"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.

"There is but one name."

"But one name—and yet a world of women?"

"Mary," he repeated, as if to himself.

"Thy mother's name," and the woman laughed for joy.

"Yea—my mother's name."

For the time of a short walk the light of glad memories shone in the face of the pilgrim. Then the expression that told of a heavy burden came again. "Like sheep without a shepherd are my people scattered," he said wearily, "and there is no Zion. Rome alone is ruling there through the Imperial Legions housed in the Tower of Antonio, over against the city of David. Even the Sanhedrin hath turned wolf-hearted so that for gain the people are fleeced like the ewe lamb, and with none to succor—and my Father's house hath become a den of thieves."

"Even so do I remember," the woman replied sadly. "When thou wert my tiny one close to my breast, I went to the Temple with my offering of a dove. And lo, in the Temple were sellers of doves. One stopped me who said of my offering, 'It hath a blemish.' And forthwith I was sold one thrice blemished. Yea, I remember, for they took from me my last penny for the ill-favored bird and at a dry breast didst thou, my little one, struggle that night unsatisfied. But thy great and wondrous teaching—thy new commandment that is to bring the Kingdom, will it not make all these things right?"

"Nay, woman, nay. New wine in old bottles doth but burst them. So will this new law of love, this new law of justice established in man's heart, burst the old customs that hold men in bondage. Then much fasting, long prayers, much saying of 'Lord! Lord!' will avail nothing, but only man's duty to his fellow man. For how can man love God whom he hath not seen, if he fail in duty to his brother? For this teaching in the Temple did those pious assassins of the Temple take up stones to kill me. Herein is my heart greatly troubled. I preach the gospel of love and of justice; but bran for the belly and stripes for the back beget brute creatures that know not how to love. Neither can he love who withholds all save bran, nor stays the hand that holds the scourge."

"My heart catcheth the sadness in thy face," the woman said softly as the young man looked out into the gathering dusk. "And a fear doth pain me lest my merry child hath gone from me forever. But yesterday thou wert my little one. When first I heard thy cry, e'en though thy cradle were a manger, it was as if angels sang, and the pressure of thy lips against my breast brought to my heart great joy as if the glory of the motherhood of all the ages were mine. When thou didst learn to walk, thy baby feet made sweet music and thy wee hand on my cheek oft drove away heartache. When thou wert older, thou went to the fields with me. Dost thou remember the sloping hillsides red with lilies in which thou didst roll thy body? And at the seashore—rememberest thou the little tracks so soon washed away? And dost thou remember thy first visit to Jerusalem and the valley of weeping where the dark streams issued from the crags and many tombs were hewn from rocks? Here it was we camped and thy father and I did miss thee. And dost thou remember the questions thou wert asking when we found thee in the Temple? Many times had thou asked them to me before. And Nazareth—doth thy heart remember thy playmates—Jael and the others?"

"Jael? Yea, verily I remember Jael."

"Often I think of those days and remember that then, even as now, the question oft asked was, 'Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?'"

"A cruel question and senseless. Can any good thing come out of hunger and cold and fear of the Law?" he asked quickly.

"Ah, the long struggle—the bitter struggle that the poor know. Toiled we not from sun to sun, yet ofttimes was our table bare of honey and fat, and my heart ached that thy tiny garments must always be thin and patched, that thou, my little Jesu, should be poor of the poorest."

"Poor? Nay, rich was I above all others, rich in the love of thee, my mother! Woman, the richness of thy love hath blessed my life and through my life, thy love shall bless the world."

There was a moment's pause. Then the woman said in tones of reverence, "Yea, I love thee—love thee! And when thou art far away, all things speak of thee, ofttimes with sadness. As I lay on my roof alone, the waves that roll nightly against the near-by shore seem sobbing—ever sobbing under the silent stars for that which can be no more. And as I journey over the paths where once thou wert with me and thy hand lay close in mine, the mourning dove calling from the cleft of the rock bringeth to my heart the pain of unutterable longing for days that be gone forever. Before thy ax and tools wert laid away thou didst make many things, one day a cradle—the next a bier. And between these two doth all life lie. Life, like the red lily—yesterday a bud hidden in its green; to-day a flower reaching toward the sun; to-morrow a dried leaf waiting for the oven. As I think on these things I grow sad and fearful. Yesterday the throng would make thee king. To-day those of the Temple would stone thee. To-morrow—to-morrow it may be the crown and the Kingdom—or—it may be—" The woman's voice which had been growing unsteady, ended in a sob and she hid her face against the shoulder of the young man.

"Weep not, woman, nor fear thou death," he said reassuringly. "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. Hast thou not often thought of this as thou hast seen the sower and the reaper in his season?"

"Aye, of the Kingdom thy words be comforting. But to my heart thou art dearer than e'en the Kingdom."

"Fear not death. Death is but change. Change is but growth. Growth—ah, growth is life. Didst not the infancy of thy babe give place to the childhood of the boy who played in the market place? Didst not childhood drop into the silence of the past as the youth swung his ax on the hills of Nazareth? And the days of the carpenter—are they not dead days? Is not the bench of the carpenter deserted forever? Aye, hath the babe, the child, the youth all gone that the man may live. And to-morrow will the man pass to yet another higher form in my Father's plan of more Abundant Life. Verily, all that hath gone on before must die that that which is, may live. Verily, that which is, must die, that that which is to be, may be. But ever the thread of Life goes on unbroken and always upward on the way. Whilst thou liest alone at night and the waves of Galilee make moaning in thy heart for that which can never return, think on these things."



CHAPTER XVIII

THOU ART THE KING

The sun cast its rising brightness over the Sea of Galilee which lay in its rock- and sand-bound bed, quiet as if yet asleep and blue as the cloudless sky hanging over it. Against the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky, the figure of a man, who stood close to the water's edge, was sharply silhouetted. For a time he stood with folded arms looking away toward the distant coast line. Then he turned and cast his eyes on the near-by shore reaching away from his feet in every direction.

In the slanting rays of the rising sun, this bit of beach looked like a monster honeycomb, each shapen place the broken track of a human foot. It was here the day before, Jesus of Nazareth had talked to a vast concourse of people. So insistent were they in getting close to him, he took to a boat, and even then men crowded knee-deep into the quiet water to hear his teachings, so strangely different from that of the Temple priests. All sign of the multitude was now gone but the far reach of footprints. At no great distance from where the lone man stood, a pile of rock jutted into the water behind which was a secluded spot known to the man on the shore and to which he now went, making his way around the point on half submerged stones. Farther down the shore was a line of rushes and willows growing by a wady that in wet season turned a small stream into the sea.

The man who had sought seclusion behind the pile of rock had scarcely found time for meditation or for prayer, when a second figure came upon the sand, the figure of a woman. As she approached, the stillness was not broken by so much as the call of a bird. Yet the man behind the wall of rocks moved that he might watch her, yet himself remain unseen. Slowly and painfully she moved the burden of a wasted and diseased body toward the water's edge, looking about with the caution of a wounded beast. One of her arms was covered with sores. The knee joint of a leg, around which she put both hands from time to time, was swollen to great size. Her eyes were sunken in a colorless face. Her hair was thin and uneven and her garments were tattered and stained with soil.

Reaching the edge of the water she sat down, putting her leg in place with her two hands. Then she began digging in the soft sand and soon there was a bowl of water before her. She bathed her face and poured water on her sores. Again she looked cautiously about and listened. All was still. She hurriedly drew off her bodice and put it in the bowl of water, but before she had finished cleansing it she was startled by the sound of a dipping oar quite near, then from behind the line of rushes a small fishing boat came into view. Folding her arms across her breast and bending low to hide her nakedness, the woman in a shrill voice cried, "Unclean! Unclean!"

The fisherman instinctively pulled away a little, lifted his oar and stopped.

Again the voice, now half sobbing, called, "Unclean! Unclean! Oh, Jael—I am unclean!"

The fisherman gave a start and cried, "Who art thou that doth call 'Jael' in the voice of one dead?"

"It is Sara."

"Sara is dead—by bitter hemlock did she die."

"Yea, Sara is dead. Yet not by bitter hemlock. By the living death of an issue of blood which is worse than leprosy hath Sara been buried from the clean, though she yet liveth."

"God of my fathers!" The words rang out on the stillness as an accusing yell. "It is Sara speaking from a living tomb. Whence hast thou come?"

"To the place where soldiers are quartered in the household of Herod was I taken. Here were many other maidens. Some there were whose tongue I knew not. But on the faces of them all was one speech written, one fear and one prayer for death. Here were we searched to the skin. Here was my hemlock taken. Here did Herod walk forth and when he did see a maiden that well pleased him, to the palace she went. But not I. By those of brutal force was I taken. And when I was no longer fair, my strength had gone and the issue of death had come upon me, then was I cast out. Since, have I wandered, feeding on what the gleaners left and where the fruit grows wild and the springs cast up their water. To-day I came to wash my garment that doth pain me by its stiffness. Then comest thou and I am covered with shame. Once I was clean as my love for thee, but now—oh, Jael—go back! Go back!"

"Nay, but I will take thee first across the water to the country of the Gadarenes. The outcast of Gadara be better fed than dogs, for in the place of caves and tombs do they congregate and bread be carried thither more than the crumbs cast to the unclean by those making much prayer in Israel. Go hence."

"Nay—nay! The screams of the tomb-dwellers hath come across the water to my ears at night."

"These are maniacs chained to rocks."

"I go not. Though I be unclean, would I be free, lest when my misery go to my head, I too be chained to a rock. Alone will I wander. Get thee gone, my Jael—get thee gone that I may draw my garment from the water and hide away from the light."

"Thou shalt have my garment," and he snatched his upper garment from his body and, hastily paddling to the shore, spread it on the sand.

"The blessing of God on thee, Jael—Jael who was once mine," she sobbed. "When the rains fall cold will it warm my body as thy love did once warm my heart. Haste thee now—hast thee away, once my beloved. The sun rises; soon the fishermen will gather and stones will be my portion. Wilt thou go?"

"Yea, Sara, when thou lettest me know by whose hand this evil hath come upon thee and me."

"By the hand of the soldier who smote thee into sleep and weakness and stole me by force."

The face of the fisherman turned livid with anger. His fingers twitched and his breath came hard as he drew from under his skirt a shining blade and held it aloft shouting until the rocks gave back the echo of his voice, "Look thee, Sara—once my betrothed! By the height of the sky above me; by the depths of the sea beneath me; by the distance that lieth between the East and the West and the hand that set the stars, do I swear to bury this blade in the heart of the beast that hath taken from me my Sara. May the God of my fathers lay me low in the fires of Gehenna if I do less!" A moment the fisherman stood with upraised arm. The rising sun fell on the gleaming steel like a fire along its edge.

A sob from the shore broke the silence. "Go! Go!" cried the half-naked creature by the water.

With a last look of pity and of horror, Jael seated himself, took up the oars and passed from sight around the ledge of rock. In a few moments, however, he returned, rowing swiftly. He pushed his boat up on the sand and went ashore. There was no living thing in sight. Whether Sara had fled to the rushes and willows or had cast herself into the sea, he knew not. As he stood he heard his name spoken. Looking around again, he saw no man, and yet again he heard a voice saying, "Jael."

"Whose is this voice?" he questioned. "A strange voice yet it seemeth I have somewhere heard it."

"Thy heart is troubled, Jael," the voice said. "Come unto me and I will give thee help." From behind the rocks the words came. Hastening into his boat he rowed around the narrow point and came upon a man of about his own age who wore one of the garments of a Rabbi. "Dost thou remember me?" the stranger said to Jael.

With dripping oar poised on the boat's edge, the half-naked fisherman studied the face of the man on the rocks. Then he exclaimed with joy, "Thou art Jesus of Nazareth! Yea, well do I remember thee and the games of our childhood."

"Rest thy boat, Jael. I would talk with thee."

"The years have been many since we ran the streets of Nazareth," Jael said, his eyes studying the face of Jesus, "yet the struggle hath gone on."

"How hath thy struggle gone?"

"Wrest I my bread from the sea. In the nine cities on her border have I sold to the markets. Yet never have I seen thee there."

"While I was yet young I went on a far journey in search of Wisdom," the Rabbi said thoughtfully. "More years than one was I with strange peoples, who were hungry for God as are my brethren in Israel, yet searching ever for him where he is not found, save a few wise ones. When I had learned that the heart of all mankind is one heart, the need of all mankind the same need and one God sufficient for all, then came I back to Galilee to preach good news to my people."

"So have I heard thou art a prophet and a wonder worker. Some there are who have called thee a king."

"What sayest thou?"

"Said I, 'He is neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. Was not his home in Nazareth? Was his father not the town carpenter? Was he not poor like unto the rest of us? Hath any good thing come out of Nazareth?' And the man who did say with loud speech that thou art a king, I did smite on the mouth. 'A king?' said I. 'A king—this son of a carpenter that once did shout wildly as we chased goats over the hills and who ran fleet-footed when his mother called him to sop—he is a king, and while Jael yet stinketh of fish? For thy lack of wits thou shouldst be soundly kicked where it be not seemly to apply the sting,' and I smote him. All fools are not yet dead fools—what sayest thou?"

The face of the Rabbi was smiling when the fisherman raised his eyes for an answer. "Thou art right. There are yet those among the living, void of understanding and because of this thy heart suffereth."

Jael looked at Jesus a moment as if he failed to catch the meaning of the words. Then he said, "Yea, as if a torch had been touched to my blood do I suffer. If thou hadst eyes to see through these rocks thou wouldst have beheld a maiden carrying about in her body a living tomb of corruption which came to her at the hand of Herod and back of him, of Rome. Ah, that the prophets were not all dead, for had they not powers of healing? That Sara might be made whole?"

"And dost thou think all power for healing passed from the earth with the passing of the prophets? Hast thou not heard of late that the sick are healed, the lame walk and the blind made to see?"

"Yea, have I heard. Yet I believe not. In Chorazin and Bethsaida had there been much boasting of thy wonder-working powers. Yet thou didst not any mighty works there."

"Because of their hardness of heart and unbelief I did not many mighty works in these cities, neither in Tiberias."

"There be ever an excuse," Jael answered, laughing. "Yet I take thee for a good fellow and when a day cometh for idle talk will we be boys again together as in Nazareth. Yet for a season must my eyes be ever looking—looking for him into whose heart the point of this may find burial," and he drew out his blade. Jael turned the weapon over slowly once or twice and ran his finger lightly across the thin part.

"They that lift the sword shall perish by the sword," the Rabbi remarked quietly.

"Yea—thou speakest. So shall Jael the fisherman make thy words come true against him who hath in days past lifted the Roman blade to smite the Jew."

"Hast thou not heard the better way is to return good for evil?"

Jael turned a glance of astonishment on the Rabbi as he said, "Now know I for certain thou art no prophet. Doth not the Law say, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth'? And wouldst thou do away with the Law?" and he lifted his oars as if desirous of getting away from an impostor.

"In thy ship would I also go," the Rabbi said. "Peter with James and John and others of my brethren soon cometh and I go with them."

"And art thou a fisherman as well as a wonder worker?" There was mockery in the voice of Jael.

"Yea, of such fish as thou art."

"Call me not a fish," Jael retorted angrily. "Because thou hast a following and I yet toil, dost thou call me fish!"

"Take no offense, Jael," the Rabbi said kindly. "Such fish as thou are Sons of God not yet caught in the drag-net of His calling. Go with me into the deeper waters and thou shalt learn."

The sound of husky voices raised in snatches of song and speech came from behind the band of rushes and a moment later a sailboat with full crew and loaded with nets, rode into view.

"Son of Barjona," shouted the Rabbi, "my friend Jael and I would go with thee."

"Ye ho! Ye ho!" answered a lusty voice and the large craft slackened speed that the small boat might be fastened to its side.

"We seek the deep," Peter said as Jael and Jesus climbed up the side of the ship, and when they were safely landed he shouted, "Launch out!" and the boat turned toward the Gadarene shore.

Before the first net had been cast, Jael spoke with Peter. "What manner of man is this Rabbi Jesus?" he asked. "While yet I was young I did live in Nazareth and with him eat and play. Then was he the son of a carpenter and was learning the use of tools. Now he doth talk strangely of being a fisherman, yet hath he the savor of a Rabbi."

"What manner of man? I know not. Yet when he called me to be his disciple he did say he would make of me a fisher—not of much sea food—but of men. So now do I follow when he sayeth follow, and fish for my bread between times."

"Where getteth he the name of wonder worker?"

"That which men say he doeth, he doeth, and more."

"And thou dost believe this? I believe not."

"Believe? Yea, what my eyes see. Did not my wife's mother lay sick of a fever? Did not he heal her by the touch of his hand? Have I not seen one born blind made to see by his power?"

"Nay. Never hath one born blind been made to see."

"Dispute me not, else wilt thou tempt me to cast thee into the sea. I speak the truth."

"I believe not."

"Hath any man bidden thee believe? Get thee hence."

During the day, the crew commanded by Peter cast their nets, but after each casting drew them in empty and when the sun had neared the distant water line, they were yet toiling. A drowsiness had fallen over the sea and a bank of gray clouds lifted itself slowly and stealthily above the horizon line to the northwest and spread its flanks as it rose over the water like the wings of some ominous creature of the air. The Rabbi, who had toiled with the others until late in the afternoon, left them before the clouds rose, and finding some dry nets made a pillow and lay down to sleep. The other fishermen toiled on. One wing of the cloud bank reached across the sun and the sea grew restless. But it was not until a sharp breeze struck the bearded faces bending over the nets that Peter said to James, "Let us back to land. A storm ariseth."

The nets were quickly hauled in and the sails loosened to the rising wind. But the storm was one of the sudden kind that at times sweep Galilee like an unbridled fury, and almost before they were aware of its speed their ship was running like a wild bird, while Peter shouted and the crew worked with sails and tackle. The light of the sun turned dark. The fury of the storm increased until the air was filled with roaring and the earth seemed to be vomiting the sea from its bosom. When the darkness was riven by lightning, the set faces of the fishermen, fighting for life, showed pallid for a moment and the racing billows glimmered with blue streaks.

It was while the gray was turning yet darker that Peter caught sight of that which took his attention from the storm. "My Lord and my God!" he cried in great alarm. "What is that?" and he threw out a long arm which wavered with the vibration of the boat, as he pointed.

"Where? What seest thou?" those about him called back.

"I know not. But look you where the waves boil as a brew doth boil in a kettle! Something doth move about the waters like a strange, living mist."

"It is but spray thrown up."

"Nay, nay, not spray. It riseth and moveth itself aright, like unto a man."

The fishermen gathered at the side of the pitching ship and held on to one another and to the wet woodwork.

"It is a man. It walketh on the water!"

"It is the ghost of John whose head Herod took off!"

"Walks it without a head?"

"Nay, it hath a head."

"It is a spectre. It treadeth the way of death and that swirling pool over which it hovereth is our grave!"

"Look you! Look—my Lord—my Lord! A light cometh where the face is. God of our fathers—it is Jesus walking the waters like a bird of the storm! When gat he from the ship? Watch thee the spirit, James, while I find the place he lay." And Peter fell on his hands and knees and started to creep toward the pile of fish-nets in the other end of the boat.

In terror the men he had left huddled together, except James who watched the spirit moving over the water. A cry from Peter drew their attention. "He is here," they heard him shouting above the whistle of the wind. "He is sleeping as if the soul of him had departed!"

"Wake him! Shout into his ear that we perish—we perish—" The last words of James who had called, were swallowed up by the hissing of a wave which broke over the deck and threw the men into the rigging and nets.

"Waken him before she takes the next wave! Hasten!"

The words were borne away on the gale but in the ear of the sleeping Rabbi, Peter was shouting as he shook his shoulder, "Master, the tempest is raging! The billows dash like mountains! Just ahead lieth death! Carest thou not that we perish? How canst thou lie asleep? Thy garments are running like a river and thy hair washed tight to thy head! Awake! Awake!"

The sleeping man awoke. The next moment James shouted, "The spirit hath passed away!"

As Jesus made his way to the prow of the ship which was pointing high on the crest of a wave, he saw in the flashes of light, the blanched faces of the terrified crew.

"The winds be contrary," James shouted as he passed him.

"Nay, not the winds, but the force that is back of the wind is divided," he answered. "They need but a center in which to become as one."

Though the ship was taking the waves and pitching so violently that all hands lay flat where they had been thrown, Jesus made his way steady-footed to the high point of the prow where he folded his arms and looked out over the scene of turbulence and darkness. He breathed deep and lifted his face to the flakes of foam torn from the long spray-arms of the warring waves. He turned his ear to the moan of the gale which seemed to breathe out in wrath from the heart of the earth. Calm and secure as if he and the elements were one, he rode for a few moments watching the play of the divided force. Then he held forth his hands after the manner of a High Priest in benediction and said, "Peace. Be still." And the wind and the waves obeyed his will, the wind moaning itself into nothingness; the waves subsiding into their wonted calm, and in the dawn of the setting sunlight, they saw the shore.

When Jesus turned about, he found Jael kneeling beside him and holding to the hem of his garment with both hands. On the face that looked up to the Rabbi was written revelation and the joy of a great escape. "Thou art the King!" he cried. "Forgive me the blindness of my heart I pray thee and grant my soul one request!"

"What wilt thou, Jael?" Jesus said.

"This be my one desire—that Sara yet liveth and be made whole."

"According to thy faith shall thy desire come to pass," he answered. Then he called Peter saying, "Cast now thy net and make ready for the ingathering."

The net was cast and a great burden of fish towed to the shore, which was washed clean of footmarks and strewn with fresh pebbles. With the vigor of new-born joy, Jael worked with the other fishers. But when he would have come in contact again with his hope, he found Jesus had gone, no man knew whither.



PART TWO

A. D. 33

CHAPTER XIX

CATACOMBS COMRADES

With its hyena head pointed toward the Imperial Capitol, the brazen She-Wolf of the Roman Empire stood, its bristled hair and exposed fangs symbolic of the beast-nature that was its Babylonian inheritance. Enthroned on her Seven Hills, Rome had subjugated and pillaged the nations of the earth until she had grown drunk with power, and although life on the Palatine and the Quirinal was one outflowing exercise of brute force and one long feast and revel on the spoils thereof, yet was the Empire rushing as headlong to the destruction predestined at the hand of her own corruption, as was Tiberius Caesar rushing to his earthly end by debauchery unbridled. And although neither the Latin world nor its vassals had will or vision to foresee it, Time, in its inscrutable womb was fashioning that which was to bring about conflict ages-long, between Pagan autocracy and the spiritual essence of Liberty for all humankind.

On an evening when the purple and blue, the glistening white and golden glow and shining green of an Italian spring, speaking through sea and sky, through billowing clouds and the verdure of the earth, was rivaled by the purple and gold of Rome's pageantry and the gleaming whiteness of her pillared palaces, a sojourner in the Imperial City, who had but that day sailed up the River Tiber, stood waiting beneath the shadow of the She-Wolf. The stranger, a Phoenician who had at one time done stone cutting at Tyre and Sidon, had not long to wait. The man who met him wore the dull brown tunic of the working man. A scarlet cord bound his waist and he carried a covered bundle. Speaking in Latin, he addressed a few words to the Phoenician and then said, "Follow me."

For a time the working man, whose present occupation was that of torch-lighter, led the visitor through the streets of the city, the surrounding scenes changing until from the marble palaces of the Palatine their way led them past the slave pens at the lower end of Via Sacra, and shortly after they found themselves traveling a roadway on the Campagna. Here they often found it necessary to step aside to make passageway for carts loaded with Pozzolana sand. It was toward the pits from which this sand came the two were making their way and it was not until they had turned into deserted pitroad that they entered into free conversation.

"Shortly," said the guide, "we will enter into the way which leadeth to the burial place of slaves, some of which are thrown in dead, and some not yet dead but only worthless. From its corruption ariseth a stench that ceaseth not day nor night."

"Do we go that way?"

"Nay. Yet were it well for a kurios to see to what ignoble ends one of like desires with himself can come, and for no crime save the lack of freedom to be better than a slave. Another day thou mayest see. Now we must hasten where we go. The mouth of the subterranean passage opens just ahead. The way will be narrow when we reach the corridor leading into the tufa rock. I guide thee this back way, and longer, that thou mayest pass the prison where my fellow working man and thy brother, oft are thrown into."

As they made their way into the subterranean passage, the light of day faded into a small pale spot and then went out, leaving the gloom of midnight ahead. "The path beneath thy feet is smooth. The walls are so close thy hand on either side can feel the way. There is no water nor living beast to fear. When we reach the first chamber, we will find a torch burning with which to light other torches. Follow me."

A faint glow, like a star against the pitch black, told them they were near the chamber where the spark, as they entered, grew into the dim light of a torch which cast a yellow circle on the rock floor. Here the guide opened his bundle and took out two torches which he lit. Handing one to the Phoenician he said, "Watch well thy step and keep thou at my heels. We go down into a huge grotto quarried in the bowels of the earth. Its passages are cut through sharp cornered rocks between which thou must squeeze thy body, and yet other rocks stick out into the darkness like the bristles of a mad boar. Beware these bristles! If thou shouldst run against one, thy feet will stumble over the edge of the abyss. Once thou hast fallen into it, no more forever will thine eyes behold the light of day. Hold tight thy lamp. Watch well thy step."

Carefully they made their way down, and down, and around the sharp rocks in silence. Once they stopped and the guide said, "Stand close against the wall. Just beyond thy feet lieth the hole of live tombs that is a prison. From it was quarried rich material to build palaces for masters. And the hole that was left of their labor hath often made good prison for the workmen who quarried, when found guilty of the crime of planning freedom."

Like parasital mites making their intestinal way the two men followed the windings of the narrow, black corridor until they came into another chamber where, from a grotto in the wall, oil was taken to replenish the torch cups.

"There is now a long journey before thee," the torch-bearer said. "Many and devious windings will take thee up and down, back and across the Campagna that doth lie, with its cart burdened roads, fifty feet above our heads. By the light of thy lamp thou wilt see the walls change. No longer are they sharp, nor are there bottomless pits, for soon we enter the sleeping place of those whose bodies toil no more nor their hearts hunger for the freedom that belongs to every man."

It was as the guide had spoken. By the flickering light of the smoking torch, the eyes of the Phoenician soon caught the white lines of skeletons lying in grottoes and niches cut tier above tier in the side walls of the narrow corridors. After walking several miles they arrived at a large chamber with massive stone arches, crudely cut, reaching to a dome-shaped ceiling. Here paintings decorated the walls, and images of popular gods and goddesses were set in niches, and models of sculpture on pedestals. One side wall of the large room was lined with slabs, some with inscriptions and others carved with the notes of music. Several torches burning on high standards gave the chamber a soft light. From it lead five passageways opening, like dark mouths, into unknown byways.

"Here we tarry, while I strengthen the lights," said the torch-bearer. "This is the headquarters of the union of all those who chant hymns, take part in the Olympic games, dance after the manner of satyrs and play the Greek trilogies. A league of fun-makers they are. Also these actors do lay claim to the greatest of all antiquity for their order, saying that no less a one than Homer himself did found it. Also they make claim to being the first of all baptists and their speech-makers will prove into your ears that Dion, the forerunner of their Dionysus, did first initiate with it, and how that all the Phrygian Brotherhoods were baptists."

"Do they baptize now?"

"Yea, yea. Every Brotherhood of them all whose torches I light doth initiate with the bath of purification. This is as necessary as the common table of communion around which they all sit. The Brotherhood of Actors and Fun-makers is one of the strongest, and least often disturbed with dissension."

"Doth dissension come even into a brotherhood?"

"Art thou a kurios and knowest not this?" the torch-bearer asked quickly.

"It hath been so in Syria and Phoenicia, yet I hoped in Rome to find this evil remedied."

"Human nature is the same in Rome as in Syria. Yet there is always a way in a brotherhood to keep peace. Did not the 'Medici' stir up strife when the 'Mulo Medici' would join the Brotherhood saying these latter would bring ridicule to their honorable order? And did not the kurios say to them that so long as their fellow beings were allowed to live no better than mules, there was the greater need of having them in the Brotherhood. And when the gold and silver workers stirred up strife because the rag-pickers would come into the union, did not the kurios point out that, under an autocracy of masters they themselves might be picking rags on the morrow? But the actors and fun-makers have not yet wrangled. To-night a man from Delphi maketh a speech when this tablet is erected," and he turned out the face of a marble slab which leaned against the wall. "With great pride do these actors and musicians and dancers claim Delphi which they say still nestles at the foot of Mount Parnassus; a place where gorgeous birds spread rainbow wings over fragrant flowers, and everlasting springs feed the stream that foams and tumbles past the ruins of Apollo's temple. But the torches are now made ready."

"And what is the tablet?"

The two men examined it. Delicately cut in the marble was the face of a young girl, with flutes beside her. Three rows of curls hung from her wreath-bound head, and her lips were parted in a merry smile. "A dancing girl and her pipes," the guide said. "She belonged to the union and getteth burial and a memorial. But let us be going. Take up thy torch."

After no long walk the corridor ran into another chamber. "This is a place of initiation into some mystery," the torch-bearer said. "Wouldst see?" and he pointed across the room to an opening in the wall near the floor, scarce large enough for the body of a man to worm its way through. "Look thou beyond it," and the guide held his torch toward the opening.

The Phoenician hesitated. Then he dropped on his knees and thrust his shoulders into the hole. By the dim light he saw something on the floor which at first seemed to be the body of a man lying with feet close together and arms straight extended. A second look showed this man-like object to be a heavy cross of wood. At its side an open grave.

"What meaneth it?" the Phoenician asked, backing out of the hole.

"I know not save that those who enter there come wearing white and carrying green sprigs, and with them one not wearing white. And when they go, all but one who wears white and he who wore not white go out. Three days later these two go also both wearing white. Nothing more know I save that I be given orders at times to make the light. But let us hasten on to the big chamber."

Between a seemingly endless labyrinth of galleries lined with closed coffins and shelved skeletons the two passed until at last a great noise, like a far-off droning, broke the stillness. "The meeting hath begun," the guide said. As they neared the chamber they encountered guards to whom the guide gave a pass-word; and again before they entered, other guards demanded a sign which was given by a grip of the hand. Once inside, the Phoenician pushed gently through the circle assembled to a place near the front.

"Hourly do you pray," the speaker was saying. "Yea, hourly for relief. But the cycles of the years roll on in blood and pain while the heel of Rome grinds into brute servility all save a favored few. Even have women by the hand of Rome been stripped naked, their legs painted, their bodies shackled and thrown into caverns where, with pick in hand, they dug stones from the rock to build palaces for brutes. If the gods yet live why do they not hear the bitter crying of the helpless when the branding iron is laid to the flesh until slave pens smell like cook shops? Why do not the gods hear the cries of humankind fed on pods and roots and skins, beaten with clubs and hung on crosses, for no evil save honest toil for thankless masters?

"Oppression hath grown mighty until all the world is divided into two classes, the slave who toileth and the master who remaineth idle. Millions are there of the one—few of the other. Yea, for their very number are toilers counted as beasts. Since Caesar brought his fifty and three thousand slaves from far Gaul hath slaves come to be in numbers like the sands of the sea. On the market when their bones have become stiff are they not sold for food to fatten eels for Roman Senators? And those who escape being food for tigers and hyenas, or nailed to a cross, are they not lost in the fearful pit of pollution of the Esquiline Cemetery? And in the arena—were not eight thousand gladiators slaughtered in one year?

"A sweeper of the amphitheatre was I. Mine was the task of dragging from the arena dead gladiators, shoveling up the blood, sprinkling fresh sand over dark spots yet warm, sharpening swords and javelins for fresh encounters and cutting off heads when the death rattle was too slow sounding. Often have I lifted mine eyes from the sands dyed red to the glitter and pomp above, and have said, 'Who payeth for all this? Who payeth for the striped-backed and spotted-bellied beasts? Who payeth for the shining pythons and the wild bulls that toss bare bodies until from their bleeding wounds long entrails hang while bejeweled women and swine-snouted men cheer? Who payeth for the silver cages that house Numidian lions? Who payeth for the tanks of perfume in which naked women sport to please licentious eyes? Who payeth for the purple and the emerald—the palace and the villa? And who for the olive oil and the wine that Caesar doth give to the populace to win him favor?"

"In the slave pens of Via Sacra find I my answer. The arficulata implemente of Rome payeth for all these things whether this jointed implement be bound or free. And who would keep the slave and working man forever under the heel of the master? What meant the relentless war that Cicero did wage against the working class? Because of his Pagan belief in the divine rights of the gens families and a like strong belief that he who toileth hath no right to freedom, did he make war. And for like reason is war still upon us until, like rats, we burrow into the belly of the earth, and were it not for the Jus Coeundi that doth allow free organization for religious and death ceremonies, would we and our Brotherhood perish on a forest of crosses. Yet starved, we struggle! Beaten, we toil! Damned, we hope! Believing that out of Brotherhood will come the Liberty for which we die, we hold ourselves together. That which sitteth on the Seven Hills above us rotteth at the core. Signs are fast ripening of a change. Egyptian wisdom doth tell us the Phoenix is about to spring again to birth from her ashes. Somewhere is the savior and his coming shall be swift and terrible as lightning."

As the arena-cleaner made reference to the coming of a world savior, the Phoenician pushed himself before the kurios and when the last word had been uttered he said in a voice that filled the chamber vault, "Hear! Hear!" and he lifted his arm and pointed into the face of the orator. As he did so his sleeve fell back disclosing on his arm, a fish with a lion's head and a circle in its mouth.

All eyes were turned on the stranger as the kurios spoke, "Who art thou and whence hast thou come?"

"A kurios of Sidon I am. From afar have I journeyed to bring the glad news that one hath arisen mighty in power and wisdom to succor the oppressed. Hear ye what the spirit of the gods hath anointed him to do: Preach the gospel to the poor—heal the broken-hearted—give deliverance to the captives—sight to the blind and LIBERTY to the bruised and enslaved! Twice already hath a great and mighty following sought to crown him King, and he would not!"

"Whence cometh he?" a dozen eager voices asked.

"From the province of Galilee, in Palestine, and when cometh again the Passover of the Jews, when Jerusalem, that great city, is thronged with the population of the world, then shall he be made King—King of the People—the toiling people! And this King shall break every shackle on every human body and free from cave and dungeon, every human soul. But one thing there remaineth to determine. This is the added strength of Roman legions in Jerusalem at the Passover. Would that the gods could let us know the mind of Pilate!"

As he spoke these words, one who had eagerly listened moved from the rear toward him. The man stood head and shoulders above any other of the number and his face was disfigured with a deep and desperate scar across one cheek. He listened intently as a speech-maker said to the Phoenician:

"And is this Galilean wiser and braver than Sparticus? Did not this noble lover of human liberty slay Roman legions as a fierce wind strikes down forest leaves? And yet was he not at last hacked to bits and his loyal followers hung on crosses to fatten birds of prey?"

"Aye, but Sparticus was betrayed by one of his own," a voice called.

"So will the Galilean be betrayed," came the reply.

"The Galilean hath a great following of men strong and zealous who would go with him to the death."

"Were not the Lusitanians strong and brave? Was not Lusitania ravished and stripped? And who remained after the massacre of Galba? Success cometh not by uprising but by forming one great brotherhood which, when formed, will command all power."

The discussion following these different opinions had scarce begun when the torch-bearer touched the Phoenician on the arm saying, "Thou hast opened the gates of controversy, yet we can not tarry to the end. Follow thy guide."

As they turned to go, the visitor felt his hand caught in a mighty grip and turned to see a scarred face gazing intently upon him. "Thou hast looked upon his face—the face of Jesus?" he asked the Phoenician in a whisper.

"Yea. In the home of his brethren have I been with him. But what dost thou know of this Jesus?"

"That which my heart knoweth, my lips can not express save that I love him. And in your ear would I whisper the knowledge you much desire."

"Let us move into the dark," the torch-bearer said, and they left the chamber. Under a sealed shelf of bones they stopped. The scarred man of great size and the bearded Phoenician stood in the dim light of the torch held at a little distance, by the bearer.

"This thou couldst know," said the man of the scar. "The strength of the Roman legions will not be in Jerusalem at the time of Passover. Weak will be the forces of the Tower of Antonio."

"How knowest thou this?" and there was eagerness in the question.

"My lips are sealed further. Yet as I love the Galilean, my words come to thee from the mouth of official Rome."

"Wilt thou be at the Passover?"

"That is my hope."

"And wilt thou lend aid in making the Galilean a king?"

"He is already a king—and more."

The Phoenician looked inquiringly into the calm eyes of the unknown.

"King of my heart he is." The words were offered as an explanation. "Whether there is wisdom in acclaiming him a king over mankind, I know not. From his own lips would I get my 'Yea' or 'Nay.'"



CHAPTER XX

THE LITTLE TALLITH

After Jael, the fisherman, had seen the warring waves of the Sea of Galilee calmed by an exercise of universal power, self-centered, the desire of his heart had been to see again the childhood friend he had called king. This, however, did not come about for a number of months. Shortly after the storm, the Galilean Prophet had gone on a long pilgrimage, rumor only telling where. Moved by his great hope for the healing of Sara and impatient at long delay, Jael, when he chanced to hear that Jesus had turned his face homeward, forsook his nets, and burdened by no more possessions than his staff and the scrip he hung over his shoulder, he set out on the Damascus road leading north. As he went he inquired of travelers along the way for one Jesus, a Galilean Prophet. But it was not until he reached Magdala that he got news. Here he overheard a party of pilgrims who stopped for the night, telling about a wonder worker who was camping on the Plain of Gennesaret a few miles to the north. The blind son of one of the party had received almost instant sight by the application of clay to his eyes at the hands of this wonder worker.

With this information Jael hurried forward toward the Plain, sore of foot, yet glad of heart, for he had no doubt the wonder worker was Jesus. As he journeyed the twilight gave way to the dark, and innumerable stars came forth. But it was not a light in the heavens the eye of the fisherman watched for, rather a red glow near the earth line. When he finally saw this it was as strength to his tired feet. Soon the outlines of a tent became visible and the bodies of two men lying by the fire. The approach of Jael was announced by the barking of a dog which kept him at a distance until repeated shouting brought a sleepy man to the tent door.

"Doth there rest here a Galilean, by name Jesus?" the fisherman called.

Before the tent dweller had answered, one of the men by the fire called, "Jael! Jael—come hither!"

Forgetting the blisters on his feet, the stiff muscles of his legs and the savage barking of the dog, Jael ran to the man by the fire shouting, "Yea, Lord! I come! I come!"

With his head lying against his hand which was in turn supported by an elbow resting on the ground, Jesus lay in his undergarment, his traveling coat thrown over a tent stake near by. "Sit thee down and rest, Jael," he said. "The friend at my side is a Hindoo of great wisdom and knowledge of the stars. When I traveled in far lands he was to me as a brother. Well be it thy steps have led thee to cross his path while he travels with this caravan if thou wouldst gather knowledge of Sara."

"Sara!" Jael exclaimed. "By what mystery is the desire of my heart known to thee ere my lips have spoken?"

"Mystery?" Jesus repeated. "There is no mystery. There is only understanding."

"Thy words have a sound but their meaning I know not, if thou art not a miracle worker."

"All mind is one mind. He who knoweth himself knoweth also his brother. If I loved the maiden Sara as thou lovest her, would not the desire of my heart give me an understanding of the desire of thy heart?"

"If thou dost know a man's love for a maiden, then wilt thou of thy man pity and thy god-power, give aid to Jael?"

"Hast thou aught of the maiden's which lay upon her naked body?" Jesus said.

From his coat Jael took a small bit of cloth suspended like an ornament on a neck cord and holding it toward Jesus said, "Her little tallith."

"Put it in the hand of the Wise Man."

Drawing himself into a sitting position, the Hindoo took the tallith, pressed it into the palm of his hand and sat for a short time without speaking.

"Her hair was abundant and dark," he presently said, speaking more to himself than to Jael. "Her face was ruddy and her eyes were bright like sunshine dancing on quick waters. She was supple of body and worked among fish-nets. Overcome in a great struggle she was borne away and made unclean of body and hopeless at heart. She wandered about, an outcast, in the land of her fathers until at last she crept away to die."

A curse broke from the lips of Jael and his hand moved quickly toward his belt as he exclaimed, "When I find him—! But first I must find her. Where is Sara now?"

"Even now doth she lie in a bed of rushes which the waves of Jordan have washed against a bleaching sycamore. Here, while she waiteth death, the serpent that hath wrought her downfall doth circle her though she knoweth it not."

"God of my fathers!" Jael groaned.

"What is thy request, Jael?" Jesus asked.

"That Sara be made clean and given again to Jael."

"Dost thou know what thou asketh? From thee the woman hath been taken by the serpent. If thou wouldst possess her, to the place of the serpent must thou go and conquer him. Then shall the woman be free and with the freedom of the woman shall come thy victory. Wouldst thou go?"

"Yea, yea! Direct my pathway."

"Hear then the words of the Wise Man of the East."

"Lift thine eyes to the heavens," the Hindoo said. "Seest thou Seven Stars where they shine in their constellation?"

"Nay. But six I see."

"Look again."

"My eyes behold six."

"Thou must see seven."

After keeping his face to the sky some minutes Jael exclaimed, "Another shineth afar. This is seven."

"The way thou takest will lead thee from the place of Seven Stars to the place of the serpent. Look thou well into the eyes of the stars. And when thou dost look into the snake's eyes that ever glitter, remember that all light be one light though according to its use it hath contrary powers."

He held the little tallith against his forehead for a moment with upturned face and said, "Thou wilt start thy journey under seven stars. When they fade from the heavens stop by the roadside and take thy rest in sleep. Thou wilt be awakened by the flutter of wings and on opening thy eyes will see six birds. Follow their flight with the eye and thou wilt look to the east from whence cometh the light. Keep thee on the highway toward Bethsaida. When the sun is well risen shall thine eyes behold five palms, strong and stately. When thou comest near thou shalt see children playing where the tall palms cast their shades. They shall be chasing lambs and throwing lilies and shouting with glad voices. As thy feet pause here, remember this: All life is one life. Beside this there is no other whether it seem to thine eye a palm tree, a shouting child, a ewe lamb or a lily. Think on this as thou, the man, doth seek the desire of thy heart, thy woman.

"When thou hast passed through Bethsaida and come out upon the other side thou wilt overtake a herdsman driving four shabby and much smelling goats. And the hands of the man shall be like unto the hoofs of the beast for filth and his visage shall be like that of a wild he-goat. Of this man inquire if there are those unclean beyond Bethsaida and of his reply learn that a beast be not told by the number of his legs. . . . .

"When thou dost draw near Capernaum three geese will seek to turn thee aside. Thy toes will they peck at with much hissing and the hem of thy garment will their necks lift angry beaks to. Tarry not, neither kick nor curse them. They are but birds to tempt the foolish. Waste not thy effort on them. . . . .

"When thou hast cleared the North Gate of this city, keep to the Damascus road until it reach the walls of Chorazin. When thou reachest the South Gate of the city two dogs shall draw nigh. And the one shall be hairy and water-eyed; and the other shall be lean and warty. And when thou passeth under the gate shall they likewise pass under, the one before thee and the one behind. Close to the wall on the inside shall the fore dog trot. Keep thou in his tracks. He goeth to a fish stall. When thy feet reach this fish market let thine eyes look for a hag that doth sit near a dung heap taking the heads from fish. When she seeth the dogs she will curse. Then shalt thou help her drive the dogs away and she shall speak. Forget not what she saith of the marsh path, and beyond.

"When thou hast left Chorazin keep thee going until thou hath passed a peasant thrashing with the drag. Here turn aside from the road to the right and go straight until thou comest to a grove of carib trees. Now rest thy feet but use thine eyes and ears. Thou art not far from the Jordan. Searching to the right thine eyes will see the willows on the banks and thine ear will hear the fall of water over stones. To the right of the caribs turn and soon thou shalt come to a marsh. Remember now the words of the hag and shortly shall the waters of the Jordan greet thy eye. Thou wilt see a place beyond a flat stone where the waters lie quiet as in a basin. Yet beyond this is a bed of rushes washed against a dead sycamore. In the leaves look thou for the serpent. In the bed lieth the woman whose enemy, though she knoweth it not, doth encircle her. Like two sparks broken from the sun will the eyes hidden in the rushes look into thy eyes. From the Seven Stars to the Serpent hast thou now made thy way. If thou be victorious over the serpent, back to the stars will thy feet be turned. If thy faith fail utterly, the serpent will have victory over both man and woman and there will come death instead of life."

"At thy strange words I wonder—but—" and he turned to Jesus: "Thou art the King—thou art the wonder worker. By what means shall I gain victory over this serpent that hath Sara encircled?"

"This be the victory—even thy faith, Jael," Jesus answered. "What things soever thou desirest when thou prayeth, believe that thou hast them and they shall be thine. To the woman, which I bid thee bring again to me, carry thou this gospel of salvation—'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.' There is no bondage to uncleanness or to darkness when the mind of man thinks purity and light. He who thinks Strength is at last a Conqueror. Take now thy little tallith and if thy faith fail thee, from the touch of it may new strength come. Go, Jael."

According to directions Jael made his way. He was aroused by the sweep of wings passing toward the east. He heard the children singing underneath the palms and beyond Bethsaida he overtook the herdsman.

"Are there those unclean beyond the city?" he asked him.

"Nay, for with dogs and staves drive we the unclean away. Sad was the plight of the last who came this way. A woman she had once been. Now came she like a creeping thing, lean of flesh, eaten of sores, and when the dogs and staves of the city rabble had driven her far, then did my goat with the broken horn butt her into a sharp ravine."

"Was her right leg swollen at the knee?"

"Yea, and the goat did break it with his head."

"And her right arm—had it sores?"

"Yea, sores until blow flies chased her even down there among the rocks, and as she did lie, with a stone I broke her foul arm open! A curse upon the scar-ridden bones of the unclean!"

"Verily a beast is not known by the number of his legs," said Jael angrily as the herdsman turned across the plain.

When the fisherman reached Chorazin, the lean and warty dog led him to the place where the hag gutted fish. When she saw the lean dog and the hairy one which followed, she cursed.

"Vile dogs they are, yet there is one thing worse. Scarce a fortnight ago and before the dawn of morning, there was a stirring up of the lentil pods and melon skins cast upon the ground. And when the man of the house looked out, in the light of the moon beheld he a sight fearful to the eye, for one did cry 'Unclean! Unclean!' Wrapped was this evil one in a fisherman's coat yet was she a woman. Then did we shower her with fish long spoiled and with bitter curses, and she crept away. On the evening of the next day came a pilgrim who did tell that he saw one eaten alive of disease and uncleanness, creeping through the marsh toward the Jordan. Feebly did she crawl as if life were all but departed. And if she die not in the marsh then will the life be sucked from her by serpents, for beyond the marsh dwelleth such snakes as creep against the bodies of living things to seek warmth and take from them the life that goeth to make the wisdom of the serpent." And when she had said this, the hag returned to her fish cleaning.

With a sad heart Jael turned from her, yet not without hope. He hastened on, keeping to directions. He saw the willows by the watercourse and heard the murmur of the river. He cleared the marsh. He came to the still pool. He saw the bed of rushes piled by the spring flood against the bleached sycamore. All was as pictured by the Wise Man of the East. Softly he made his way toward the bed of rushes with eyes keenly watching for the serpent When he had come near he stopped. A sore and loathsome hand lay over the top of the bed of rushes. Underneath it two bright sparks suddenly appeared. Looking close Jael saw the head of a serpent and that its body lay concealed under the leaves, yet so like its surroundings was it that it seemed to be but a part of them.

The eye of the serpent was both cunning and evil. Under its first glitter Jael took a backward step. Emboldened by this move the serpent thrust out a barbed and rapidly scintillating tongue. Instinctively the fisherman thrust his fingers against the little tallith, the touch of which aroused in him a mighty passion, for in the face of the serpent he now saw the lust of the Roman who had taken Sara. A swift and terrible wrath swept over him. He drew his knife and with an oath sprang forward. As he did so there was a soft rustling of dead rushes—and the sparks of light and the twinkling tongue were gone and though he did not notice it, the hand resting just above where the venomous head had lain, was trembling violently.

"Lord, I believe!" shouted Jael in trumpet tones. "Help thou mine unbelief!"

The ringing voice broke the stillness sharply. It was an echoing wail that called from behind the rushes, "Unclean! Unclean!"

"Knowest thou not who standeth near thee? Sara, lift up thy head!"

Slowly a head appeared above the bed of rushes. Dark eyes were sunken deep in an emaciated and ashy face. "Jael!" The name was called with great effort in a thin and rasping voice. "Unclean, Jael!"