked lilies when she should have been plucking sparrows. Now she is gone again and preparation there be yet to make before we sup. Mary! Mary!" she called, turning toward the court door. When her sister entered a moment later, Martha said, "Thou dost leave me to do much service. Fix thou the cushions at the head of the table where our guest of honor will be seated."

"Yea, my sister," Mary answered, as she arranged her choice lily in a vase and put it near the place of the guest.

"Hurry, Mary," Martha urged. "The sun is down, soon will our guest appear, and he is rich. Lazarus doth say the richest man in Arimathea."

"Content would I be with half his possessions," observed Joel.

"To-day in the Temple I did see him," Lazarus said. "He too is given to the wisdom of the Galilean Prophet."

"A member of the Great Sanhedrin taken with strange teachings!" Joel exclaimed in surprise.

"Elizabeth hath declared him the Messiah," Mary said thoughtfully.

"Women are given to vain words," was Joel's answer. "It is said this Galilean Prophet is no prophet at all, but the son of a carpenter in a poverty-ridden fishing town."

Lazarus reflected a moment before saying, "I know not from whence the King of the Jews shall come to restore again the throne of David, but if this Jesus is he, and need wealth, mine shall he have."

"Thou wouldst give to him but not to the poor? A great head hast thou for business, my friend Lazarus!" and Joel laughed.

"Aye, but for the establishment of the Kingdom, what man of Israel would not give of his riches, even of his life?"

Further conversation was stopped by a knocking at the door. Hastening to answer it, Lazarus opened to Joseph of Arimathea. He wore the rich Sanhedrin robe of silk and Egyptian linen heavily embroidered and his phylacteries were bound on his forehead with wide soft thongs. His tall and stately bearing, his flowing beard and official dress gave him dignity that impressed even Eli who rendered him the usual courtesies with alacrity. "Late I am," he said as the servant unloosed his sandals, "but the highway is thronged with pilgrims getting in for to-morrow's celebration."

"Glad we are that of all the guests, thou comest to sup under our roof.
Meat is ready. Come, let us to the table."

With Joseph at the head of the table, Mary by Lazarus and Martha by Joel, the meal began. Eli passed bowls of water for the washing of hands. Grace was said and then after a second hand cleansing, wine was poured and thanks said over the cups, after which came the meat, and as they ate they talked.

"About the Galilean Prophet were we speaking," Lazarus said.

"The young Rabbi is much in the mouths of both Temple scribes and pilgrims in the street. Some have praise for his words of wisdom. Others, stung ofttimes by his rebukes, attack him cunningly. The way in which he doth answer those who would entangle him doth please me. To-day in the Temple he was cleverly attacked by some Pharisees who drew the attention of a crowd by accusing him of having such speech with a publican and a harlot as the Law doth not allow. With few words did he tell of a man who had two sons. To the one did he say, 'Son, wilt thou do a service for thy father?' and the son said, 'Nay.' To the other, the man did say, 'Son, wilt thou do a service for thy father?' and the son did answer, 'Yea.' And when came time to take account of the service, lo, the son that had said, 'Nay' had performed the service, while he who had said 'Yea' had done no service. This did the Galilean Prophet tell in the ears of the crowd for the Pharisees who had accused him. And then did he say to them, 'I say unto thee, the publicans and harlots shall enter the Kingdom before thou dost!'"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Lazarus with pleasure. "The man pleaseth me. When hath a Rabbi spoken such wisdom or possessed such powers of discernment?"

"Are there many in the Sanhedrin who harken to the teachings of this
Jesus?" Joel asked.

"Beside myself none, save Nicodemus who did go to him by night. Aye, and it was a hard saying the ears of Nicodemus did hear, for when the Ruler asked what he should do to be saved, the Galilean told him, 'Thou must be born again.'"

"Born again? A man be born again—and thou dost call such speaking wisdom?" It was Joel who asked the question.

"The young Rabbi made clear that the birth he teaches is not of flesh, but entereth in like the blowing of the wind, and hath to do with the spirit of man."

"Herein is mystery," Lazarus observed with perplexed face. "I understand not this being born again. Mary, thou dost spend much time studying the mysteries of life as it doth appear to thee in living things. Understandest thou how to be born again?"

"I understand not," Mary answered. "Yet the miracle I have seen. Once did I plant in the soil a root, brown like a dead leaf and wrinkled like a hag's face. It hath been born again. Lo—here it is," and she took the red lily from the vase by Joseph's cup. "See its glad color? Smell its rare fragrance? Here is a miracle, for this that is beautiful, is only a changed form of that which was uncomely. A miracle—yet the secret be with Jehovah God. Mayhap the heart of Nicodemus was brown and wrinkled with much tradition and useless custom until the words of wisdom Joseph doth speak of, seemed but foolishness. And lo! A change did come and he findeth Truth in the words of the Galilean Rabbi. Thus would he be born again. The miracle thou mightest see, but the manner of its doing is hidden in the heart of Jehovah."

During Mary's explanation of a miracle the eyes of Joseph had been drawn to her in surprise and admiration. "Thou hast well spoken," he said. "Hast thou heard the words of this young Rabbi whose wisdom is old?"

"Nay, Father Joseph. Yet would I."

"Thou wouldst learn much at his feet."

"But knowest thou not it is forbidden by the Law that a woman be taught that which the Rabbis would withhold?"

"I forget not. Yet will the Galilean teach thee."

"And glad of a chance, methinks, will he be to break the Law," said
Joel, "for doth he not think himself better than the Law?"

"Say rather 'greater' than the Law," Joseph replied. "As a prop to a vine, so is the Law to the weak. But as the vine doth grow greater than the prop, because of what the prop hath been to it, is it able to stand in its own strength. So there are prophets who have outgrown the Law. For such, to live within the Law would be putting new wine in old bottles."

"Much hath been said of this man," Martha observed, "but none hath yet told of his garments. What sort are they?"

"Ha! ha!" laughed Lazarus. "Martha doth think perchance she may help
Joel sell a new garment."

"Thou dost make merry over a straight question. Doth not the Law teach that man is the glory of God, and the glory of man is his dress?"

"And methinks thou knoweth also the saying, 'The dress of the wife of a learned man is of more importance than the life of one ignorant.' Hear, Joel, thou learned man?"

"Affright not Joel," Martha replied to her brother, "but tell me whether the kittuna of this Rabbi is wool or flax, or his tallith handsomely embroidered."

"What weareth this man?" Lazarus asked of Joseph.

"Save for the phylacteries, the plain raiment of a Rabbi with the white and lavender fringes on his tallith as the Law doth command. Yet it is said he hath appeared in the white of the Essenes."

"What matter the color of his fringes?" Mary asked. "His words would I hear. Perhaps I should love him even as Lazarus loveth him."

"And thy gentleness, and strange wisdom for a woman, will win for thee his love, methinks," Joseph answered.

"Mary is not so gentle as thou thinkest," and Martha laughed. "Elizabeth did visit in the home of Jesus when he was a little lad. Of all she did tell concerning him, that which did most delight the heart of Mary was the tale of a bloody nose he did give another lad."

"How went the tale?" and rubbing the beard around a mouth shaped for laughter, Lazarus awaited a reply.

"He did act," promptly answered Mary, "because a large coward did pluck the hair of a small child which could do naught but weep. Unafraid souls my heart loves."

"Ever hath womankind loved bravery," Joseph remarked. "Well, the
Galilean Rabbi is brave, Mary."

"How brave?"

"Brave sufficient to dare the wrath of the High Priest. Is this not bravery?"

"Rather the act of a fool," Joel answered.

When they had tarried about the table until a late hour, the guests went to their couches.

"To-morrow is the birthday of Israel," Lazarus said after the door had closed behind Joel and Joseph. "Now must the house be searched for leaven that not a speck remain."

Taking up the lamps which were burning low on the table, he fastened them to long handles. Martha, taking one of them, went to the kitchen, while Mary and Lazarus made search in the larger room.

"My brother," Mary said when the last cushion had been shaken and the last corner searched, "on this eve of Israel's birthday I have a request of thee. Wilt thou be Ahasuerus and hold to me thy golden scepter?"

"What is the request of thy heart, my sister?"

"My heart is burdened with a desire to meet this unafraid yet tender and wise man thou dost talk of. I would see Jesus."

"It shall be even so. To our home shall he be bidden. When thou hearest the silver trumpets blowing in the New Year, remember this is thy brother's promise, and may joy come to thee with the coming of the Galilean."

"Thou dost give me joy on this New Year's Eve. A kiss I have for thee—for pleasant dreams."

"Now am I well paid," laughed Lazarus when his sister kissed him.

"The blessing of God on thee, my brother. Good night."

CHAPTER XI

ON WITH THE DANCE

While Lazarus and Mary were searching the house with their long-handled lamps that not a speck of leaven should remain to defile the Passover, a different scene was being enacted in the Palace of Herod for Pilate and his guests. Earlier in the evening the Procurator had entered his luxurious apartment and casting aside his purple robe had exclaimed, "The wrath of Jove on Jerusalem. Save for its size it is not better than a tomb across Kedron!"

"A tomb?" one of his guests repeated questioningly. "Methinks it is a mountain of bees swarming and buzzing. Never have I seen such crowds."

"People, yea, people. But what are people if they be Jews? The tombs lack not a plentiful filling of bones and creeping things."

"When thy stomach hath become a tomb for a cup of red wine, then will
Jerusalem be more to thy liking," Claudia said, and turning to the
guest added, "My lord Pilate doth love Rome much when he is in
Jerusalem."

"Yet even Jerusalem doth seem to be getting Romanized, with her hippodrome and her trophies of Augustan victories. Also, there is a statue of Caligula, and the golden eagle hangs its wings over the Temple gate itself, while Antonio commands all."

"Yea," assented Pilate, "there are a few images and theatres, but the atmosphere is heavy with religion—barbarous superstition, as hath Cicero said. And fools they are for they worship the unseen. Greeks, Egyptians, Asiatics, Romans all have gods, but these dish-faced ones with beards refuse to pay honor to Caesar and scorn the gods."

"True," the guest replied, "but if there were no Jew, the wit of the theatre would suffer. Doth not the wag ever make merry concerning the god of the Jew which refuseth to be a god unless an inch of skin be taken where the eye misseth it not?"

Pilate joined his guests in hearty laughter. "And their ancestral veneration of the swine, what meaneth it?"

"Perhaps they fear more than venerate the swine."

"Of that I know not, but much fasting doth make them lean enough to thank the gods for the fat of a swine."

"They are loyal to their god—whatever it is," Claudia said.

"Yea, in dimly lighted synagogues they ever gather, muttering prayers. Even do they close their shops one day that they may have more time for more prayers."

"It hath come to my ears that they neither eat nor sleep with strangers," one of the guests observed.

"In the valley of Gehenna where the stench of their funeral fires doth ever ascend and the worm ceaseth not to wiggle in corruption, there would the circumcized rather lie like a dog, than sup with one uncircumcized. Aye, a dog is the Jew, and a thief."

"Yet have I heard that they contend to the death for their Law. Doth it not deal with stealing?" Pilate was asked.

"Yea, it dealeth with stealing and for it they contend. Yet they are thieves beginning with Annas the High Priest. Into the Temple offices hath he put all his sons and nephews and kinsmen that through them his itching fingers may possess all the wealth of the Temple. The Law of the Jews is for others than those who make it, preach it, sell it or trade in it. Yet for all their sins have these long-faced robbers a scapegoat. Over his head do they mumble their sins and then frighten him away to the wilderness. And when he is departed, lo, they are as innocent as babes new-born. Jove, what fools!"

"Here now are thy spirits coming," Claudia laughed. "Drink thou and see if thou gettest not out of the tomb."

Servants with viands and wines entered and placed them on tables near the couches. Pilate poured for the guests and then took his own cup.

"Pilate takes a second cup," said Claudia. "He is moving out of the tomb."

"Antipas hath not found his Tiberias a tomb yet," Pilate remarked between cups.

"What hath he done?" a guest asked.

"To a maiden who pleased him with gay dancing gave he the head of a Jew prophet in a silver platter. Good use for such head."

"In seven veils did she dance," Claudia added.

"On my soul I would have seen the show."

"My lord Pilate emerges from the tomb," and Claudia laughed as he poured another cup.

"And for a purpose," Pilate answered her. "As Antipas hath taken the pleasures of Rome to Tiberias, so will Pilate bring Rome to Jerusalem this night for the pleasure of his guests. Where, Claudia, my love, is thy maiden whose limbs are like the milky marble Greece boasts and whose feet fly like the wings of a chased butterfly? Summon thou the slave. Yet stay—not seven veils shall hide her marble loveliness. Here," and snatching a wreath of flowers from a pedestal he flung them to Claudia, "bid her robe her beauteous nakedness in this. Here's to the dancer whose virgin charms unhidden by such dense and senseless draperies as veils, shall set our blood racing as blood doth race at Rome. Bid the slave come!"

"My maiden doth not choose to come clad only in a wreath," and Claudia tossed the flowers aside.

"Slaves have no choice when masters do the bidding."

"Thy words sound large, yet hath Claudia a choice for her maiden. Confusion will take the buoyancy from her supple limbs, and so drawn will her arms be to her face to hide its shame, that the sensuous swing thou dost desire will be stiff as the scabbard on thy wall. Lest she be veiled my maiden can not dance to do Rome pleasure."

"A veil! A veil!" shouted Pilate, laughing.

"Give the maiden a veil," the guests added.

"A veil! One veil—one but not two, Claudia. One veil!" and again
Pilate laughed loudly.

"A veil. One veil," Claudia repeated, bowing as she left the room.

When she had gone Pilate summoned servants. "Set the palms to make a garden," he commanded. "Call the torch-bearers and make of them a flaming pathway. Summon the musicians. Let there be haste!"

In a very short time the palm grove was in order and a blast of music sounded. Claudia returned smiling, and all eyes turned to the curtained entrance at the far end of the aisle of palms. The first glimpse of the little Greek slave was that of a fairy dancing into the shadowy background. Her white and shapely body sparkled as if powdered with diamond dust and the veil that floated about her was woven of fine and shining threads in rainbow tints. For a time she flitted up and down between the palms and rows of torch-light bearers standing like purple statues, while Pilate and the guests drank to her grace and beauty and cheered her skill. At a signal from the Procurator the dancing stopped. "Thus doth Greece show her grace," he said to his guests. "Now wouldst thou see Rome dance?"

"Yea—but Rome is not Greece in the art."

"Bid thy eunuch to come," Pilate said, addressing Claudia.

Without asking questions, for Pilate was growing too merry with wine to answer them, Claudia summoned her slave.

"Come hither, thou scar-ridden eunuch!" Pilate shouted as he entered the place. "Wrap thy broad back in this wolf hide and take thou a helmet and spear—so! Now, musicians, pipe thee a tune that will be wild like the wrath of the gods. No music now to make a butterfly flit, but thunder for the beast that maketh the earth tremble. Ready! On with the dance!"

The big slave cast a glance of appeal at his mistress, but she motioned him to obey. Then the eunuch, wrapped in the great wolf robe, danced, heavy and without grace.

"Stay!" Pilate called. "Ye gods! Rome was not built to dance. Thy legs are like tree trunks, thy back like a ship. To gain possession of Greece, this is Rome's glory. Rome, pursue thou Greece. Tantalize her as doth a cat torment a mouse. Aye, now, slave girl, take to yonder forest of palms and elude him who follows, for the wolf of Rome is on thy track. And thou, oh, Rome, dog thy fair prey, as the sword of Caesar doth dog that which it would possess. Away to the woods! Fly, Greece, fly! On with the dance!"

To weird music the girl began an elusive dance in and out among the palms but ever under the moving glare of a flaming torch. The eunuch, like some shaggy monster, doggedly followed her. After some minutes of this dancing-chase, Pilate cried, "This is but play! Rome by the strength in his arms can pick Greece away from the earth. Come thou, Rome and Greece, dance close! Greece—evade the powerful arm that seeks to draw thee beneath the wolf's tawny hide! Dance! Dance! Dance away from Rome! Harder! Faster! Fiercer! He comes nearer! His hand doth touch thee. Aye—watch! He comes closer. Hear his heart thump with eagerness to seize thee? Feel his hot breath? He is about to seize thee! He taketh thee, Greece! Thou art disappearing under the hide of the wolf!"

As the wild dance neared its end, Pilate became so aroused he rushed back and forth across the room in imitation of first one dancer then the other, while his guests roared with laughter. And when the eunuch seized the slave girl and gathered her under the thick fur, her screams were those of honest fear for she knew not what might be in store for her. "Scream—scream again!" shouted Pilate. "I like it. Aye, to the heart of Rome stifled by the pious air of Jerusalem, screaming is like new wine! Scream once again!" Again the slave girl's cry was heard from under the wolf hide. "Thou doest well. Come forth and from the golden cup of Pontius Pilate, held in his own hand, shalt thou drink. Aye, thou doest well," he repeated as she came toward him. "To the heart of Rome screams are dear. Here's to thy screaming, and here's to Rome forever!" and he lifted the cup.

"Stay thy hand a moment," and Claudia touched the sleeve of Pilate lightly as she spoke.

"What meanest thou?"

"Drink thou to Rome, my lord—but not Rome forever."

"What meanest thou?" he repeated.

"In days long gone before Romulus had found the lair of the she-wolf, there lived seers who foretold a king whose kingdom would be greater than that of Caesar."

"Claudia hath been filching cups, methinks," Pilate said, joining in the laughter of the Senators. "Another king than Caesar? As the mighty Tiberius would do to a worm that should raise its head from the dust to sting his heel, so will the mighty Caesar do to him whose voice be lifted against the empire. My fair Claudia, thy brain is addled. Here's to thee, my love, here's to our guests, the Senators, and here's to Rome—Rome forever! On with the dance!"

CHAPTER XII

ON THE ROOF

The Day of Atonement had just passed and throughout Palestine great preparations were being made for the Feast of Tabernacles, for the harvest yield had been rich. Beginning with the fruits of the oleaster and white mulberry in the early season, the ingathering of wheat, of almonds and Beyrout honey, of apples and apricots and corn, of grapes and of figs, of maize and of pomegranates and dates, of olives and walnuts, had taken place as the months passed, and now from the northern bounds of Galilee to the southern edge of Judea and from Peraea to the sea, pilgrims were ready to set forth with their first-fruits to be offered in the Temple. The vineyards and olive orchards of Lazarus had yielded bountifully, and the laborers had been accounted worthy of their hire and generously paid.

Martha had been busy putting in her store of corn and wine and now, late on the last day before Atonement was counting her pig skin bottles while Eli cleaned the ashes from the big earthenware oven. "Hath Mary carried the last of her boughs to the housetop?" she questioned, glancing into the court. And without waiting for an answer she continued, "Such a pile of myrtle and olive and palm branches as hath not before been used in an arbor hath Mary dragged up the steps, and made into a bower. Anna doth build her bower in the garden, but not so my sister who will have hers set where she can sit under its roof of leaves and look out over the hills where there are a thousand booths. And with her harp she sings. Listen—but Eli, there is a new skin bottle missing!" and grave concern was in Martha's voice.

"My beloved is mine and I am his
Until the daybreak and the shadows flee away."

The words floated gently out on the air from the housetop. The voice was that of Mary.

"Mary—Mary!" called Martha. "A new pig-skin bottle is missing." And she started toward the stair steps. Hearing no answer she hurried upward calling, "Mary, Mary, canst thou not hear?"

"Many waters can not quench love.
Neither can the floods drown it,
For love is strong as death—"

Mary sang, lightly touching the strings of her harp as she sat under her bower of myrtle and palm.

"Mary, a new skin bottle is missing!" the housewife shouted in her sister's ear, "and the foolishness thou singeth doth make thee deaf."

"'Foolishness,' thou sayest? Once, to me also the beauty of it were hidden. But now—listen, Martha—

"I sat under his shade with great delight
And his fruit was sweet
He brought me into his banqueting house
And his banner over me was love.

Since the Master hath come it seemeth clear. Is not his wisdom a banquet? Are not the wondrous beauty of his words and the tones of his voice like sweetest fruit and is not his banner of love over us?"

"That shouldst thou know, for since the first time he crossed our threshold thou hast made thy dwelling place at his feet. And his banner of love methinks is large enough for all sorts of women to find place under, even such kind as would pollute thee by a touch."

"What meanest thou, Martha?"

"No more than I did say. Did not Joel attend a feast where Jesus had been bidden? And lo, as they sat at meat did not a woman make her way to the feet of Jesus and there sit—aye, a woman of the town? And did he not look into her eyes when she was spoken harshly to, even as he looketh into thine? And did he not say comforting words to her and excuse her, saying she had loved much—aye, loved even to her own damnation?"

"For this alone could I love Jesus," Mary answered, "even this—he pities womankind, nor thrusts them beyond the circle of his kindness because they have been weak. Not of evil cometh woman's confidence, which, betrayed, maketh her an outcast. But of goodness cometh confidence."

"Thy speech soundeth well, but it stirreth not mercy in my heart for she who sins against the Law."

"Hard and often cruel is the Law. Dost thou ever think, Martha, that in the sight of God, to sin against love may be a greater sin than to sin against the Law?"

"I know not the meaning of thy question. Dost think I am a Rabbi?"

"Thou hast a right to think on these things even if thou art not a
Rabbi."

"Nay—no right have I, for doth not the Law say a woman shall not be taught?"

"What the Law denieth, the Master doth allow. Doth he not ever bid me sit at his feet and learn?"

"Far be it from me," Martha said, "to say aught against the teachings of the Master, yet a woman's place is not with Rabbis. To serve is her lot."

"Methinks thou didst make this speech once to Jesus."

"Yea," Martha answered, "and thou needst not remind me he said thou hadst chosen the better part. Yet have I noticed that neither thy desire for wisdom, nor his for imparting it, did satisfy his belly. Even as Lazarus and Joel, doth he take his meat and wine."

Voices in the garden announced the coming of Lazarus and Joel. Martha leaned over the parapet and called, "A new skin bottle is missing."

"Hath it been stolen?" Joel asked.

"I greatly fear it hath," she replied anxiously.

When they came out upon the housetop, Lazarus said in a voice of emotion, "Alas—woe be upon us. Yea, misery hath fallen to our lot. Ah, that my soul should have lived to see this evil hour!"

"What hath happened?" Mary asked, resting the fingers that had been lightly touching the harp strings. "Hath evil tidings?"

"Alas that this should have fallen upon this household. Canst thou, Mary, sustain the grief of thy sister while I do break the evil tidings?"

"Thou dost distress my soul!" Martha exclaimed. "Speak."

"A new skin bottle is missing," Lazarus solemnly declared.

After the laughter which followed, Martha said, "Thou, Lazarus, and thy sister Mary would both starve had not our father saved his mites. Doth not our own Solomon teach of the saving ways of the ant?"

"The words of the Galilean Rabbi mean more to Mary than the wisdom of
Solomon," Joel observed.

"The son of David," Mary answered, "was not his heart led of strange women?"

"Cast not blame on him," Joel said. "Snared he was by the daughters of
Baal as was our father Adam tempted of Eve."

"Man is queer. Ever he doth boast of being strong, yet doth he ever likewise boast of being led astray," reflected Mary.

"Joel," Lazarus asked, "how camest thou in the net of Martha? Didst thou walk in, or wert thou dragged?"

"I did walk," Joel answered, laughing. "But Martha is not like other women."

"And I did prepare the way for his walking, for much did my heart desire a man with such beard," Martha confessed.

"Martha's heart hath been drawn out by a man's beard. What drew thy heart when first thou set eyes on the Master?" and Lazarus turned to Mary. "Thou shouldst have seen her, Joel," he continued. "Long had we waited in the Temple for a sight of him and we had turned on to the porch when Mary did look back. Then her feet stopped as if turned to salt and in my ear she did whisper, with undue excitement, 'Look! Look! Is that Jesus?' And I did look. And behold, the Master stood with a small child in his arms. Then did Mary refuse to move forward, but established her feet on the stones of the portico and with her hands on my shoulders did she lean that she might see the man. And while she did thus lean, he raised his eyes from the face of the child in his arms and looked straight at Mary. Dost thou remember, Mary?"

"Some things the heart can not forget," Mary answered, resting her head against her harp. "Never will I forget the Master as I saw him first. Against a white marble pillar carved with lilies he stood. Behind him, high against the line made by the portico roof, was the blue, blue sky—bending as it touched the purple mountains and the green and silver olive hills. Straight and strong he stood, and the little one did look into his face as if there it saw its future. One of its hands lay on Jesus' cheek and the other was close hidden in his large hand. When the child stroked the face of the man and smiled, the man kissed it, rested his hand upon its head a moment in blessing and gave it to its mother. Will I forget? No, never!"

"And when he did put the child down," Lazarus said, "lo, he did turn his face toward Mary. Twice had I asked him to be my guest, yet had his heart not given assent. Now he came. Over Olivet we made our way in the sunset, and on the brow of the hill we stopped to look back, and Mary's tongue did lend her voice to praise the Temple."

"Yea, my brother. Was ever Jerusalem so holy as that night, or the Temple so glorious? From the gathering shadows of the deep valleys the hand of God had placed about it, rose Zion like a towering island of gold and snow, rearing its shining lines against a burnished crimson sky and raising its gleaming towers, crown above crown to the stars above. Dost remember it, Lazarus?"

"Yea, and why not? Daily ever had I seen it, and even so, had the Rabbi, though he did seem to get a new vision of it from thy speech and face which did so please him."

"And, Lazarus, dost thou not hear it yet—the music of that night? From the throats of a thousand Levites rang out the evening chant which did move over the valley on noiseless wings and lose itself in the gathering night, making all the earth seem blessed. Canst thou forget it? Never shall I."

"Neither shall I forget," said Martha, "when thou didst reach home with thy guest, Mary. Thou didst rush upon me with the news so that I upset a pot of roast and burned my finger, and all for naught save that a Galilean Rabbi was to sup with us. Yet did I know the man would win the heart of Mary when she showed him to her lily bed, as surely as I did know Zador Ben Amon had lost her by too much eating of bird tongues, for I did hear him say—'Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'"

"And dost thou yet think on his words of wisdom as we sat at meat:
Great be the mystery of life and great the hunger for Eternal Life."

"Now is Mary started again on speech-making which will begin with the bones of our fathers and end with the hereafter. I care not for it. Let us go, Joel, that we count the pig-skin bottles once again before daylight has waned."

When Martha and Joel had gone, Lazarus made himself comfortable with his feet against the parapet and turned to Mary.

"Once I sat with him upon the housetop," she said.

"Yea, Mary."

"The night was still and under the stars did stretch the far dim lines of the Mountains of Moab. Of days long gone did he speak—days when our fathers wandered in search of a Promised Land. When, from regions far beyond, the spies of Israel crossed the Moabitish hills, they did go to the home of an harlot. Wherefore they went hath not been handed down. Mayhap to teach the woman the seventh commandment of Moses. But they did go and she was an harlot. And when their hiding was discovered she let them over the wall and they escaped. For this kindness was her life spared, and when our fathers took the city, Salmon did wed the harlot. Then did Salmon beget Boaz; Boaz begat Obed; Obed begat Jesse; Jesse begat David. Thus was an harlot the mother in Israel of whom was begotten Israel's kings. And is not the blood of David in the veins of him we love—even Jesus? It is not strange he hath ever words of kindness and a helping hand for women downtrodden by the Law, for as the eye of God seeth good in what the Law condemns, so doth the heart of the Master, and he hath courage to speak."

"Yea. To be with him doth give new visions."

"And great love. Sometimes when I am with him or my mind traveleth far paths with him, it seemeth as if God was pouring love into my heart until it is full to overflowing. Again it seemeth I hunger for love."

"Thy heart need not hunger for love. Thou art much loved."

"I know thou dost love me much."

"All who know thee, love thee."

"The Master?"

"Yea, yea—he loveth thee."

"Ah, Lazarus, this is knowledge my heart doth hunger for. I know he doth love me for he loveth all women. Martha sayeth he doth look upon the women of the street even as in my eyes he looketh. Joel did tell her so."

"Joel discerneth not the difference between sympathy in the eye of pity, and hunger in the eye of such love as constraineth a man to take one woman to himself apart from all the world even as the wild dove taketh its mate to the hidden cleft of the solitary rock. The Master hath no common love for thee."

"How knoweth thou this, my brother?"

"He is a man. I am a man. Hungry he sitteth at meat as a man. Weary he resteth his limbs as a man. Merry he looketh upon the fair arms and flying garments of dancers at the wedding as a man. Sad doth he grow, and troubled, as a man. With a child held to his bosom the tenderness of fatherhood sounds in his voice and with thee at his side the mightiest love with which the Creator hath blessed man, toucheth his soul. Did not the Creator so make man that it is not good for him to be alone? None but the heathen teach contrary to the Law."

"Thy words are to my heart as a song of Zion to the captives in
Babylon. Yet would I have a sign from him."

"So do women always want signs," Lazarus laughed.

Mary rested her head against the myrtle twined support of the bower and looked away to the sky of the setting sun—nor did Lazarus disturb her thoughts by speaking. The hush of evening was brooding over the distant valleys soon to be enfolded in the twilight and there was no sound on the housetop when, a few moments later, Mary heard her name spoken just behind her. A man had come quietly up the steps and stopped where they opened on the roof. He wore a travel-stained garment, carried a staff and held against one shoulder some branches of flowering green. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock," he said, as Mary and Lazarus with a glad cry, sprang up to greet him.

CHAPTER XIII

ORANGE BRANCHES

"The hem of thy garment is heavy with dust and thy feet are torn by thorns," Mary said with concern. "Rest thee. I will unloose thy shoes' latchet and Lazarus will bring thee drink. Thou art weary."

"Yea, footsore and weary. But take thou the branches of orange blossoms. All the way from Ajalon have I carried them to make thee thy festival lulab," [1] and he held the branches to her.

"The Day of Atonement did not find thee in the Temple. From Ajalon hast thou come?" Lazarus asked.

"Yea. On the road to Ajalon there is a place of turning that doth lead over a desert way, and rocky. But when the end is reached, there is a valley of springs giving rise to a stream that at last findeth the Great Sea. And in this hidden and quiet place where the wild gazelle feedeth unharmed because there is no shedding of blood, there is a retreat of the Essenes. Here was I. Neither in the Temple nor out of the Temple cometh At-one-ment with the Father, but in the sanctuary of the heart, Lazarus. And it was in this holy place," and the guest turned toward Mary, "that the air was rich with perfume from a little grove of early oranges and citron. Here I did think of thee and brought thy lulab flowers, though their leaves are faded somewhat."

"Aye, but their fragrance is tenfold, as doth come from broken lilies."

"There is a fragrance that spilleth itself in dying. In this there is a hard lesson thou hast yet to learn, Mary."

"If I learn from thee it is not hard."

"Thou knowest not what thou sayest."

"I go to get thee new wine," Lazarus said.

"And take thou the branches, my brother, except one that I keep on the arbor roof to make the night fragrant like the valley of retreat beyond the way to Ajalon. The others put in the water pot by the cistern that they may be fresh for to-morrow's festival. And hasten thou back with the wine."

"Nay, hasten not," the young Rabbi said. "As I came along the way, travelers did give me figs and wine so that I hunger not. Yet when the moon hath cleared the mountains would I drink with thee thy new wine."

"As thou sayest," Lazarus replied, and taking the guest's cloak and staff he went below.

"I saw thy face as I stood waiting at the door," the guest said to Mary when they were alone. "Thine eyes saw farther than the parapet, and the vision made thy countenance a very pleasant one. Sit thee down and let us look together."

Mary sat down on a foot-stool which he drew to the side of his chair and turned a smiling face to him as she said, "Often in the heavens I see sights more beautiful than words can tell. Look you now, just over there where the clouds bank low behind the olive tops. Dost thou not see fleecy lambs playing on hillsides of ruddy lilies! And over where the mountain casts its purple line across the far-off pink—see thou the pile of marble palaces wrought in such beauty as even Solomon hath not conceived? And canst thou not see rosy chariots driving from the west, the banners of the horsemen streaming and their red and burnished hair reaching into endless tresses? But look you yonder!" and she pointed toward a bank of moving clouds. "There are such beautiful clouds as angel wings are made of, and is not that a distant shore across the sky?"

"Yea," he answered, "and snowy mountains bearing snowy cedars."

"A path of light doth open up between thy snowy mountains," and she leaned eagerly forward.

"Maybe the Golden Gates of the New Jerusalem that lieth four square are opening, if thou hast eyes to see."

"Yea—I see! The clouds are turning into a throng of children—countless children. With snowy robes are they wrapped. Their arms are wings of feathery softness, and white and shining hair doth blow across their faces! Aye—how beautiful, and a golden glow shines over them. Stay! Children, stay!" and Mary pressed her hands together and leaned out across the parapet.

"They are passing," he said, watching Mary.

"Yea, they are passing into the forest of snow and the sea of gold.
But oh, my Master, when hath eye seen a more beautiful sight?"

"Listen!" and he took her hand in his. "There is music for the passing footsteps of thy white and shining children."

Together they listened when, over hills and valleys there came, breathing on the silent air, the thousand throated choir of the Levites chanting in the Temple. As the music came to them, sometimes far and faint and sometimes like a fresh wave on a rising tide, it seemed to bear them away from the world and themselves, save as they were held together by the touch of hands. As the gray of twilight veiled the lowlands, the red fires of booth-dwellers shone out like vivid jewels scattered in irregular pattern, and when darkness had fallen the music ceased.

"My mystery," Mary said softly to herself.

"What is thy mystery?" he asked.

"The way of music with my soul. It casteth a spell over me so that sometimes I am moved to laughter, sometimes to tears, sometimes to great longing, sometimes to a love too great for me. My mystery!"

"Thy mystery will be no more a mystery when thou knowest that thy soul is but Waves of Being."

"I understand not what 'Being' means."

"Nor canst thou. But the way of waves thou knowest. Whether they run mountain high or as the smallest pebble stirreth them, yet is there ever motion, and the one touching the other doth bear the motion to the farthest bounds. So do thy Waves of Being in eternal motion make thy soul's substance."

"Thy words savor of much wisdom, but the meaning thereof escapeth me. Waves of water my eye can see. But Waves of Being—alas! What are they?"

"Hast thou stood by the mountain path when the grass is burned to stubble and the stones by the wayside are as ovens? Hast thou seen coming from the burning earth such waves as seem to be neither black nor white nor substance as thou knowest it? These are waves of heat. So the light taketh its way, and the sound, though the eye of the body may not discern them. The Waves of Being, thy soul's substance, and the waves of light and heat and sound, be but one power made manifest in different degree. And when these unseen waves of melody come to thee from the Temple and strike against thy Soul, they have but found their own, and according to their measure do they stir that which thou callest joy and pain."

"I have seen the waves of fierce heat in the drought time and I have felt the waves of music breaking over my soul—yet question I, and doubt sometimes, all things—even God."

"Lift thy face, Mary—look up! The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His handiwork. Ask of thyself who laid the foundations of the earth? Who shut up the sea with doors and said 'Thus far shalt thou come but no farther and here shall thy proud waves be stayed'? Who hath bound the cluster of the Pleiades? Who hath loosed the band of Orion? Who hath put understanding in the inward parts? The inward parts, Mary, that still, small voice? Thou dost not doubt. That which thou calleth 'doubt' is but the unrest of growing, for thou dost ever grow in grace and knowledge of the Truth."

"And shouldst not one find wisdom who oft sitteth at the feet of the
Master of Wisdom and who worketh mighty miracles? Anna hath been to
Nain and hath brought back a strange story."

"How went the story?"

"To the home of a kinsman who owned vineyards near Nain did Anna go. And in Nain there lived a widow whose lot had been hard, for when her husband died his creditors came upon her and when they had done, a Temple lawyer had her one small field and the creditor drove away her milch goats and all the kids that were her winter meat. So grievous was her lot that she must needs fast to save her Temple mite. Nor was this the end of her pitiful plight, for her only son, as he was treading the wine-press, was smitten on the head by the sun, and died. Anna and her brother went to the funeral to help make mourning, and never hath she seen so queer an ending to shrill wailing as she saw that day. 'Ah, if thou couldst have been there,' said Anna. 'From Endor to Nain was Rabbi Jesus journeying accompanied by many. Shouting his praises were the men. Waving olive branches were the women while children did pluck bright leaves and scatter across the pathway. A merry party it was, singing and laughing. Then lo, did the funeral procession make its sad way. Rough was the road toward which it tended and gloomy the valley with gaping tombs. And through this dark valley did the sad note of the funeral dirge sound and with great sobbing and wailing did the mourners march beside the bier whereon lay the dead son of the widow. Thus did the march of Life and the march of Death make toward each other and the way was wide enough but for one of them to pass. On, on they marched, the one passing to the hilltop and blue sky, the other to the bat-ridden place of corruption. When they did meet, on the bier Jesus placed his hand—a hand throbbing with the life of a strong man. And the Death march did stop. "Weep not," said he to the weeping mother. And to the dead did he say, "Young man, arise!" Then did the eyelids of the dead quiver; the set jaw move in its grave napkin; the gray face show the tinge of running blood. Hands stirred underneath the shroud and the dead awakened. It was wonderful! And a young man that had hold of the bier, when he saw the eyes of the dead open and the jaw fall apart, dropped his corner of the bier and ran.' And Anna doth say he is running yet."

Mary's story ended with a laugh in which her listener joined. "This is one of the greatest of thy miracles—so they say."

There was a moment of silence. Then the young man said, "There are no miracles. There is only Knowledge, and lack of it. When a soul is born of the Spirit, he cometh into the Light. Of Light cometh Knowledge and of Knowledge, Power. And as all life is one life, so is all power one power. Power and the Father's will to work bringeth the consciousness that 'I and my Father are one.' There are no miracles."

"By thy wisdom thou doeth away with miracles. Yet do men call thy mighty works miracles and dispute much as to who he is that doeth them."

"Who do men say that I am?"

"Some say thou art Elias. Some say Jeremiah. Some say John. Some say that with a camel train didst thou go to the Far East while thou wert yet a lad and in the schools of the Magi, far beyond the Punjab valley and the Indus, did learn to work wonders."

"And some say I am Beelzebub," he added.

Mary made no reply to this.

"And to turn back into its fleshy form a few waves of the universal sea of life—is this a miracle, think you? Thy life aboundeth in greater miracles."

"Methinks ofttimes that love is a miracle."

"Thou thinkest well."

"And oft my heart hath longed to open my lips to thee."

"Speak on."

"Thou art a man—not a youth, neither womanish. Yet when my eyes did first behold thee, in thy face shone the love of a mother for a child. Herein lieth a great mystery to my heart."

"As all life is one life, so all love is one love. Hath thine own love never exceeded the bounds of thy understanding?"

"Yea. Yea," she answered quickly. Then she paused.

"Say on, Mary," he said, listening with interest.

"Once an infant, brown and foreign, did mistake me for its mother. And on that selfsame day did a brood of motherless nestlings do likewise. Strange sensations came to me, and the strange thought that mayhap there be one motherhood for all creatures as there be a Father to all mankind, and the strangeness of my feeling was the heart-throb of it."

"Wilt thou turn thy face to me, Mary?" he asked. And when she had done so he said, "Thy feet are on the threshold of the mystery thy heart wouldst know."

"And wilt thou lead me across?"

"Dost thou love me, Mary—more than all these?"

"Yea, my master, thou knowest that I love thee."

"Wilt thou drink the cup given me to drink?"

"The cup, though I know not what thou meanest, with thee will I drink."

"Ho! Ho! Ho! The new wine cometh," called Lazarus on the steps, and laughing voices told the two on the housetop that the hour for words of wisdom was at an end. Lazarus and Joel brought the wine and the cups. Anna and Martha followed, carrying trays with sweetmeats and fruit. In the moonlight they set a table for a feast and after they ate and drank, Mary made music on the harp and they sang psalms.

"Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors, that the King of Glory may come in," their voices sang in unison. Then the women sang "Who is the King of Glory?" and the rich bass of the men's voices answered "The Lord strong and mighty!" Ever and again they sang, until Jerusalem lay dark and the red fires in the valleys had burned out.

"The night is far spent for one who hath come the way from Ajalon,"
Lazarus said at last.

"Bearing orange boughs," Joel added.

"Yet a sweet burden," laughed Anna as the three men turned to the stairs.

"My heart is eager for the festivities of to-morrow night," Martha said as she gathered the cups and bottles. "Lights will shine and the silver trumpets blow, and great will be the throng in gay apparel carrying bright lulabs."

"Yet far will the eye travel before it falleth on such fragrant boughs as these," Mary added.

Anna and Martha laughed. Before they turned from the housetop, Mary picked a blossom from the branch on the arbor roof. "This goeth to my pillow," she said. "It is a sign."

[1] Festival branches carried at the annual Feast of Ingathering.

CHAPTER XIV

WITH WHAT EYES

Without the walls of Jerusalem, the hills and vales were dotted with booths of green. Inside the gates the city seemed to have burst into springtime bloom, and the populace looked like a walking garden, for every Jew carried an armful of green boughs, and in his hand a sprig of willow to be placed on the great altar. Many pious ones had witnessed the early morning service when a priest, entering from the water gate, brought a gold pitcher full of water from the Pool of Siloam. At the sacred altar it was mixed with wine and through silver basins and pipes sent on its way to Chedron while a thousand trumpets proclaimed the ceremony. But it was at night the great crowds thronged the Temple at the most festive of all Jewish holidays for at this time the Great Lights were lit, the altar piled with leafy offerings brought by pilgrims from all Palestine, and the thanksgiving music of the priestly choir made a glorious shout of rejoicing.

Into the Court of the Gentiles the crowds passed, and up the marble steps of the Beautiful Gate with its Parian marble sculptured in gold and set with jewels. There had been the brightness of flambeau and lanterns in the outer court, but it was in the Court of Women that the Great Lights, branching out on high supports, were lighted. Just beyond this pillared and shining court and approached by fifteen marble steps, rose the Nicantor Gate with its titanic doors of Corinthian brass, more costly than fine gold, and towering to such a height that the moving throng looked like a line of ants creeping between its burnished pillars.

In the crowd thronging the Court of Women was Zador Ben Amon, and with him a Temple lawyer, who passed here and there to hear what the populace might be saying. When the people had turned toward the Nicantor Gate, just beyond which ten thousand candles illuminated the willow-decked altar, Zador stopped suddenly and stepped aside saying, "Let us tarry. I would use my eyes." After pausing a moment Zador pointed toward the steps and said, "Look, seest thou the woman with a man on each side of her? She weareth white with a veil. And the one man is a Rabbi with uncovered head and carrying a staff. The other weareth a blue turban with fringed sash on the side. See them? Midway of the third step they stand. Let us move toward them."

Keeping to the outer edge of the animated throng, Zador soon came to a place from which, by standing on the base of a pillar he could see over the heads of the people. "Yea," he said to his companion, "it is Lazarus and his sister as I thought. And at his heels is the other sister with her man. Now I will get me on the track of my anklet. Watch thou my standing place while I call a guard." Leaving the Temple lawyer by the pillar, Zador Ben Amon soon found a guard to whom he said, "The woman in the white cloak and veil who walketh between the Rabbi uncovered, and the man in blue head-dress, with a sash, hath in times past vexed me sore because of a lost anklet which she prayed me to find for her. Since I have seen her last, good fortune may have brought her the trinket. This would I know. For her right leg just above the ankle was it made. Pass thou behind her as she maketh her way to Nicantor. There are fifteen steps, on one of these shalt thou overtake her. When thou hast done so, lift thou her skirt and—if she be offended, swear that thou didst it unwittingly. If she wear not the anklet, lift thy sword as though thou wouldst open a way for a priest. If it be there, make haste to tell me and a piece of gold shall be thine. I will watch thee from the base-stone of the fourth pillar."

So it happened that as the group from Bethany stood for a moment midway of the marble steps to look forward to the shining altar and backward at the surging crowd, some one lifted the skirt of Mary. "What meanest thou," she exclaimed, turning to face a Temple guard. "He hath lifted my skirt," was her angry explanation as her brother and the Rabbi turned to the offender.

"Not of purpose did I, but from the press of the crowd," was his answer.

"Nay, with thy hands didst thou do it. I felt the touch of thy fingers."

Leaving Lazarus and Joel to have words over the matter, the Rabbi moved quickly a step higher and cast his eyes across the moving throng to the outskirts where he saw a thick-set man who wore a royal blue cloak and gold embroidered head-dress, standing above the others, and looking with fixed and eager eye at the group on the steps. Suddenly he became nervous, moved his body as if some discomfiture had come upon him and then turned his head slowly. The next instant he met the eyes of the Rabbi. As if he had been struck, he moved down from his foot-stone. "By the strength of my beard!" he exclaimed. "Didst thou see the face of that Rabbi? Nay? Such eyes he hath as looketh a hole into the inward parts of a man. Of a certainty will he know me again—and I him. Come, let us lose ourselves in this vast assemblage and yet go under the Gate of Nicantor. I would learn if this is the Rabbi who was with the woman."

For some time Zador Ben Amon and the Temple lawyer moved with the crowd. Now and then they caught sight of the Bethany party and Zador made comment. "She walketh by her brother," he first said. Then, "Now she is with the Rabbi," and again, "Now she is with both of them. Yet I can not determine what I would from this place. Let us go to the East Gate that openeth on to the Bethany road. There the way is narrow and as they turn toward home the Rabbi will walk with the woman, if this is their choice."

The last stall on the narrow street toward the East Gate was that of a pottery molder and baker of small ovens. Outside his door, which was now securely barred, stood several large water-jars and behind them a low table used for mixing clay. When Zador and his companion reached this place they stopped and withdrew into the shadows. "The moon is rising. They will not be long coming," he said. "Whether the Rabbi is with the brother or the woman, this is the question."

"Thou dost not know him?"

"Nay, nor care I to know a man with eyes like the Great Lights—unless he is crossing my path with the woman."

"By the hair that lieth upon his shoulders and the staff in his hand he looketh like the Galilean Rabbi that hath been teaching in the Temple."

"A Galilean Rabbi? When did this Province of diggers in dirt and gutters of fish send forth Rabbis? Thou makest a jest."

"Nay. If thy eyes were turned more to the study of the Law and less to thy gold, then wouldst thou know that a Galilean Rabbi hath arisen."

"Now do I know he is a friend of the brother, for the woman is fair and her ways gentle, nor would she give to a rough and witless Galilean what she would withhold from me."

"There is a puzzle. The Galilean is not witless, but hath both wit and wisdom and speaketh with authority. Yet came neither his wisdom nor authority from the Temple. So did the lawyers and scribes question among themselves, and we held council. And to me it was given to speak, calling in question his authority. And I did say, 'By what authority dost thou speak things? And who gave thee this authority?' For the moment he did not speak. Then he lifted up two such eyes upon me as thou sayest look holes into the inward parts. And he did say, 'The baptism of John—whence was it? From Heaven or of men?' Then did we see of a surety he had entrapped us, for hard by hung the multitude that hold John the Baptiser,—whose father officiated in the Temple and who would have succeeded to the priesthood had he not taken to the wilderness shouting 'Repent, for the Kingdom be at hand!—as a great and mighty prophet. If we answer him saying, 'The baptism of John is of man,' then would they murmur and throw stones. If we say, 'The baptism of John is of God,' then would this man of eyes say, 'Why did ye not hear him?' and he would claim succession to the Priesthood through the baptism of John."

"Thy speech doth upset my peace of mind if this is the man and he is with the woman, for as I live she is curious in her notions and might be taken with such words. But they will be coming soon. Watch well and look closely."

"Thy words sound pleasant. But my watch will I keep between the cracks of the water-jars. Once is enough to feel defeat by the wit of a Galilean."

As the Temple lawyer spoke, voices were heard not far down the narrow street. Both men stepped behind the jars. The lawyer sat low. Zador dropped on his knees keeping his eyes above the edge of the vessel. Several groups passed, laughing and talking, when the quick eye of the lawyer caught sight of the friends from Bethany. "It is the Galilean Rabbi," he whispered to Zador.

"Doth he walk with the woman?"

"Yea, following them all. But they pass. Look you."

Simon the Leper and two other elders walked in front with staffs. Then Lazarus and Anna carrying between them a branch over which they were making merry, while Joel and Martha followed close, singing bits of the thanksgiving choral. Following them and apart, walked the Rabbi and the woman Zador Ben Amon was waiting to see.

"He walketh with the woman," Zador said to himself. "With what eyes doth he look upon her?"

"A veil doth hide her face that only the Galilean may look upon it in the moonlight," the lawyer breathed softly.

"Doth he hold her hand?" and there was suppressed emotion in Zador's voice.

"Who knoweth?"

"Doth her shoulder touch his as she leaneth close to hear the words he speaks?"

"Who knoweth?"

"How doth he hold his arm nearest the woman?" and in his anxiety to see, Zador raised his head above the jar. "His words and touch maketh her face to shine. Like a sour citron did her countenance glow when I did try to touch her," he growled.

"Hst! Hst! Hst!"

"Where he walketh, there should Zador Ben Amon walk, whispering over her smiling face. Yet by all the worms of torment shall not that Galilean ass take from me the comely one of Bethany!" he muttered.

While the breath of the words yet hung on his lips the Rabbi turned as if in answer to a call and before Zador could drop behind the jar, a message had been flashed to him. And the Galilean smiled.

"God of Abraham!" Zador Ben Amon exclaimed when Lazarus and his friends had passed through the gate. "With what eyes doth he do it? Twice hath he sent me his mind without words. As I stood by the pillar in the Temple did he not say to me, keen as the arrow flies, 'Thou art the man'? Now hath he shot again at me such words as lay hold like hooks of steel in raw flesh. Thou fool!' he hath said, and in such manner that now when the breath enter my body, it sayeth 'Thou fool!' and when it passeth out it sayeth 'Thou fool!' To the fires of Gehenna with such eyes!"

CHAPTER XV

THE DEATH OF LAZARUS

An illness had fallen on Lazarus. By his bedside sat Mary. The curtains were drawn, and a lamp burned on a table near by. Bending over the couch Mary called softly, "Lazarus! Lazarus!" She straightened up and looked down at the body of her brother with grave concern. "Three days," she said to herself, "hath his groaning fallen heavily on my heart. Now doth the silence fall with heavier weight. Yet doth the skill of the physician avail not." Stepping to the door she called Martha. "Through the night I have been with him," she said to her sister as she came in, "and have done as the physician directed. Yet even before the midnight cock-crowing did he moan until tears wet my eyes for his much suffering. With bath and soothing words did I minister to him until the morning cometh, and sleep. But it is not good sleep."

Hastening to the couch, Martha bent over, calling anxiously, "Lazarus!" There was no reply. "I like not this sleep. It is too heavy—too heavy. Rub thou his hands while I summon the physician."

"Aye, but, Martha, three days hath the physician poured potions between the lips of our brother to no avail. Let us despatch a swift messenger for him we love, who hath more healing in his voice and touch than have all the physicians in Jerusalem. Beside the couch of Lazarus hath my heart cried for Jesus."

"Aye, so doth my heart cry out for Jesus. Yet hath he taken a far pilgrimage to Peraea. The physicians of Israel were good enough for our father and mother."

"Even so. Yet rest their bones in the tombs of their fathers! Is this good enough for our brother Lazarus?"

"Thou dost alarm my heart. With speed will I summon the physician."

"And send thou to me the servant."

Quickly on Martha's departure Eli came into the sick chamber. "With haste lend thine hand to help awaken thy master Lazarus," Mary said. "Rub thou his feet diligently while I rub his hands." After a few moments of effort which brought no response, Mary gave fresh orders. "He doth not awaken. Take thou the rue and the pennag and make a brew over the coals. Bring it steaming! Hasten."

"Doth our brother awake?" Martha asked, reentering the room. "Nay? A messenger is well on his way with a command of haste and the promise of thrice his fee if the physician is swift."

"Thou art wise. The promise of gold putteth wings on slow heels. But, Martha, my sister, would that the servant, Eli, had wings and were flying toward Peraea. Through the night as I did watch beside my brother, I did think of the many suffering ones the Master hath healed. And not one of them all did he love as he loveth our brother."

"Aye, he loveth Lazarus. And if death crosses our threshold will it not be as if death entered his own abode?"

"Lazarus—oh, my brother—wouldst thou lie so silent if the Master called thy name?" Mary pleaded, bending over the couch. Then to Martha she said, "The minutes pass like aged oxen turning rocky soil."

"The physician will not be long coming. With haste must I set the house in order." And Martha hung several garments on hooks in the wall, smoothed the couch covers, straightened the cups and bowls on the table, blew out the lamp and pulled back the curtains. Looking out the window she gave a short cry, exclaiming, "The sky is red—red as if a great veil had been dipped in blood and hung across the sun. Such a sight in the morning is an evil sign," and her face showed fear.

"I put not faith in signs," Mary replied.

"Since the beginning hath Israel been warned by signs and dreams," and
Martha shook her head in sadness.

"Signs take neither the living nor bring back the dead. Hand me the pot of herbs and help me here," and Mary turned to the couch.

"Doth he swallow?" Martha inquired anxiously as she held her brother's head while Mary tried to administer the dose.

"Nay."

"As well. There is no virtue in it. He hath swallowed a water pot full already. Evil is about. The sky is red."

While the sisters stood about the bed the physician, garbed in a long coat of brown and striped turban, hurried in with an air of importance. He was followed by a servant carrying a bundle of herbs, some green sprigs and several cruises of oil. "What evil thing hath befallen thy brother since yesternoon?" he asked, going to the couch.

"A strange sleep hath fallen upon him."

The physician turned back his patient's eyelids and looked carefully. "Evil spirits are about," he announced. "When the medicine I did leave yesterday drove from his veins the devils of fire, then did demons of sleep rush in. So doth he sleep."

"Canst thou awaken him?" Mary asked.

"By my rare skill I can. Pour out thine oil," this to the servant, "and set forth the herbs. Mix thou a bitter potion and I will administer a prayer." From a wallet the physician took a small paper which he rolled into a pill between the palms of his hands. The pill he dipped in a bowl. "This is to dispel evil spirits," he explained. "Make fast his head while I push the prayer between his lips."

Mary and Martha raised the shoulders of Lazarus, and the physician tried to force the pill into his throat.

"Even of his mouth have the evil spirits taken possession," he said, failing to force open the set teeth of the man. "Bring the oil." Then followed an elaborate anointing while the physician tried to rub in his prayers. Meantime several neighbors had entered the room and while Mary watched eagerly for the awakening of her brother, Martha stepped to the door to tell in anxious whispers of her brother's serious condition.

"Evil spirits have taken entire possession," the physician told the sisters when no sign of life responded to the oil bath. "There be yet one manner in which evil may be driven from thy brother. Wilt thou give of thy abundant hair, Mary?"

"Of my hair? Yea, thou shalt have all—even my blood for my brother
Larazus."

"Seat thyself and bid thy servant to give me a plait of thy hair. And thou, Martha, bring me a knife wholly of iron and have thy man-servant in readiness with an ax."

Mary sat down on a stool and unbound her hair. In the middle of the back a plait was made, and this was cut from her head.

"Evil are the spirits that have taken possession of the master of this abode and fierce must be the contention of the angel of the Lord else they accomplish their dark desire. Pray thou who standest about this bed and seest the knife bound in this hair, that the path of evil spirits be cut off." Taking the iron knife which Martha handed him, he prayed over it, tied Mary's hair about it, uttered another prayer and turned toward the servant who had appeared with an ax. "Take thou this to the valley. Find there a thorn-bush aside from the pathway and there tie the iron knife by the hair of Mary and repeat the scripture which is on the scroll I give thee, and as the Lord appeared in a thorn-bush to Moses, so shall he appear again. And if thine eyes be holden that thou seest not the flame, yet will it of a surety be there, this being the sign—the bush be not consumed. Then shalt thou turn aside as did Moses when the Lord commanded him to take his shoes from his feet, for so shalt thou be on holy ground. And when thou hast hid thy face a sufficient time for the angel of the Lord to find thy iron knife to destroy the evil spirits, then shalt thou turn again to the bush and cut it down. Go thou, and hasten."

"How long ere thy skill will waken our brother?" Martha asked anxiously.

"Until the angel of the Lord doth overcome the demons of disease."

"Aye," said Mary, "but the time passes and the sleep of our brother deepens." She bent over the couch and taking the hand of her brother called softly, "Lazarus! Oh, that the Master was here! One touch of his hand—one sound of his voice would be enough!"

"Who is this to whom thy sister's heart calleth?" the physician asked
Martha. "Some magician?"

"The Galilean Rabbi—Jesus," she answered.

"Him they call 'Jesus of Nazareth'?"

"Even the same."

"He is an impostor. Away with him! To whom hath it been given save to a physician to cast out evil spirits with his pills and potions? Thy sister doth behave foolishly."

While the household was engaged about the bedside a party of mourners, having been told by the servant of the condition of Lazarus, gathered about the door seeking information.

"A terrible and deadly evil hath lain hold of the master of the house, a young man rich and noble," a neighbor said.

"What sayeth the physician?"

"A deep sleep hath fallen upon him from which neither the voices of his sisters nor the skill of the physician can awaken him."

"Thou sayest he is rich?"

"He hath vineyards and olive orchards."

"His sisters love him much—much will they pay for loud mourning."

"Yea, much they love him. Listen how Mary doth entreat him to answer her and Martha doth plead with the physician."

"Aye, aye," the mourners answered, nodding, "They will require much wailing."

At the bedside the sisters hovered, making frequent appeals to the physician for help. "His hands are getting cold!" Mary suddenly exclaimed. "And the cold creepeth upon him," and she rubbed his arms.

"He groweth cold?" asked the physician. "Then did not the iron knife cut off the way of the evil spirits. Hath there been a sign?"

"A red sky," Martha answered, fear showing on her face.

"When?" and there was eager interest in the physician's voice.

"This morning," replied Martha.

"Thou shouldst have told me," he said sternly, "that my oil I might have saved."

"Now do I send for the Master," Mary announced with decision. Turning to the door filled with neighbors and mourners she said, "A messenger! Is there among you one fleet of foot?" A lithe youth pushed his way to the front. "My blessings on thee, and a purse of gold if thou make thy tracks like that of a roe before a beast of prey. Fly thou to Peraea. Take thou the road by the upper ford and follow on past Bethabara. As thou goest inquire for the Galilean Prophet and when thou hast found him, this say, 'Him whom thou lovest lies sick unto death!' And when he shall ask who sent thee, naught say save 'Mary.' Hasten thee! And God give thy feet wings like the eagle!"

"Thy brother will be dead before thy messenger gets beyond the brow of
Olive," the physician announced.

Throwing herself by the couch Mary cried, "Brother—my brother! Speak thou to me—just once more speak thou thy sister's name!"

"No more shall his lips be opened till the Judgment Day," the steady voice of the physician replied.

"Hearest thou not my voice? I am thy sister Mary. God of my fathers!
Dost thou not hear?"

"Closed be his ears until the trumpet of the dead shall sound," was the comment.

"Thou dost not mean Lazarus sleeps the sleep of the dead?" Martha cried in pain.

"By evil spirits hath my unfailing skill been set at naught. Thy brother sleepeth the sleep of death."

"No—no!" sobbed Mary, as the physician turned to collect his oil and herbs. "Lazarus is not dead!" and throwing her arms around Martha down whose face tears were streaming, she cried over and over, "He is not dead—he is not dead!"

While the sisters were giving way to their grief, the mourners filed into the room. Some had cymbals, some flutes, some pieces of sackcloth which they put over their heads before turning their faces to the wall. "Alas the lion—alas the hero—alas for him!" wailed the mourners. "Woe! Woe! Death hath entered into the place of the living and hath taken the flower of its strength! Oh, grave! Oh, tomb! Hungry art thou! Woe! Woe! From the garden of woman's smiles hath he gone to darkness and the bat. Corruption hath gathered him to its bosom! Weep! Howl! Never shall he return to the place of the living from the place of the dead!"

Before the mourners had finished their lamentations, the body of Lazarus had been wrapped in a sheet and was being hastily borne from the house. Following the body, with her arms around her sister, Mary sobbed, "If the Master had only been here, my brother had not died."

CHAPTER XVI

HE CALLETH FOR THEE

Three days after the death of Lazarus, Mary sat alone in his room beside the empty couch, which was turned upside down, as were the chairs also. The clothing that hung on the wall was covered with sackcloth and the tightly drawn window curtains were banded with black.

"Art thou ready to go to the tomb?" Martha asked, coming to the door of the room. "Soon will the mourners come from Jerusalem and great will the weeping be at the grave of our brother. Where is thy sackcloth?"

"Neither sackcloth nor ashes have I put on. Only to think, come I to this silent room."

"Knowest thou not it is yet unclean?"

"Uncleanness cometh not from the passing out of those we love. Only to keep the Law, observe I the mourning rites. Yet in my quiet do I think."

"Scarce four days is our brother dead and thou art at thy old habit of thinking. Wilt thou never learn thinking is not to tax a woman's time? Wouldst thou take from men their rights?"

"Methinks thinking is proper for whoever hath power to think. Why shouldst not a woman think if by so doing she can find answer to some question that doth perplex her heart?"

"Thou dost ever make thy way seem right because of fair speech. But of thy thinking what cometh? Here hast thou sat thinking by the couch of him who lieth in the tomb. Hast thou thought anything that is of service?"

"Whether it is of service I know not. But of my thinking doth it come to me that it is not wisdom to seal the dead in tombs when the breath hath scarce left the body. They carried our brother to the garden and laid him on fresh earth as is done with things unclean. There did they trim his beard and cut his nails and wrap him. And before the sun went down he was put in the tomb behind a great stone that scarce a score of men could roll aside."

"Much thinking and much grieving doth make thee foolish. Know you not that the Jew wanteth not corruption in the house after the sunset? Even the air were not enough to hold the evil spirits that would come of it."

"The Jew hath strange ideas about evil spirits and greatly fears something he knoweth not of. Thus doth fear early seal the dead in the tomb—and perhaps they are not dead."

"Thou speakest strangely, as if thy trouble hath gone to thy head."

"Fear not for my head, Martha, since from thy lips did I hear the strange tale that did give rise to my thinking. Didst thou not tell of a kinsman of Joel who put his wife in a new tomb and sealed the door with a great stone? And what was it that did leap into their arms when, after three years, they rolled the stone away? Was it not the bones of the woman who had been buried alive? And had she not stood with her lips against the stone crying for help until she starved? Aye, and she stood on, waiting for those to come who should learn from her bones what her lips had prayed to tell. Didst thou not repeat me this, my Martha, even to the screams of those into whose arms the woman's bones did fall?"

"Thou sayest truly. But save this one, my ears have not heard so gruesome a tale."

"What might happen once, might come to pass again. Who knoweth if there might not be others—who knoweth?"

"Did not the physician say Lazarus is dead?"

"Yea, the physician."

"And the Rabbi?"

"Yea, the Rabbi."

"And did not the chief mourners whose business is ever with the dead, speak him dead?"

"Yea, the chief mourners."

"Then why inviteth thou misery to thy heart? God of our fathers, Mary!
After these days our brother stinketh! Wouldst thou court the woes of
corruption by opening the tomb? Arise! Wrap thy veil over thy face.
The mourners will soon be coming."

"Nay, I go not. Even before the Master's teaching brought me wisdom did my heart oft question the gain of lamentation and disfigurement, the soiling of the hair with ashes and the itching of the flesh with sackcloth. What is the use to turn beds upside down, to shut the sunshine out with black and give voice to naught but howls and wails? Bringeth this back the dead?"

"Thou art queer at times. Wouldst thou do away with our ancient customs? Since the days when David did wail in sackcloth for his son, hath Israel so done."

"If there be not reason in customs, wherefore hold to them? Is it forbidden the Jew to gain wisdom in a thousand years, or must we ever follow custom for no other reason save that we follow? Dost thou not believe in the resurrection as the Master teacheth?"

"I believe my brother shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day."

"Then why much fruitless mourning? Oft to my mind come the words of the Master. In the quiet of the garden did he tell me of the time his father Joseph fell asleep in death, and his words to his mother bore her up with comfort. When I am alone, in my heart, I try to seem as the mother of Jesus in her trouble, and take to myself his words to her. Aye, Martha, if the Master had been here what comfort would have been ours. Didst not thy heart call for him?"

"I did wish for him, yea. But forgettest thou the kindness of Joel?"

"I had no Joel—but listen, Martha. Afar I hear the sound of mourning."

"It is our mourners coming round the hill from Jerusalem," Martha said after listening a moment. "Many friends and a fat purse getteth much mourning. Wilt come?"

"Nay, I like not hired mourning. It seemeth but noise. Here I will stay and let my tears drop where they will not be counted by the passer-by."

The sound of flutes and wailing voices, which before had seemed far away, came nearer. Martha drew her veil across her head as she turned in the door. "I go to join the mourners at my brother's tomb. When thy friends ask of thee, what reason shall I give?"

"Tell them weariness hath overtaken me and I would be alone."

"Is there none thou wouldst see?"

"Nay, not one," Mary answered softly.

As Martha passed down the steps the sound of the mourners came from in front of the door. A moment they paused, then went wailing on to the tomb.

"I am alone," Mary sobbed as quiet again fell over the room. "Martha hath Joel and when the mother of Jesus did pass through the Valley of Separation, did she have him whom my soul loveth? Oh, that I might have felt the pressure of his strong hands around mine when the fingers of my brother grew cold and weak! Oh, that I might have heard his voice speaking sweetest comfort when the voice of my brother was hushed in death! Oh, that Jesus had been here! And my heart is sore because he came not. Urgent was the message and swift delivered, yet have two days passed and he tarrieth yet in Peraea while my heart doth break with loneliness!" and she threw herself down beside the couch.

She had lain but a moment when Martha from the outside called, "Mary!
Mary!" There was no response from the quiet room. "Mary! Mary!
Mary!" shouted Martha joyfully, just outside the door.

Mary arose in haste. What had come over Martha who had only now left to go mourning?

"Mary—Mary!" and in her eagerness Martha forgot that the room of
Lazarus was yet defiled and ran across its threshold crying, "The
Master hath come!"

"The Master hath come?" Mary exclaimed, springing toward her sister.

"Yea, yea! The Master hath come and calleth for thee!"

"For me—he calleth for me?" and Mary's voice was vibrant with new life.

"Yea, for thee. Aye, not even of Lazarus whom he loveth did the Master make inquiry, but taking me aside did he ask of 'Mary,' and biddeth me hurry to call. Hasten thou? The Master waiteth!"

Transfixed with joy for the moment, Mary folded her hands and lifted a shining face heavenward, saying again, "The Master hath come and calleth for me—for me—for me!" Then she caught up a veil and followed Martha hurriedly from the room.

CHAPTER XVII

THINK ON THESE THINGS

The scent of freshly turned earth, mingled with the fragrance of citron blossoms, hung on the air as a woman from a Galilean fishing town made her way around a hill-path that overlooked the highway and entered into it a little farther on. It was the time of plowing and sowing in Palestine. In a field close by, a sower with a basket on his arm scattered the seed broadcast. Farther down the hillside a peasant was beating his seed into the soil with branches and thorns, and in the valley could be seen a flock of goats being driven back and forth across the field to cover the seed. But the woman was not interested in the sowers. On a stone near a clump of citron she sat down to watch the long roadway for a first sight of one beloved. Months before he had bade her farewell and had journeyed to Judea. In his own Galilee he was accounted a great and mighty teacher and wonder worker and gladly had his message been heard by the common people who followed him in throngs and oft would have proclaimed him king. But from Jerusalem had come conflicting reports, and it was with a strange hope and a strange fear the woman waited his return.

The sower with the seed bag had gone and the birds had come in his place; the thorn branches had been cast aside by the man on the hill and the goats were being driven from the valley field, when the figure of the woman, who had been sitting like a statue on the gray stone, suddenly became animate, and with eager step hastened into the highway to meet an advancing pilgrim. Wearily he came as if even his staff were too great a burden, until he saw the woman. Then his pace quickened. With outstretched arms she greeted him, crying in joy, "The God of our fathers bless thee, my son!"

Tenderly he embraced her, pressing the kiss of peace upon her cheek and saying, "Blessed art thou among women!" Then putting her away he said, "Is all well with thee, woman—my mother?"

"Yea, save that my heart hath grown hungry to starvation for a sight of thee, my beloved son, and anxious have I been to hear news of thy pilgrimage throughout Judea and beyond the Jordan. On thy long journey, thou hast found friends, and rest and love?"

"Friends and rest and love," he repeated, and the expression of weariness on his face gave place to a smile. "All these I found under one roof, which was to me a home."

"And who were these kindly ones and generous?"

"A young man, Lazarus of Bethany, and his two sisters. And the one of them is Martha, much given to cooking fine meats and sweeping for dust where it is not."

The woman laughed and asked of him, "Doth this Martha love thee?"

"Yea, as she loveth her brother."

"And the other sister, doth she too brew gravy and seek the dust?"

"Nay. She doth make lilies grow and seek the pearl of greatest price.
At my feet hath she chosen the better way than that of meat and drink.
She is born into the Kingdom."

"Doth this sister, too, love thee?"

"Doth she love me?" he repeated. But he made no answer save as it was written in the face he turned toward the distance beyond the plowed fields.

"What is her name?" his mother inquired very softly, lest she dispel some pleasant thought.