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."