IN NAAMAN’S
  HOUSE

  BY
  MARIAN MACLEAN FINNEY

  [Illustration]

  THE ABINGDON PRESS

  NEW YORK      CINCINNATI




  Copyright, 1922, by
  MARIAN MACLEAN FINNEY


  Printed in the United States of America




  TO
  MY FRIENDS

  “Other blessings may be taken away, but if we have acquired a good
  friend, we have a blessing which improves in value when all others
  fail.”




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                      PAGE
      I. NEW ACQUAINTANCES       7
     II. SURPRISES              18
    III. VISITORS               29
     IV. CAPTIVES               40
      V. JOURNEYING             51
     VI. DAMASCUS               63
    VII. WAYFARERS              74
   VIII. DOUBTS                 85
     IX. INTRODUCTIONS          95
      X. HANNATHON             107
     XI. CONFESSION            117
    XII. UNDERSTANDING         129
   XIII. CHANGES               139
    XIV. DECISION              151
     XV. CONSTERNATION         162
    XVI. HOPE                  173
   XVII. REWARDS               185
  XVIII. PLANS                 196
    XIX. HOME                  206
     XX. DEVOTION              218
    XXI. TIDINGS               228
   XXII. MEETINGS              239
  XXIII. ISRAEL                249
   XXIV. WAITING               261
    XXV. ANTICIPATION          274
   XXVI. CERTAINTY             285




CHAPTER I

NEW ACQUAINTANCES


“I like not the maiden, Caleb. No good will come of taking in this
daughter of strange people.”

“Thy words belie thy kind heart, Sarah. Thou wert willing to take
under our care the child of my kinsman, even though estranged from his
father’s house by his marriage. I fear, however,” and the man’s voice
was troubled, “that we shall not be able to make her happy.”

“Make her happy!” broke in the woman’s indignant tones. “I fear that
she will not be able to make herself useful. She hath not so far.”
Then, more gently, “Yet is she welcome to all we can do for her now
that she hath no kin save us, but I am fearful because her mother was
of the natives of Canaan so that she hath not been instructed in the
way of Jehovah. If she should have a wrong influence over our little
Miriam!”

The woman in the doorway glanced over her shoulder at the scene within
the dwelling where an animated conversation was in progress.

“Awake, Judith. I myself have awaked early. See, the door hath been
opened and the fresh morning breezes blow sweet after the night-time
when no air cometh in at all. Father hath almost finished leading
out the animals. Did they bother thee last night with their stamping?
Peradventure some wild animal was prowling about outside. Is it not a
fine arrangement to have the mangers built between their part of the
house and ours? And is it not comforting to know that at night and on
stormy days they are safe under the same roof with us? Art thou still
asleep?”

An older maiden sprang to her feet. “Who could sleep through thy
chatter, Miriam? Thou makest more noise than the oxen and the asses
and the cow and the calf all put together.” But a smile tempered the
severity of the speech.

The younger and smaller maid laughed delightedly and stooping to the
floor began to fold the thickly padded rug or quilt on which she had
slept, depositing it in a nook in the wall apparently built for the
purpose and keeping up a steady stream of talk designed to be informing
to the new arrival.

“If our olive trees have a good crop this year, we are going to have
curtains to hide the beds. Last year father built this wooden floor
to raise our living room above the ground where the animals stay. It
is cleaner and dryer now and ants and mice do not trouble us so much.
Thinkest thou not we have a splendid home?”

Judith’s somewhat cool response caused Miriam to look at her in hurt
surprise. The mother flashed a reassuring smile from her seat in the
doorway, though never ceasing for a moment her skillful manipulation
of a large sieve. It was tossed and shaken and every few minutes tilted
sideways to allow a tiny shower of straws and dust to fall upon the
ground. While Miriam took up the beds Judith was required to assist
her aunt in grinding the newly sieved grain. With a steady, monotonous
motion they worked the wooden handle of the mill back and forth, back
and forth, never hastening but never stopping until at last the sound
of the grinding became lower and lower and finally ceased, the whole
grains of wheat having been crushed into a coarse powder between the
upper and lower stones of the mill.

It did not take long for this to be made up into dough, patted into
small, flat cakes, and baked quickly in the out-of-doors oven made of
heated stones. By ten o’clock, as was usual in the Land of Israel, the
morning repast was ready: hot bread, fresh milk, and to-day there were
young onions dipped in salt. Had this been winter instead of spring,
there might have been a handful of raisins or a few olives or the bread
might possibly have been dipped in grape-syrup. This meal was always
relished, however, for no other would be cooked until sunset. By the
time it was finished the morning mists had rolled away, the sun had
dried up the heavy dews of the night before, and the distant fields
were calling to the husbandmen.

Linking her arm through Judith’s, Miriam guided the newcomer through
the one long street of the village.

“Thou hast a beautiful name, Judith, almost as beautiful as thyself.”

“A Hittite name, Miriam, what thy people call ‘heathen,’ so it will not
recommend me hereabouts, but thou art named for one of the great women
of thy race.”

“Oh, not because she was great,” was the quick response, “but because
she was useful and good. Knowest thou not how she cared for her baby
brother, Moses, when she was just a little maid like me?”

The conversation was cut short by their arrival at a dwelling from
whose open doorway voices floated out upon the balmy air.

“Thy father and I toiling and sacrificing for thee, our only child, and
thou rebelling when we ask for appreciation and obedience!”

Another voice, choked with sobs, made answer: “Thou didst have no
objection to Benjamin until Abner fancied me.”

“Dost thou add impudence to stubbornness? It is well thou hast thy
father and me to see that thy folly doth not ruin thy young life.”

Catching sight of the two hesitating upon the threshold, the woman
hastened to welcome them, then turned to the girl she had first
addressed: “Wipe away thy tears and take thy water jar. See, Rachel,
here is Miriam and her young kinswoman from the Plain of Sharon, a
maiden of thine own age. Go with them and be diligent in thy task, but
this time next year thy feet will take no such journeys nor thy hands
be so employed, for thou shalt have servants to do thy bidding.”

The woman turned to her work and the three girls proceeded on their
way, Miriam walking between the grief-stricken Rachel and the envious
Judith, seeking to atone for the silence which had fallen upon each.
Thus she began to speak in joyous enthusiasm:

“Now that the rains are over for the season, dost thou notice how sweet
is the air? Every breeze bringeth the mingled scent of wild flowers
which the hand of the Lord hath planted to delight the bees and us.
Even from here we can tell what their faces will be like when we see
them closer: anemones and poppies and wild tulips and arbutus and hosts
of others. Even at night it is interesting here, for thou canst not
tell whether thou wilt be awakened by the song of a nightingale or the
howling of a wolf, and in the daytime, see!”

With a sweep of her arm she indicated the light-green garden patches
and wheat-fields in the valley below them and the darker green of the
olive groves and patches of oaks and pines nestling among the rugged
gray hills on every side.

Neither of the girls commented and Miriam became silent.

At the foot of the path they were descending Judith paused to take
breath. “To one who hath but lately come from the level plain along
the seacoast, the mountains are wearying,” she remarked. “Why are thy
cities perched upon the hilltops when thou must grow thy food in the
valleys?”

As Rachel seemed disinclined to talk, Miriam took it upon herself
to answer: “To be cool in summer and relieved from danger of flood
in winter and safe from our enemies all the time. Knowest thou not
how often the Syrians have swooped down upon us, like birds of prey,
seeking that wherewith to enrich themselves?” Then, in tones of
sympathy: “The path will not seem so steep when thou art used to it.
For to-day do thou rest here and I will make two journeys to the
spring, one for thee and one for me. Thou knowest we are commanded by
our Law to be mindful of strangers because our people were strangers in
the Land of Egypt, and I must remember how lonely I should feel to have
to live where nobody knew or loved me even as thou.”

Judith, deeply touched, was affectionately declining Miriam’s offer
of rest when a whoop startled alike the echoes and the girls and the
mischievous face of a boy, somewhat older than Miriam, peeped from
behind a rock.

“Nathan!” The exclamation was full of distress, and Miriam gazed at a
shattered water jar at her feet. “Knowest thou not that jars cost wheat
and sometimes olives? But,” soothingly, “never mind, the jar is not
wasted, for _these_ pieces will make drinking cups and _these_ will do
to carry coals in. They are splendid sherds. Hast thou noticed, Eli,”
as a still older lad came hurrying toward them, “that no matter what is
broken there is always something left?”

The entire party was busy picking up bits of pottery from the path,
when a youngish man joined them, at sight of whom Rachel immediately
called to mind an errand elsewhere and, with a whispered explanation to
Miriam, promptly disappeared. While the newcomer was apparently known
to the younger girl, her face did not light up with pleasure, although
he addressed her gently.

Were they bound for the spring? He was going in the same direction. He
had not met Judith before. So she was Miriam’s kinswoman from the Plain
of Sharon where the roses grow. Then Sharon had sent her most beautiful
rose to bloom near the Jordan! And these lads, he ought to know them.
Fine, sturdy boys. Ah, Hannah’s children. He believed that they and
their mother lived on a bit of his land. He had the pleasure, now and
then, of doing them little favors. Of course he knew them, should
probably know them better as time went on. Lads of excellent qualities
indeed!

His soft voice trailed on and on. After the manner of the Orient, the
man and bays walked ahead, the girls following.

So, thought Judith, this was Abner, the rich suitor for Rachel’s
unwilling hand and she (Judith) the unwanted guest in an irksome home.
If only their places might be reversed! But no hint of inward agitation
appeared in her outward manner, nor, when the awe with which the boys
had first regarded the newcomer had gradually changed into friendliness
and the elder of the two had been beguiled into telling an original
story, did she appear to do aught but listen.

He cast it in the form of a fable, after the manner of the young
theological students of the day, the “Sons of the Prophet,” among whom
his father had been numbered:

“Once there was a young ant who lived with a large colony of its
relatives in the clean, warm earth. It had everything to make it happy,
a good home and abundance of food, yet was it wroth, for its elders
required it to work. ‘Come,’ said they, ‘lend thy strength to the task
of carrying home this grain that we may live and not die when the wet
winter sets in and there is no food to be had.’

“This little ant, however, who had never seen a wet winter, was
rebellious and ran off to hide and sulk. Soon it saw a strange sight:
men digging great holes in the fields and coating the floor and walls
with a white substance. With his curiosity aroused, he went back to the
spot day after day until the sun came out with great heat, the harvest
passed and the threshed and winnowed grain was carefully stored in
these underground chambers, the cavities being closed in such a way
that thieves could not readily discover its hiding place.

“‘Ah,’ said the ant, ‘here is my opportunity. Once inside such a place
as that, I should have no fear of cold or hunger, such as my elders
are always trying to guard against. Naught would I have to do but eat,
sleep and grow fat. Then should I be happy.’

“Forthwith he watched his chance and slipped into a little opening just
before the workmen closed it. Alas for his expectations, however, for
where moth and rust could not flourish neither could an ant. In the
stifling atmosphere he began to grow faint. Tortured in body with this
nauseating sickness and in mind with the thought that he had brought
all this trouble upon himself by his sloth and selfishness, he finally
expired.”

Miriam, who had listened with rapt attention, now beamed upon Judith,
who stifled a yawn. The next instant she clutched the younger maid’s
arm. “See, Miriam, the little gorge below us is filled with innumerable
gray shapes, and from the sound of a reed flute which ascends to us I
perceive that it is a shepherd with his flock.”

They came nearer the objects pointed out. Miriam gave one look and a
joyous little cry: “It can be no other than my brother, Benjamin, whom
thou hast not met before, Judith. He giveth my father’s flock a drink
below the spring where the water floweth still and quiet so they will
not be frightened. See, he carrieth a lamb in his bosom. Is it not nice
that men wear such long, loose garments belted in at the waist, so they
can gather the fullness together wherewith to carry things?”

By this time they were near enough for greetings. Miriam bounded
forward with an eager salutation for Benjamin and much compassion for
the lamb. “See, Judith, it is all torn and bleeding, but its good
shepherd hath anointed its wounds with oil and even put some on its
head to comfort and refresh it.”

Judith listened and smiled. From under lids discreetly lowered she was
conscious that both the very young man and the older one were stealing
glances of approval at her.

“Peradventure,” she thought, “it may not be so uninteresting here after
all.”

Abner also listened and smiled, making mental calculations. As he moved
away there was on his face a look of resolution. “Why not?” he communed
with himself. “Fine lads both and can become useful. The younger and
sturdier can care for the young of the flock while my shepherds take
their mothers out to graze. The elder hath a remarkable mind, coming
as he doth of a family which combineth Israel’s piety and culture. He
can be trained as a clerk. There is trading to be done and accounts to
be kept. It should be regarded as a kindness to their mother. Let me
see, how much doth she owe me? Yea, enough and more.”

Meanwhile Sarah had observed with surprise Rachel’s hasty return and
now watched with some anxiety for Miriam and Judith.

“I tell thee, Caleb, friendship with a heathen bodeth no good.”

“Surely, Sarah, no harm can come from caring for the orphan and the
needy as we are commanded in our Law,” and the man’s voice was almost
harsh in its reproof.

“Seemeth to me it might depend somewhat upon the orphan,” murmured the
woman, softly, “and my heart hath been strangely heavy since I first
beheld this maiden.”




CHAPTER II

SURPRISES


Caleb’s face expressed entire approval as he looked after Judith,
disappearing down the hill. “Thou seest, Sarah, that all this poor
child needed was instruction in the way of righteousness.”

“And firmness to see that she walketh therein,” put in the wife.

“But she hath a willing mind, Sarah. Hast thou not noticed how, of
late, she needeth no second bidding to go to the spring? She doth not
even wait for Miriam to help; she watcheth to see when the jars need
refilling and seeth to them most diligently.”

“Yea,” was the response, “and I have wondered what--” but Caleb,
sighing, was already taking his way to the valley as Judith neared the
spring.

A little smile played about her lips. “How strange it is,” she thought,
“that Benjamin’s sheep need a drink of water and our jars must be
refilled at exactly the same time every day!”

At that very moment Rachel, with a tiny reed basket of bread on her
arm, started in the same direction.

“If I _should_ see him while I feed the pigeons,” her face was rosy
red, “and he _might_ be somewhere near, although, of course, if I knew
for certain I could not be so bold as to be there too--”

She entered a little gulch whose narrow walls constantly widened as
one neared the spring. The air was sweet with aromatic shrubs. A
bird hidden somewhere seemed about to burst its throat with melody.
Insects buzzed a little song of content. As the girl appeared, a flock
of wild pigeons rose from various resting places and circled around
her with the familiarity of old friendship. Her thoughts, however,
were elsewhere. Peeping through the bushes, she had seen Benjamin and
Judith, laughing and talking together with all too evident enjoyment.
For a moment--or was it several?--she seemed rooted to the spot with
surprise, then, sick at heart, she had dropped down upon the coarse,
green grass, grateful for the overhanging rocks and bushes which gave
her safe concealment.

To think of Benjamin, who had never cared for any maid but herself!
They had been childish sweethearts. Around her neck at this very
instant was suspended from a grass-woven chain a bracelet of dried
grasses which he had given her once when they played at a wedding. In
a thousand ways since then and with a tenderness she could not doubt
he had told her of his love. Had he not desired Caleb, his father, to
ask her parents’ consent to their marriage? True it had been refused,
Abner’s proposal having been received unexpectedly a day or so
earlier, yet she and Benjamin had hoped against hope, and now--

But the pigeons were insistent. They pecked from her basket. They
alighted upon her shoulders. They watched for the customary open
handful of crumbs from which to eat. Mechanically, since they would not
be denied, she fed them. Abner, passing along the brow of the hill, saw
both tableaux. He stopped, looked, and passed on, pondering deeply.

“Rachel is the gentler, the sweeter,” he said to himself, “but this
maid from Sharon is likewise pleasing. I wonder! Yea, I wonder!”

In a little while Judith started homeward, the smile still lingering.
“What a frank, winning boy!” she meditated, “and not unambitious,
either, but I do not envy his charming Rachel the hard work and
self-denial she will have as a shepherd’s wife. Strange how she turneth
from this man Abner, who hath treasures of oil and wine and grain; who
hath men servants and maid servants.”

She stopped and gazed over field after field of barley and wheat, now
almost ready for the harvest. “Had I but her opportunity!” She stamped
her sandaled foot to the great peril of the water jar and its precious
contents, but her rage soon spent itself and she became thoughtful. At
last she drew a deep breath.

“Why not?” she asked herself. “Of course an Eastern woman may not
decide whom she will marry, but there is no reason why she should
not try to influence her fate somewhat,” and, quite calm again, even
elated, she turned her face toward the home she found so irksome.

Scarcely had she passed when two young men crossed hastily the
well-worn path and started to descend the steep sides of the gulch.
Suddenly one placed a detaining hand on the other’s arm and they
dropped down behind a sheltering bush, peering out and speaking
guardedly.

“Seest thou anything, Isaac?”

“Naught do I see, Lemuel, but what one is apt to behold all the way
from the Dead Sea to Damascus: a romantic little gorge and a pretty
maiden feeding some wild pigeons. I thought thou hadst discovered
something.”

His companion regarded him with amusement. “Something thou meanest,
Isaac, to breed distrust or caution or care, whereas the ‘something’
was only satisfactory. Much hast thou to learn, or peradventure thou
art over-fastidious. Knowest thou not that women were made to delight
the hearts of men--that is, as long as they keep their youth and their
faith in us, which is not long at the best--and that our journey hath
been singularly barren of such interests as lovely maidens far from
home?”

The information was received coldly. “Far from home, Lemuel, but not
far from what, in this mountainous land, they call a ‘road,’ and not
far from her city’s supply of water. This gorge doubtless containeth
a spring or stream. As thou art aware, they have wells only in the
lowlands. The maiden is therefore not far from protection even if _I_
were absent.”

The other laughed sneeringly. “Thy bravery and thine honor doeth credit
to thine house. Peradventure it will purchase thee promotion. It shall
be reported to my lord N-a-a-m-m-m.”

A hand was placed firmly over his mouth. “Thy indiscretion will spoil
our errand, which shall also be reported and to the same source.”

A not unmusical cry came echoing down the glen: “R- a- c- h- e- l.”

The girl with her head in her hands neither moved nor answered, but in
a moment Miriam’s face peeped through the foliage and lighted up with
relief.

“Everywhere have I searched for thee, Rachel, and Eli hath helped. He
hath a new story, a splendid one. Dost thou not want to hear?”

Rachel gave a half-hearted assent and the two new arrivals threw
themselves on the coarse green grass near Rachel, while Eli, smiling
in response to Miriam’s eager encouragement, began the story she
considered so wonderful:

“Once there was a cave which the hand of God had hollowed out of the
limestone hills and in front of which he planted bushes to hide its
mouth. At first the cave was happy enough, but after awhile it became
envious of those in less lonely situations. Right in the midst of its
discontent, however, along came a leopard who was pleased with this
retired spot and brought up a family here.

“Next, there arrived a band of robbers who slew the wild animals and
deposited themselves and their ill-gotten gains in the cave, hiding by
day and sallying forth at night. At last some of the thieves were slain
in a battle with honest travelers and the rest of the band fled.

“From that time on the cave-dwellers were of a better class. It
became the abode of the hunted and oppressed. Our father David once
took refuge here from the fury of King Saul, and many a troubled
soul afterward, including the Man of God, Elijah. But its greatest
usefulness came when Queen Jezebel established Baal-worship as the
court religion of Israel and persecuted the prophets of the Lord.

“At this time Obadiah, the mayor of King Ahab’s court, hid herein fifty
of the hundred prophets he saved from the queen’s vengeance, the cave
being very commodious. Hereafter it was known as ‘the prophet’s cave,’
and of late years shepherds have kept provender always on hand so they
may resort hither with their flocks when winter storms drive them from
the hills.

“One day the cave, with the wisdom of years, was reviewing its
history. ‘How foolish was I and ignorant,’ it thought, ‘to be
dissatisfied with the place Jehovah had appointed me when I should not
have been nearly so useful had I been on the highway, where I would
have chosen to be.’”

The tale ended, Rachel praised it faintly, but the younger girl beamed
delighted appreciation, watching Eli’s departing figure as long as she
could see it.

“Doth he not make thee feel as if thou wert standing up on tiptoe all
inside, Rachel?” she demanded. “Some day he is going to learn to read
and write and become learned in the Law, as was his father, and go
about the country teaching and prophesying.”

Rachel put a hand to her head. “Let us go home,” she said, “I feel
weak and ill. Peradventure it is the summer heat which hath come on so
suddenly.” She staggered to her feet.

Miriam, at once all sympathy, put an arm around her friend’s waist and
they took the steep path out of the gorge, the pigeons still circling
around the empty basket. Only once did the smaller maid speak and that
was just as they came opposite the hiding place of the two strangers.

“Thou knowest, Rachel, that Eli’s tale was a true one, being of our own
prophet’s cave here in this very glen, thirty paces beyond the fallen
sycamore tree, its mouth hidden by the sumac bushes. Thou wilt remember
how oft we have been there.”

Rachel murmured an assent and they moved out of sight and hearing. The
young men rose from their cramped positions.

“The very place, Lemuel, thanks to our small friend, though she knew
not whom she was befriending. This night shall we abide there and mark
the spot for future need. This is a rich little valley. To-morrow we
separate, each taking the way determined aforetime,” and with swift
steps they proceeded in the direction Miriam had indicated.

       *       *       *       *       *

The perfumed breath of May lost its elusive sweetness and became
burdened with the heat of June. The evening meal was over and the last
faint radiance of sunset was swallowed up in darkness. Caleb closed and
barred the heavy door against the summer breezes and the family spread
their sleeping mats in preparation for rest.

Judith yawned audibly. “So glad am I that this tiresome day hath drawn
to a close.”

Miriam was scandalized. “Glad that the Sabbath is over? And soon after
sunrise one of the Sons of the Prophet came to instruct the city in the
ways of Jehovah.”

“But,” insisted Judith, “I like not that long-haired Order of wayside
preachers who shout and denounce and talk mysteries.”

Caleb felt it his duty to impart information. “Alas, the sacred Order
is not what it was before King Ahab took unto himself the foreign
Queen, Jezebel. A fine soldier and statesman was Ahab, and I doubt not
he believed he benefited Israel by his alliance with our more cultured
and enterprising neighbors, the Phœnicians. He thought much about the
advantages of trade, as shown by his treaty with Ben-hadad, the Syrian
king, whereby the merchants of Israel now have their own street in
Damascus, the great capital city of Syria.

“Many good qualities had King Ahab, but a sorry day it was for
Israel’s religion when he allowed Queen Jezebel a free hand to spread
Baal-worship, even to the persecution of the prophets of the Lord.
Hundreds were put to death; many fled to more peaceful homes, such as
Egypt, and others still bowed the knee, not so much to the hated Baal
as to the strong authority of the court. Fear threatened to destroy all
that was purest and best in the land, but the Lord of Hosts hearkened
to the distress of his people and granted deliverance by his prophet
Elijah.

“Since then, and especially in these later years under Elijah’s
successor, Elisha, the prophetic Guilds have been revived in the
hope of spreading piety and some degree of learning among the people
at large; they who have been exposed for so long to the pernicious
teachings of the priests of Baal, as encouraged by that wicked woman,
Jezebel.”

“But truly the service of Baal is much more joyous than thy worship of
Jehovah with all thy strict observances and commandments,” said Judith,
earnestly, “and why call Queen Jezebel ‘wicked’? It was but courteous
to a foreigner to allow her to bring her own religion into her new
home, and naturally she was anxious to spread the teachings in which
she believed.”

In tones whose sternness was softened by pity, Caleb bade her hush.
“Thou knowest not what thou sayest. The ‘wicked,’ through the pride
of his heart, will not seek after the one true God. They care not to
know the Law by which we, his chosen, are warned and in keeping of
which there is great reward. It is well that thou shouldst understand
clearly--”

A hubbub outside claimed attention. Faintly at first, and then nearer
and nearer until it halted outside the very door, came the yelping and
barking of dogs mingled with the sound of running footsteps, and voices.

Miriam crept to Sarah’s outstretched arms. “O mother,” in a frightened
whisper, “thinkest thou the Syrians be upon us?”

The mother held her close. Caleb snatched up the goad ordinarily used
for driving oxen, the sharply pointed end of which made a formidable
weapon. From the darkness came a sound of labored breathing and a
woman’s sobbing cry.

“Open, Caleb. It is only I, Hannah, and my children, Eli and Nathan,
and the dogs rend us.”

As the door was thrown open to admit them she cried, mournfully,
“Peace, peace be to thy home, though there be none in mine.”

She was almost incoherent with grief. “The word came to me but a little
while before the Sabbath and I waited until the passing of the holy day
to hurry to thee, my friends. The dogs mistook us for foes and pursued.
In the darkness we stumbled oft and fell. Yea, we are bruised, but our
bodies are less sore than our hearts, for Abner, my creditor, taketh my
two sons, Eli and Nathan, to be bondmen for debt.

“Since my widowhood have I lived on his land. Oft hath he brought
us food. Once, twice, thrice have I borrowed of him, so kind hath
he seemed. Always he urged me to take more and yet more than I
asked. Never once hath this shame seemed possible. Let us kneel in
supplication to the God of our fathers.”

“Yea, Hannah, and I doubt not he will hear and answer. Abide thou with
us for a time and to-morrow we will see if aught can be done.”




CHAPTER III

VISITORS


Over the peaceful Israelitish hills came the piping of a reed flute.
Anyone familiar with the country would know that it was a shepherd,
seeking to assure the flock of his continued presence that they might
fear no evil, but to the young man, scarcely more than a boy, lying
prone on his back in the shade of the bushes, it conveyed nothing at
all, yet it was the only sound which persisted in his consciousness.
He lived by it as much as did the sheep and goats. When the tune was
blithe he saw sunlit fields and abundant harvests; shaded glens and
cool, gurgling streams; a palace and a soldiers’ barracks; the face of
an old, bedridden woman and a delicately pretty girl feeding pigeons in
a romantic spot. When the notes were sad--as they frequently were--he
defended this maid from some grave peril in which the odds were all
against him.

There came a day, however, when he no longer raved in delirium, but
looked upon his surroundings with recognition in his eyes. He tried to
sit up, to reach a little water-bag that looked cool and comforting,
but finding himself weighted down with a strange heaviness, contented
himself with gazing around wonderingly. The sky seemed so near. No,
it was not the sky. It was a covering of skins sewed together and
stretched from one bush to another over him. Nothing else save the
interminable flute which told his newly awakened senses that the
shepherd was near. It was all so soothing, just lying there, and he was
so unexpectedly weak, that he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and
refreshing slumber.

When he awoke the canopy over his head had been removed and he gazed
at the brilliant stars. Looking around, he decided that he must be
inside of a sheepfold. By the moonlight he discerned roughly built
stone walls on four sides. The open entrance was guarded by a recumbent
shepherd, staff in hand, alert, watchful. One, two, three other figures
he counted, evidently sleeping heavily beside great gray masses which
he knew must be sheep. All at once a scream pierced the silence, a
hideous, unearthly sound, and then a long, lithe body leaped over the
wall.

The young man who observed these things knew instinctively that it was
a mountain lion, tempted far from its rocky lair by hunger. He knew
that the shepherds, instantly awakened, would give battle, and that
they would be more than a match for any wild animal in search of food,
but a sense of his own helplessness swept over him. He saw the terror
of the sheep, the mangled body of a victim, heard the cry of its
mother, and then a great wave of sickness shut out sight and sound. He
had fainted from sheer weakness.

A little later he opened his eyes upon the troubled face of the
shepherd--_his_ shepherd, as he soon learned to call him in distinction
from the others, who paid him but scant attention. It was a kindly,
pleasant face, over-thoughtful perhaps but with health and youth
written large under its tan. In the days that followed, the invalid
found himself grasping at the strength and energy radiated by this
personality, basking in his sunny smile, entertained and quite
frequently instructed by his conversation, cheered and encouraged by
his practical helpfulness.

If, however, the convalescent was pleased with the shepherd, how much
more was the shepherd pleased with the convalescent! Moved at first
merely by motives of pity and generosity, he soon took a delight in the
presence of the stranger which was wholly inexplicable to himself. He
had never met anyone--at least not a very young man like himself--who
possessed such a fund of general information and seemed to have
such mature judgment. He talked as one who had lived in cities and
associated with those who had seen much of that world which was new and
strange to this mountain lad who had spent his eager, responsive youth
hand-in-hand with Toil and Responsibility, as youth often does in the
East.

One day, under the shadow of a great rock which shielded them from the
heat of the midsummer sun, they were talking. “How long sayest thou I
have been here, Benjamin?”

“It is eight weeks, Isaac, since I found thee under the bushes yonder,
sick with fever.”

“Then eight weeks hast thou cared for me, night and day. How knewest
thou that I was not a robber, or, worse still, what thy countrymen
despise most, a Syrian spy?” The tone was careless and breathed a
laugh, but the speaker glanced searchingly at his companion, who, after
a moment’s silence, replied quietly:

“I stopped but to consider thy pressing need, Isaac, for our Law
commandeth us to regard the necessity of the stranger, but if I had
thought further, the pack on thy back would have proclaimed thee a
peddler, though thy stock be small. Likewise, thy pronunciation showeth
that our tongue is native to thee and thou hast an Israelitish name.”

Isaac sighed and there sounded in it something of relief. “My mother
was of thy nation,” he explained, “a captive in Syria, where she
married my father, who was of Egyptian blood and a servant in the same
house with herself. I am named for some of her people and she spoke
to me always in her own language.” Then, hastily, as if he feared
questions: “But for thee I might have died, an awful, burning death
here in the wilderness, without even a drink of cold water to allay my
thirst or a friend to save my body from the vultures.”

“Think not of it, Isaac. It is only thy departure on the morrow which
saddeneth me. Caring for thee was as balm to a sore heart, better than
all the aromatic herbs in Gilead.”

Isaac looked questioningly: “A woman?”

The shepherd assented. “From childhood have I had no thought save _of_
her and _for_ her. When I could make her a home, I desired my father
to ask her in marriage of her parents, as is our custom. At first
they were willing, as I had believed, but their consent was refused,
the maiden being pleasing to a man of greater means. Yet was she true
to me. I had it from her own lips and through the mouth of my little
sister, Miriam, of whom I have before spoken to thee. All at once
the maiden changed. Deaf, dumb, and blind did she become to all that
concerned me, and when I would see her they said she was sick, which I
cannot believe, and I had to come away without a word of explanation.
It troubleth me.”

To Isaac, more worldly wise, the reason was plain. “She favoreth the
other,” he said, “and thou shouldst not cherish the memory of one who
hath treated thee with contempt. Canst thou not think of someone else,
Benjamin?”

The shepherd laughed in a mirthless way. “None to fill her place,
Isaac; nor is it of another she thinketh. Nay! One there was who
always appeared at the spring when I was waiting for my beloved. She
was a clever, amusing maid, but a life with her would be like living on
honey without any bread.”

Isaac nodded in comprehension. “The same have I felt toward all the
maidens I ever met save one. Once, as I traveled with my pack, I was
able to avert a danger she knew not of, and her face hath been in my
memory ever since. I have not wished to dislodge it. She fed wild
pigeons, I recall, in a romantic little gorge.”

A silence fell between them, each, with fine feeling, unwilling to ask
for details not volunteered.

The next day, at parting, Isaac took from his own arm a heavy bracelet
of gold and clasped it around Benjamin’s. “Not for its value,” he
insisted, when the shepherd demurred, “but as a covenant of lasting
friendship ’twixt thee and me. As thou hast saved my life so doth it
belong to thee or thine if in aught I can ever serve thee.”

The next minute Benjamin was alone. At the turn of the road Isaac
looked back and waved his hand in farewell and the shepherd, with a
sigh, turned to his sheep and his constant thoughts of Rachel. He did
not know that at that very hour events of considerable importance to
both of them were taking place in the little “city” of their nativity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Noontime, whose brightness had no power to dispel the sorrow which
hung over Caleb’s household, saw Judith slipping, with a shudder, out
of its gloomy portal. Abner was coming up the hill as she started to
descend it. She answered his pleasant greeting with assumed diffidence.

“I hasten, my lord, desiring to spend a time with Rachel, who, as thou
knowest, hath spent these eight weeks and more in the house and mostly
on her bed, suffering from a mysterious sickness none dareth yet to
name. Save that she hath long been secretly betrothed to my kinsman,
Benjamin, who taketh his sheep to the hills, we know not where, and
that her parents are very wroth--yet because thou hast looked with
favor upon the maid would I warn thee--”

“I thank thee,” he said, slowly, his face somewhat paler than usual,
and the two hurried their separate ways.

In strange contradiction to such solicitude, however, Judith did not
visit Rachel. She rarely did. It was Miriam who sat by her friend’s
side telling her of Hannah’s plight.

“There is not enough grain and olive oil in the whole city to satisfy
Abner’s claim and save Eli and Nathan from bondage, nor will he wait
for the next barley and wheat to be harvested. As for grapes and
olives, they will not be ripe for months. Father hath tried to shame
Abner, but he saith he is grieved to be so misunderstood; that Hannah
should be grateful to him for taking upon himself the burden of her
sons’ support.”

Apparently, Rachel was not in a mood for conversation. The younger girl
gazed at her in great dejection for a few minutes and a tear splashed
down on her hand. “It would be easier to bear other people’s troubles,
Rachel, if one could help. I am going to bathe thy feverish face and
hands and take down thy hair. Thou shalt hold the little mirror of
polished bronze that Ezekiel, thy kinsman in Damascus, sent thee.”
Suiting the action to the word she went on talking: “Damascus must be
a very great city, peradventure almost twice as large as ours. Father
hath told me about the war between Israel and Syria and the treaty of
peace, so that Syrian merchants may come to Israel and a street hath
been set aside in Damascus in which our people may dwell.”

Rachel seemed to take no more interest in foreign affairs than in
those at home, but the little maid was not discouraged. “Thou art more
comfortable now. Thou hast been sick ever since that day the heat
overcame thee in the gorge when thou wert feeding the pigeons, but thou
dost not have to go on being miserable. Thou knowest, the Lord is thy
strength and song. I am going to see how Hannah doeth and remind her of
this. She abode with us through the night, but now she is in her own
house. First, though, I shall sing thee to sleep. Thou seest I have
brought my timbrel. Then will I steal softly away.”

Having made good her word, Miriam was about to depart when the kindly
voice of Rachel’s mother detained her: “Stay, Miriam, yet a moment and
take to Hannah this little pot of oil. The gift is not much to her that
dwelleth in the house of sorrow, but it carrieth a message of sympathy.”

Halfway to her destination Miriam met Judith. “I have been seeking for
thee,” said the older girl. “Knowest thou that we have a guest, a man?
He hath come from a distance in the heat and dust, and I have been to
draw cool, fresh water wherewith to bathe his hands and feet and so
refresh him while thy mother prepareth a meal to set before him.”

Miriam hazarded a few guesses as to the identity of their visitor, but
Judith shook her head. “It is none whom thou hast mentioned, but who it
is I know not. He weareth a mantle.”

“Then he is one of the prophets.”

“Nay, for he is bald and the prophets wear long hair. Neither hath
he the appearance of a fanatic, as do they. Rather, he seemeth like
some well-to-do man of the cities, peradventure a merchant. His speech
is gracious and gentle and he carrieth a walking stick like any
serious-minded, elderly gentleman. He is attended by a younger man and
thy father did him great obeisance. Also--”

But Judith was alone. Miriam was running like some wild thing straight
to Hannah’s house. Out of breath she stumbled over the threshold and
thrust the pot of oil into the woman’s hands.

“Hannah--Hannah--the Man of God hath come, my lord Elisha, and even
now sitteth at meat in our house. Do thou go quickly. Thy husband was
of his young men. Do thou tell him about Abner taking Eli and Nathan
as bondmen for debt. Jehovah hath sent him that as God hath been thy
strength, he shall now be thy song. Hasten, Hannah,” but Hannah was
already gone.

Twenty-four hours later Miriam, wild with excitement, paused on the
threshold of Rachel’s house. Within were voices and while she hesitated
as to whether or not to enter, she heard the message.

Abner had sent his friend, after the manner of the East, to speak on
the subject of his betrothal to Rachel, not to bring the customary
gifts and make necessary arrangements, but to do the rather unusual
thing: to withdraw his previous proposal on the plea of her ill-health.
The affair was conducted with elaborate civilities on the part of both
the emissary and Rachel’s parents, hiding the contempt of the one and
the rage of the other.

It was a very awed little Miriam but one with shining eyes who held
Rachel’s hand a few minutes after the messenger had departed. “Art thou
not glad?” she whispered.

The older girl nodded slightly, aware of her mother’s frown.

“And Benjamin will be so happy,” Miriam declared, but Rachel sighed.

“He thinketh no more upon me,” she said, and refused to be comforted.

The general gloom of the household was soon overborne, however, by the
tidings Miriam had brought. At the feet of the prophet Hannah had knelt
in supplication and he had had compassion upon her distress.

“At his command,” recited Miriam, joyfully, “we borrowed from our
neighbors all the empty vessels possible, then she and Eli and Nathan
went into their own house and shut the door. Eli told me what happened.
_From the little pot of oil thy mother sent by me, Hannah filled all
those vessels!_ Then came she again to the Man of God, who was still
in our house, and he instructed her what next to do. Now she hath gone
to sell the oil and pay Abner. Yet will there be something left, for I
heard my lord Elisha say unto her, ‘Live thou and thy children _of the
rest_.’”

When the happy comments had died away Miriam stroked her friend’s hair.
“Why dost thou not ask to be healed, Rachel? Let us go to the Man of
God.”

But Rachel shook her head. “I must not ask for what I do not want,
Miriam, and when Benjamin no longer thinketh upon me, why should I
desire to get well?”




CHAPTER IV

CAPTIVES


Autumn had come to the Land of Israel. The sun had just lifted a
shining face, but in more than one city the inhabitants had been long
astir. Before all the more important abodes stood asses, saddled
and laden with water-skin and leather provision bag as if for a
journey. In a little while could be seen broken lines of riders,
singly or in groups, wending their way in slow and dignified fashion
on these same sure-footed animals, over the narrow threads of rocky
roads which traversed hill and vale. All faces were turned in one
direction--Jerusalem. The master of the house was on his way to the
Feast of Tabernacles, or the Feast of the Ingathering, as it was
sometimes called.

The air had in it a hint of frost, being too chill for rain, but nobody
minded, certainly not a misty-eyed little maid who was walking with her
two travelers to the brow of the hill.

“I believe thou art glad to see us go, Miriam,” said Caleb, teasingly.

“Oh, very glad, father. It is right thou shouldst appear before the
Lord with thine offerings, for he hath dealt bountifully with us, and
I am glad thou canst take mother to visit her kindred. Long hath it
been since she hath seen them, and it will make her so happy, but”--the
voice trembled a little--“I would be gladder if this were the day thou
wert coming home.”

Her parents exchanged glances.

“Thou knowest that the olive trees had a good crop and the vineyard.
Likewise the flock hath been profitable and thou art thinking of the
nose-ring we shall bring thee, or was it anklets thou didst choose?”

“I am much more concerned as to her conduct, Caleb, than I am as to her
ornaments,” put in Sarah, hastily. “Remember, Miriam, I shall expect
thee to behave thyself wisely, in a perfect way.”

“Yea, mother, but when thou and father art gone, how will I know what
is wise and perfect?”

Sarah regarded her severely. “The Law of the Lord is perfect. See
that thou keep it. The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the
simple. Remember it. The commandment of the Lord is right, enlightening
the eyes. Meditate upon it. There is no chance for a mistake if God is
in all thy thoughts. Miriam, wilt thou keep the Lord alway before thy
face?”

“Yea, mother.”

“And thou wilt not be turned aside to the right hand nor to the left,
no matter what influence is brought to bear upon thee?” Sarah glanced
apprehensively back at Judith, standing in the open door.

“Nay, mother.”

They had come to the place of parting, Caleb walking ahead, leading the
two asses. Judith could not hear what was said, but she could see that
the farewells were lingering and affectionate. A great wave of longing
for her own parents swept over her and she turned into the house to
avoid the unsympathetic and the curious. She did not know, therefore,
that when the travelers were quite hidden from sight in the distance,
Miriam sank upon the ground in a little heap of wretchedness.

Neither did Judith nor anyone else guess that at that very moment the
mother was nervously fingering the bridle of her beast. “Long have I
wanted to take this journey, Caleb, but it were easier to talk of than
to do. I will go back. I cannot leave the little maid.”

“Nonsense, Sarah,” and a stranger would have noticed that Caleb’s voice
was none too steady, although he affected cheerfulness. “It will do
thee much good to have a visit among thy kindred.”

“But thinkest thou all will go well while we are away?” Sarah was still
hesitant.

“How could they go ill with Hannah to stay with Miriam and Judith, and
Eli and Nathan to see to the animals? Besides, we shall be gone but a
few days. They will be sorry to see us return, for youth joyeth with
youth. Mount, I pray thee, and let us be going, for our pace will be
slow at the best.”

Reluctantly she yielded to his entreaties, but with many a backward
glance and an anxiety which seemed wholly unwarranted.

Along the path they had just traversed came Rachel and gathered Miriam
in her arms. “I feared to find thee so, little maid,” she comforted.
“Nay,” compassionately, “thou must not weep. And if thou wilt dry thine
eyes I will tell thee a secret so dear it hath not been whispered
before.”

It was a rosy and radiant Rachel who was speaking now. “Knowest thou
that when Benjamin came home a few days ago he told me something that
made me very happy? And when he cometh next time we are to be publicly
betrothed. My parents have consented and I have my wedding veil. We
must go back to thy dwelling now, but some day, when there is none to
see but thee, I shall try it on.”

She raised the limp figure and, talking of the future to divert the
thoughts of her grief-stricken little friend, guided her along the
well-known path toward home.

       *       *       *       *       *

At about the same hour, somewhere out on the Israelitish hills, a
shepherd was leading his flock northward under pressure of military
escort. His face was sullen, but all at once he laughed: “It took
three and more coming to take captive one shepherd of Israel. These
Syrian dogs!” He laughed again, contemptuously. The soldier nearest,
understanding the intent if not the words, struck him with the
broadside of his short sword, and the shepherd laughed no more.

The monotony of merely going forward was relieved a little later by
the passing of a band of horsemen, coming south. The shepherd listened
apathetically to what was evidently, although he understood not a word,
an exchange of civilities and compliments upon the capture of so large
and fine a flock. He glanced carelessly at the gayly bedecked horse of
the leader and then at the man himself. It was a young man, and all at
once the shepherd’s indifference vanished. He had the face of a friend!
Undoubtedly he and his flock would soon be free.

Running forward quickly, he knelt and threw up one arm, exposing to
view a broad gold bracelet of exquisite design, by that movement
plainly seeking recognition. The young officer appeared startled for
an instant, then he assumed an air of unconcern and with careless
farewells to the soldier-escort of the flock, he and his men rode on.

The shepherd crimsoned at the rebuff. “I could swear that were Isaac,”
he muttered, “even to the pallor of his recent illness. Thus hath he
kept his pledge, a promise he made voluntarily. So would a viper repay
the fool who warmed it by his fire!”

Turning, he found himself the object of mockery and ridicule.
Unfortunately, he allowed rage to get the better of discretion. He was
captured, but not conquered. With a swift movement he struck one of
his tormentors a stinging blow full in the face, but a fellow soldier
used his ever ready spear, and after that, Benjamin the shepherd went
his way limping.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the next day that Miriam was helping Hannah make butter. That
is to say, a goatskin bag, nearly full of milk, was suspended out of
doors from the center of three crossed poles, and they were shaking and
beating it with great regularity and violence. In due course of time
a product not at all resembling the butter to which we are accustomed
rewarded their labors. With a sigh, the moist and dripping bag was
carried into the house and hung in the coolest spot possible that its
curdled contents might ferment and be used, as needed, to give relish
to otherwise dry bread.

The task finished, Hannah betook herself to her own home to be gone
an hour or two. Miriam, left alone, dropped down in the doorway. All
day she had been unaccountably heavy of spirit, “not sick,” she had
told Hannah in answer to a solicitous inquiry, “but just not glad of
anything.”

Was it only yesterday her parents had started on their journey? It
seemed like a week. And what strange sights they must be seeing now!
Very strange indeed could they have seen through Miriam’s eyes, for her
thoughts were soon jumbled by the sprites of Dreamland. When she awoke
the afternoon shadows were lengthening. Hannah had not returned, and
where was Judith? If she were late, Hannah would be sure to tell father
and mother and they would be displeased. Why did she not come?

Miriam was dismayed, then came a thought, the horror of which sent her
running to the top of the hill, where the path began to descend to the
valley below: suppose Judith had been bitten by a viper out of the
brushwood she had gone to gather for fuel! She was nowhere in sight,
although she had been absent since a little after noon. Slowly Miriam
walked down the hill, gazing long and searchingly in all directions
until she stood in the silence and loneliness of the deserted fields.
How find anybody or anything among those rank grasses, grown taller
than herself now that the harvests were over? Yet at that very instant
Judith must be lying among them somewhere, sick perhaps unto death.

Running hither and thither and thoroughly alarmed, Miriam essayed
calling. The third time her hail was answered, but not in the way she
had expected. Not Judith but Nathan--Nathan, pale and frightened;
Nathan, entreating her silence but speaking himself in hoarse, excited
whispers.

“Hush, Miriam, the valley is full of soldiers!”

She was amazed, incredulous, and he indignant at her unbelief.
“Thinkest thou, Miriam, I know not a soldier when I see one?” he
panted as they ran. “Was not every man covered from neck to thigh, back
and front, with his breast-plate of bronze scales? Did not each wear a
helmet and carry a shield on his left arm and a buckler[1] slung from
his girdle? Some had long and heavy spears; some, bows and arrows and
some had slings, with the stones for them in bags around their necks.”

“But, Nathan,” suggested Miriam, weakly, “peradventure our king passeth
this way with his bodyguard.”

“Would our king rob Abner’s storehouses in the field? Nay, and these
have not Israelitish faces. Besides, they came on horses which they
have left at the head of the valley, and thou shouldst know that horses
mean war. Canst thou not run faster, Miriam? We must warn quickly
mother and the city.”

The little maid’s face blanched. “I must find Judith. Do thou go on and
I--” Nathan’s remonstrances were cut short by the sudden appearance,
out of the tall grass, of a man dressed just as the lad had described.
He laid a detaining hand on each, addressing them in their own
language, but his pronunciation showed that it was acquired.

“This time to-morrow,” pointing to the village on the hilltop, “our
archers will have bent their bows and made ready their arrows and sent
fire and destruction into the midst of thy city. None shall be left
alive save such as we take into captivity.”

Miriam wrung her hands and wept, but Nathan spoke defiantly, with
passion in his tones: “Thou knowest not that we of Israel, especially
we of the tribe of Zebulon, fight long and hard, jeoparding our lives
unto the death.”

An evil smile distorted the man’s features. “Thinkest thou we know not
that thy men are away at the feast in Jerusalem? To-morrow this time
thy land shall be desolate from Jerusalem northward, and we will take
captive thy flocks and thy herds--”

The speaker was interrupted by the arrival of another soldier, dressed
much the same, but the more elaborate ornamentation of his shield, and
his richly decorated helmet with its crest, denoted a higher rank.
All this, however, was quite lost upon Nathan and Miriam. They noted
only that he was very young--older than Eli, perhaps, but doubtless
younger than Benjamin--that he bent upon them a look not in the least
malevolent, as was that of their captor, and that when he spoke to
them, also in their own tongue, his speech was as free from foreign
accent as their own. Apparently, he had authority, for at a word, the
first soldier withdrew.

“I happened to overhear,” he told the children. “Fear not nor believe
what Lemuel hath said. He was but teasing thee. Our men went no
farther south than the Valley of Jezreel, which is a long way north of
Jerusalem, and we have not come to make war upon the people but only to
take foodstuffs.”

The two gazed at him doubtfully. “Peradventure,” sobbed Miriam, “when
thou art asleep the other soldier will do these terrible things.”

The young man laughed, a mirthful laugh. “Lemuel? Nay, he could not. We
have but a few men and,” with some little pride, “_I_ have been given
charge of this band.”

He glanced at the rapidly declining sun and his next words were more
decisive. “See, it is almost sunset. We did not come to take prisoners,
but thou wilt understand that I cannot let thee go home to give the
alarm, and afterward thou wilt prefer Syria to Israel.”

Miriam was distressed anew.

The young captain reasoned gently: “To-night thy household will think
thou art with friends somewhere, but they cannot seek thee in the
darkness, among the half-wild, scavenger dogs that roam thy villages at
night. By dawn they will have other matters to engage their attention.
Thou wilt go with me now to our encampment in the gorge by the spring.
Come,” to Miriam, “thou shalt have a corner of the prophet’s cave all
to thyself to-night with a leopard’s skin for a covering. Thou wilt
like that, for it was given me by the best man I ever knew, a shepherd
of Israel. And thou,” turning to Nathan, “shalt have the opposite
corner, but I have only one leopard skin and that is for the little
maid.”

There was something very attractive, very sincere in his address. He
seemed to understand their terror, their distrust.

“Be not afraid,” he said, “thou shalt be well treated. If not, it will
be because thou dost not treat us well. To-night we encamp. To-morrow
we start for Damascus, but thou shalt both have good care all the way.
Isaac pledgeth thee his word!”




CHAPTER V

JOURNEYING


When dawn came Miriam was in a heavy slumber. Strange surroundings,
terror, and grief had taken as large a part in keeping her long awake
as her bed on the hard floor or the chill dampness of the cave. She was
still sobbing. The young captain bent over her pityingly for an instant
and tucked in the leopard’s skin to keep her warm, then, leaving a
guard at the door, he and the rest of his men departed upon their
errand. When she awoke she discerned Nathan’s sullen face in the half
light, and it aroused her to an immediate comprehension of their plight.

He whispered to her: “Thinkest thou I shall go to Damascus a captive?
Did the Man of God save me from bondage in my own country only to go
into worse in a heathen land? Nay, but I shall escape, and when I am
gone be not anxious for me nor unhappy for thyself. I shall come back
to my mother and Eli, and some day we shall rescue thee. Do thou put
confidence in my words. Look here.”

He bared his arm and shoulder and with gentle fingers she touched the
welts and bruises, exclaiming compassionately.

He was still unconquered, defiant. “The soldiers gave these to me.”

“But not when thou wert good and obedient, Nathan.”

“Nay,” he admitted, and fell into a shamefaced silence.

She considered a moment. “It seemeth to me, Nathan, there be times when
we cannot help what we do, only _how_ we do. Dost thou not remember how
our father Joseph was sold into bondage in Egypt? If he had refused to
make himself useful or been unfaithful in his tasks--”

Nathan placed his fingers warningly on his lips and Miriam ceased
speaking as the soldiers swarmed into the cave, so putting an end to
conversation.

Breakfast had long been over for the men, but in the hurry of departure
the youthful commander did not forget a handful of raisins and dried
figs, together with some parched corn, for his small prisoners. He
insisted that they eat, then, taking the hand of each, they left the
prophet’s cave, turned their backs upon the gorge, and walked leisurely
the valley road to its head, where the animals awaited them.

“Hast thou ever been on a horse, little maid?”

“I never saw one but once. That was when the king’s messenger passed
this way.”

“I shall have to set thee in front of me, on my horse. He will go
faster than an ass but not so fast as a camel at top speed, and in
six days, or maybe seven, we shall be in Damascus. We travel slowly to
accommodate our speed to that of our beasts of burden, heavily laden
with stores from thy rich little valley. The lad will be on another
horse in front of one of the men, but they are rough and boisterous.
Wouldst thou not rather ride with me?”

Without waiting for assent he lifted her gently to the back of the
animal, gave a few directions to his men, and the column began to
move. There was no saddle and she found herself slipping. She grasped
desperately at the horse’s mane, but Isaac had anticipated this and
held her firmly with one arm.

“It will be easier when thou art more used to riding,” he comforted,
“but I will not let thee fall.”

A long, last look at the village on the hillside and then, with eyes
that saw not for tears and a heart that seemed to weigh much more than
her sturdy little body, Miriam left behind all that was dear to her and
began the journey into a far country.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later a maiden climbed slowly and painfully the steep path up
from the valley. At the top she met a woman with horrible cuts across
the face and body, weak from loss of blood and leaning on the shoulder
of a lad whose right arm hung useless at his side.

“Art thou hurt, Judith?”

“Nay, Hannah, but if thou hadst fled from one terror to another ever
since yesterday afternoon when I first beheld the soldiers coming up
the valley, and had finally lain concealed for hours, not daring to
move lest thou be discovered, chilled by the heavy night dews, stiff
and cramped, frightened and lacking food, thou also wouldst walk with
difficulty.”

Eli was horrified, reproachful: “Thou knewest the Syrians were upon us
and madest no effort to warn the city? We might have put up a better
defense or saved some of our supplies by hiding them. As it is, many
have suffered, a few even unto death.”

He paused and looked shudderingly at a swiftly approaching cloud which
darkened the air, then quickly drew his mother inside the nearest
house. “The vultures descend, having scented their prey from afar, yet
few were slain and they only because of desperate resistance. The pale
young man, scarce older than I, who seemed to command the party, had
his men well under control. He reproved the soldier who smote thee,
mother, and stooped over thee with horror in his eyes, himself tying
the cloth which saved thee from bleeding to death and which I could not
tie with one hand. I could love him were he other than a heathen and a
robber!”

Turning to Judith, who had followed them, his voice became stern:
“Knowest thou that famine stareth us in the face--and thou mightest
have saved it?”

The girl’s tones were aggrieved: “Gladly would I have borne tidings,
Eli, if I could have done so with safety, but I should have been
captured. They have taken Nathan and Miriam, and a veiled maiden rideth
in the rear who somehow reminded me of Rachel.”

Hannah clasped Judith’s arm: “Thou sawest Nathan and Miriam? Tell me--”
and Judith, who had seen and heard almost everything of the eventful
hours just past, told the story.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Miriam had left the village-crowned hills, the fertile
valleys, the scattered oak groves; crossed a tree-studded, grassy
meadow, a tangle of ferns and brushwood, and descended a gorge in the
midst of which tumbled and roared and foamed a stream. The atmosphere
seemed heavy with a heat not derived from the sun.

“Hast thou seen the Jordan before, little maid?”

Her answer was lost in the confusion of fording the river. At a place
sufficiently shallow the horses were led down the steep and slippery
bank, alarmed the moment their feet rested in the soft mud; terrified
on reaching the shingly bottom to feel the swift tug of the current
and the coldness of the rapid waters; cold after their enforced dip
and taking quickly and easily the cliffs and steppes to the broad
plateau above, which seemed the higher because of the depression of the
Jordan Valley. The wind swept chill out of the snow-covered mountains
to the north, toward which they were turning their faces, but after the
heaviness of the valley they had just left, the air was exhilarating
and fragrant with herbage.

“We are east of the Jordan now, little maid,” explained the young
captain. “Seest thou how much easier it is to travel? It will be fairly
level all the way into Damascus. Thou wilt see continual passing to and
fro; much cattle and many camels and asses, and people that will look
strange to thee, but fear not.”

He smiled at her reassuringly, but her eyes held a far-away look of
inexpressible sadness, at sight of which he became silent.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the sixth night of the encampment, Isaac was decidedly out of sorts.
Several things had gone wrong and the party was much overdue. There had
first been trouble among the pack-animals. This adjusted, it had been
found that one of the soldiers, whose wounds had been thought of little
consequence, had grown rapidly worse, and, lastly, their boy-captive
had escaped. The veiled woman was gone likewise, but that mattered
little.

In a retired spot, somewhat removed from the noises of the camp, they
had spread a goat’s-hair tent and built a fire at a little distance so
that its light would not play unpleasantly upon the features so soon to
be relaxed in death. Isaac, who had taken the care of the sick man upon
himself, watched alone save for Miriam, who lay asleep in one corner of
the tent. For six days now he had been solicitous for her comfort, not
from any personal interest but as a matter of war economics. It would
be awkward if fright or cold or hardship should result in her illness
and they so far from Damascus. On her part, the little maid was losing
her fear of this young man, who treated her with no unkindness or lack
of gentle consideration.

Lost in thought, he sat gazing moodily into the fire. Odd about the
woman! Doubtless she had now joined herself to some one of the caravans
they were constantly passing. Lemuel had described her as a camp
hanger-on, and her veil was evidence of her loose moral character,
since neither matron nor maid of good repute at that period went veiled
save at marriage or while journeying, yet for six days she had shown
every sign of shrinking timidity, and he had seen to it that she was
treated with respect. He had asked Nathan if he knew her, but the boy
had replied sullenly in the negative without turning his head. He had
asked the little maid, but her eyes had been full of tears. For several
reasons it had not seemed best to allow speech between the captives,
and so the mystery had remained.

He had not himself questioned her, being irritated that she rode the
horse he had brought for the maiden whose face had been in his memory
ever since that day he saw her feeding pigeons in the gorge. He had
meant to show special leniency to her family and thus secure their
consent to a marriage, scorning to take her an unwilling captive; to
force her into an alliance she would abhor, a sin of which certain
other captains he could name had been guilty. However, the maid could
not be found and he bothered his brain with a thousand conjectures.

That very day a puzzling circumstance had occurred. While searching
for the fugitive lad, Isaac had caught the flutter of a garment and
followed it straight to its hiding place. He had not found the boy,
but this woman had knelt before him, clasping her hands--wondrously
pretty hands, he had noticed--and in a voice remarkably soft and sweet
had besought him to leave her. He had hesitated, and then Chivalry had
gone out to succor Distress. Planting himself in front of her retreat
until the last of his men had passed, he had followed them without one
backward glance.

Thinking about it now, a doubt of Lemuel’s tale came to his mind
for the first time. The veil might be explained away, but not that
refinement of voice, not--a movement by the fire attracted his
attention. He stared incredulously, for there, hovering over the blaze,
was the girl of his dreams. It could be no other than the face he
had carried in his memory all these months. Stranger even than the
apparition, she had been the veiled woman, for the garment’s tatters
were even now drawn tightly about her shivering form. Behind the girl
somebody appeared and clutched her by the arm. It was a boy--_the_
boy--but Isaac did not move. Nathan’s alarm exhibited itself in his
voice.

“I awoke and missed thee. Rachel, knowest thou not that whosoever hath
kindled this fire is not far off?” He scanned the darkness anxiously,
but the outlines of the tent were not visible where it lay, outside the
pale of the firelight. “Come, Rachel. Hast thou no fear?”

Her tones were the same low, musical ones he had heard that day: “I was
so cold, Nathan, so cold. I watched a long time and saw no one, the
soldiers from whom we escaped being some distance away as thou knowest,
and I became persuaded that if any but an angel had built this fire it
could be none other than a friend. Even now I feel it so.”

Nevertheless, the boy’s entreaties were not to be denied and after a
time she allowed herself to be led away to their place of concealment.
Isaac noted its direction. He was sick at heart. To think he had had
the opportunity he craved and had not known it. He could have saved her
these hardships and had not done so. And then a savage joy possessed
him. She was his beyond all power of interference. He knew her hiding
place, but he would be careful not to frighten her by any vehemence
of word or action. He would treat her gently, as was due the maiden
who would be acceptable in the great house he called “home.” He would
first provide for her comfort and teach her to trust him, then, when he
offered her honorable marriage, she would accept gladly, gratefully. It
was all so simple. Perhaps it had been best, after all, that things had
turned out this way instead of--

A little hand was suddenly slipped into his and a little voice cried
excitedly: “I saw them by the fire: Rachel, the maid to whom my brother
Benjamin is betrothed, and Nathan. Was it not nice she had her wedding
veil to cover herself before all these strange, rough men? But Benjamin
keepeth my father’s flock out on the hills of Israel and knoweth not
how it fareth with Rachel. Wilt thou send him word?”

The soldier was stunned. He gazed at Miriam stupidly for a moment, for
several moments. At last he seized her face between his hands and held
it where the firelight shone full upon it. “Thy name, little maid,” he
commanded, sharply.

“Miriam, daughter of Caleb.”

He fell back a pace, repeating the words as if to recall memories:
“Miriam, daughter of Caleb ... thy brother keeping his father’s flock
on the hills of Israel.... Benjamin, sayest thou?... Thy village
Hannathon, whose outgoing is the Valley of Jiptha-el.... _Benjamin!_
Ah, strangely familiar hath thy appearance been to me. I wondered whom
thou didst remind me of. And now that I recall it, not only have I
heard thy name but I have seen thee. Thou wert the little maid with
Rachel in the gorge, and there was a lad older than Nathan. ‘Eli,’ his
brother, sayest thou? And I have taken captive Benjamin’s sister! Would
that I had known it six days ago!”

He resumed his old position near the door of the tent, his head buried
in his hands. “And this maiden, Rachel--Benjamin’s betrothed? Nay, it
cannot be.”

But Miriam said it was; said it with so much detail he could not doubt;
said it with a calm matter-of-factness that was torture unspeakable
to the listener, who was ill with disappointment; rebellious at the
thought of failure in that which he had resolved; stubbornly determined
to admit no defeat as long as there was one ray of hope. At last,
finding him quite unresponsive, Miriam crept away to her leopard’s skin
bed and sobbed herself to sleep, not knowing that he was so young and
inexperienced and pain so new and strange that he knew not how to meet
it.

That night he fought the hardest battle of his life, a battle not
with flesh and blood, which were easier to overcome, but with his own
undisciplined spirit, and in the gray of the morning, as he watched
a life embark on the Great Unknown, the better part of him won. When
Miriam awoke he greeted her with the friendly smile she had come to
expect. They would be on the march very soon, he said, but before they
started perhaps they had better talk over something he had in mind, and
then they fell to planning together for the relief of the wayfarers,
Rachel and Nathan.




CHAPTER VI

DAMASCUS


The ninth day, shortly after noon, Isaac’s company neared Damascus.
They traveled slowly, carrying the dead body of their comrade, but not
too slowly for Miriam, to whom grief for the past and uncertainty as
to the future loomed larger than the delights of new experiences. They
paused a moment on the heights above and looked down upon the city.

Isaac pointed with pride: “Seest thou, little maid, that the buildings,
crowded so closely together and all covered with gray plaster, make
Damascus look like a pearl. It is a pearl set in emeralds, for it lieth
in the midst of fragrant gardens and shady orchards which entirely
surround it, and in which thou mayest travel for hours on hours before
reaching the desert. All this is wrought by our two good friends, the
River Abana and the River Pharpar, which hath made Damascus possible.
Without them this would be but desert sands. The Pharpar flows through
the plains to the south of us, but the Abana, like a faithful servant
to her mistress, the Queen of Cities, washes off the dust of her feet.
Every street and every dwelling hath its marble fountain supplied by
the Abana’s cold and sparkling waters. Freely doth it flow for rich and
poor alike. Thou shalt see its wonders and its beauty.”

He touched his horse and they moved on, leaving the exhilarating air
of the hills, traversing roads which lay between fascinating vistas
of garden and orchard, such as he had described, and finally entering
the great, crowded gate. To Miriam the city presented more perils than
the wilderness. The bustle of the streets appeared like confusion; the
gayly colored garments everywhere looked odd, even fantastic, while the
cries of the merchandise vendors and the constant din of conversation
in many voices and many languages were bewildering. She drew closer to
the young captain, imploring, fearful.

He smiled reassuringly. “We stop here, nay, not to dismount but only
to leave the men. This is the ‘barracks’ where I live when I am not at
home, but thou and I go further.”

She grew faint with apprehension. Was she now to be sold as a slave?
But what else could one expect in this terrible heathen city?

They were taking the “farther ride” of which he had spoken. “Seest thou
this splendid temple, little maid? Notice its magnificence and its vast
size. It is the House of Rimmon, the sun-god of the Syrians. Nay, not
my god. If I believe at all, and sometimes I wonder how it is possible
to know which god is the true one among so many, it is Jehovah, whom I
was taught to worship even as thou, my mother being a captive from the
Land of Israel like thee.”

He had not meant to bring that pained expression to Miriam’s face.
All at once he noticed how small she was and how forlorn. His voice
became soothing. “I am taking thee to the house where she went, where
she grew up and married my father, who was chief steward there and an
Egyptian. I was born in that house and call it ‘home’ even yet, for I
am much with my master. It is the House of Naaman, commander-in-chief
of the armies of Syria. I think thou wilt wait upon his wife, Adah. My
sister, Milcah, hath a position of authority among the female servants,
and if she seemeth to thee at first somewhat severe, thou must remember
that she hath much care, so much that her heart hath great ado to show
itself. But peradventure” (questioningly) “thou wouldst enjoy a Quest
for the Hidden Heart?”

Her answer was prevented by their arrival at the largest abode Miriam
had ever seen, and the next hour was a very trying one. She did not
meet the mistress she was to serve. Instead, she was taken straight
to Milcah, the soldier’s sister, the Lady of the Hidden Heart, whose
welcome was critical rather than cordial. After a little while Isaac
bade her good-by for the present, holding her hand tightly.

“Thou wilt be happy here, and I will come often to see how thou doest.
Thou must feel free to tell me everything, just as thou wouldst talk
with thy brother, Benjamin.”

But she would not let him depart. She was in an agony of terror,
clinging to him and begging him piteously not to leave her.

He was perplexed and distressed. Stooping, he caressed her; took her in
his arms and attempted to soothe her in quite a big-brother fashion;
told her about his debt to Benjamin, which he should repay to her;
reassured her about the kindness of those among whom he had brought
her; promised to come every day; tried to divert her attention to the
fountain in the peaceful courtyard and the other beauties around them;
sought to arouse her courage and inspire hope. After a time she became
calm and suffered him to leave, but before going he had a few sharp
words with his sister, Milcah, who had looked on coldly, impatiently,
at these proceedings.

“As if I had naught to do but act as child’s nurse! Assuredly she will
be well treated. Hath anything else ever been known in the House of
Naaman?”

With this ungracious promise he had to be content, but never before had
he taken his way to the barracks with such a heavy heart. He paused
two or three times and looked back, as if debating whether or not to
return, but finally went on. Meanwhile, with expedition and no waste
of sympathy, Miriam was bathed, under Milcah’s direction, and dressed
in garments hastily adapted for the purpose out of those intended for
a much larger maid. The rest of the afternoon time dragged. Miriam,
very forlorn indeed, was yet very brave, as she had promised Isaac to
be. She expected to be put to work immediately, to be given tasks that
would try her strength and patience to the utmost, but, apparently,
there was nothing for her to do.

Venturing into the courtyard, she observed that if the dwelling looked
large on the outside, it was immense within and sheltered a household
so numerous that the arrival of one more made no difference whatever.
Somewhat later she had her supper, a bounteous meal that she could not
swallow for the lump in her throat, and then Milcah sent her to bed
in a large room with several of the maid servants. It was a softer
bed than any she had ever known, but not one of ease. She lay there
thinking, thinking until the intolerable pain in her throat was at last
relieved by tears, but she was careful to smother the sobs lest she
disturb those whose regular breathing told her they were asleep. She
could reach out her hand and touch them, they were so near, yet she was
alone, quite, quite alone! No one cared about her except, strangely
enough, the soldier who had brought her hither! If she could only
cuddle down in her mother’s arms, or her father’s! Oh, the sobs would
not be stifled! What if the Lady of the Hidden Heart should hear?

As if in answer to this despairing cry, Milcah stood, looking down
upon her. “Exactly what I feared,” she commented, “and to-morrow no
work will be done because the sound of thy weeping to-night will go
forth to disturb the household. Thus is mischief wrought by a brother’s
thoughtlessness. Do thou come into the room with me, and if thou must
weep, none will be distressed, for much care maketh me always wakeful.”

Not unkindly though entirely without tenderness, Miriam was assisted to
make the change, but the fountain of tears seemed frozen. For the rest
of the night she lay with wide-open eyes, staring but unseeing, sick
to the very soul. Yet did she not suffer alone. From his comparatively
hard couch over in the barracks, Isaac all at once sprang up, alert,
listening. Noiselessly he crossed the room, opened a door, and stepped
out into the starlight. Still were the voices of traffic and people
which had so terrified Miriam that day. The city slumbered. He looked
across roof after roof to two which towered above the others, ghostlike
in the whiteness of their plastered exteriors. One was the palace, the
other the House of Naaman.

A long, long while he stood there, then he returned to his bed,
laughing softly. “I grow fanciful,” he said to himself. “I dreamed I
heard the sobbing of the little maid. As if I could at this distance,
or as if she were weeping when she hath doubtless been asleep these
many hours!”

Yet for some reason the soldier slept but fitfully the remainder of the
night. Into his passive brain swarmed long-forgotten tales he had heard
at his mother’s knee: tales of her captivity; of her loneliness and
home-sickness; but because he had known her only in days of contentment
and prosperity, they had seemed to him but as tales. Now he understood.
With features drawn as if in pain he groaned: “If only, ah, if only!”

In the morning he went home very early, only to find that the little
maid was too weak and ill to rise.

His sister spoke her mind without reserve. “I am not pleased, Isaac,
that thou shouldst have brought this child hither. She will be much
trouble and little help. We can do nothing now except endure it, but I
hope thou wilt never take captive another maid.”

He promised fervently, and Milcah surveyed his retreating form with
great satisfaction. “When I talk to Isaac,” she told herself, “always
can I cause him to see the right, and no other woman hath such
influence with him--so far.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was truly a wonderful house to which Miriam had come. In the first
place it had no front door. The outside was just a blank wall of gray
plaster with a few small openings, very high up, and instead of a door
there was a gate: a large, highly ornamented, metal gate at which a
keeper always stood. From this you will understand that none of the
rooms looked out upon the street save through those little, latticed
openings above everybody’s heads, the real doors and windows being on
the other side (the inside), where they opened upon a wide veranda
and then upon a square courtyard. You could stand in one doorway, for
example, and see rows and rows of rooms facing the four sides of this
courtyard but not opening into each other.

You might think you would miss seeing the street, but how could you
when the courtyard had its fountain and grass and flowers and trees and
even birds? All of the courtyards were pretty and peaceful, even that
where the animals were kept, the word “all” being used advisedly, for
while most houses had one court or two or three at most, this one had
seven. You would get lost trying to find your way about. The rooms were
large and high, and so clean and well furnished! On three sides were
low and wide benches, where you sat in the daytime and slept at night
on the soft cushions and thick mattresses which were never put away.
There was nothing else in these apartments, but, of course, there was
nothing else to want except the queer little pans containing lighted
wood or charcoal which would be brought in when it was cold.

The portion of the building set aside for the use of the master and
mistress and their guests had not more but only more elegant furniture.
Here the courtyard was paved with marble and inside the apartments
the low and wide benches were made of carved cedar inlaid with ivory
and mother-of-pearl and tortoise-shell in intricate designs. Here the
cushions were covered with beautifully colored silks, the mattresses
with heavier material, and there were curtains of silk and linen and
rugs spread down to walk upon. Miriam, surveying this magnificence
surreptitiously, decided that while it was quite right and proper in
such a place and for such a purpose, it was entirely unnecessary for
the rest of the household. With the rooms and verandas all floored and
kept so clean, who would need carpets? And there were almost no ants
or mice! As for cushions, silk would not wear nearly so long, she was
sure, as the sheepskin and goatskin stuffed with wool which were so
plentiful in the other apartments. The master, Naaman, must be very
rich to maintain such a splendid dwelling. It was awe-inspiring just to
contemplate its glories.

Out of doors it was even more interesting. You could go up a stone
staircase in the corner of one of the courts and come out on the roof.
You need not be afraid. There was no danger. It was only one story
high--although that was very high indeed--and the roof was flat.
Besides, the wall built around the edge would keep you from falling.
You could see so much and so far! You could look down into the narrow
and crowded streets of Damascus itself, where brilliantly garbed
throngs were constantly coming and going on interminable errands,
and beyond that to miles of verdure and swamp land and several
swift, silvery streams, offshoots of the Pharpar and the Abana, and
beyond that still to the long, low-lying bluish-purple hills and the
dun-colored desert. It would be just according to your mood whether or
not your gaze returned to Damascus and fastened itself upon the one
other building more pretentious than this: the palace where dwelt King
Ben-hadad and his court, and then wandered off to the three great gates
of Damascus, through which many entered and some never returned.

There were numerous people in the household of Naaman, almost as many,
she was sure, as lived in a whole “city” in Israel, so it was not
strange they should have different languages. How very dissimilar each
individual was from the other! Odd that we should all have eyes and
ears and noses and mouths and hair and yet no two look alike! The only
person of the entire household whose ways and speech were the least
familiar was Milcah, sister to the young soldier who had brought her
hither, and Milcah was much, much older than her brother and much, much
harder to please.

Isaac’s daily visits and trifling gifts of fruit or flowers, at first
received listlessly, gradually acquired greater value in Miriam’s
eyes until they were the only bright spots on an otherwise monotonous
horizon. The marvels of her new home had no charms for her at first.
They dawned upon her gradually as, day after day, with wan face and
lagging footsteps, and in response to Isaac’s encouragement, she roamed
through the big house, smiling wistfully upon those who were often too
busy to smile in response. She was not resentful. The hurt came in the
fact that they were absorbed in their own affairs, in which she had no
part. And in Hannathon she had been so necessary!




CHAPTER VII

WAYFARERS


The western or southwestern gate of Damascus, that which looked toward
Israel and Egypt, had seen much coming and going of late. Varied
features and varied dispositions, people large and small, old and
young, bond and free, soldiers and civilians, on all manner of business
and pleasure they had passed, but never a couple more likely to attract
attention than the maiden and the boy who now approached. There was
something inexpressibly gentle and refined in her appearance which
contrasted oddly with her tattered garments and the leopard’s skin
drawn closely around her. The boy seemed more fitted for the wilderness
and the hardships they had evidently endured.

They were talking low and eagerly. “Thinkest thou, Rachel,” with a
touch of scorn, “that the Lord would send an angel in these times and
to us as he did to our fathers?”

She was sweetly reasonable. “Then how dost thou explain the fire with
no one near it the night when I thought I should die with the cold;
and this leopard’s skin we found next morning near the embers; and the
food--so much we have had enough and to spare; and the water-skin
filled with life-giving water for which we thirsted; and even these
strips of cloth to bind up our bleeding feet, cut on the sharp
rocks, bruised on the rough road? Nay, no matter what thou sayest,
Nathan, I have learned that Jehovah is merciful and gracious, full of
loving-kindness and tender mercies with which we have been surrounded.
Indeed, now that our perils are nearly over, I feel that all I have
gone through hath been but a spiritual experience. The Lord hath been
my strength, just as Miriam told me, and he is about to become my song.
Soon we shall reach the home of my kinsman, Ezekiel, where we shall not
only be safe and well cared for ourselves, but he will know what to do
concerning Miriam.”

“Look out, Rachel!” Nathan was glaring after a man with a heavy load
who had stumbled against them. “A good thing it is that the road is
straight and smooth. Keep thou close to me and watch thy steps.”

They had need to. As they proceeded the travel increased. They were
jostled; they jumped quickly out of the way of those who rode, only to
be pushed in another direction by those who walked; they met frowns
and ill-natured remarks and, what was harder to bear, smiles and
unmistakable jests. They had about concluded that Might rather than
Right was the rule of the highway when their opinion was confirmed. As
they came within the shadow of the city gates, but before they could
enter, they were espied by a gay party, looking for sport.

By the very simple device of joining hands, a circle was formed around
the two unfortunates and they were thus entirely at the will of their
tormentors. Nathan’s rage and Rachel’s entreaties merely added to the
amusement. The circle advanced and retreated, dragging its victims
along with it. They were mimicked with exaggerated pantomime. They were
forced into ridiculous and undignified postures. One, bolder or more
facetious than the rest, indulged in hair-pulling and pinching.

The roars of laughter attracted the attention of passers-by, who joined
the gathering, some to jeer and encourage, others to inquire and
protest. The crowd grew, the noise increased, the road was obstructed
and, trying to force a passage, many came to angry arguments and
finally to blows. The excitement was quelled only by the arrival of
soldiers, who finally hurried to the scene and in no gentle manner
dispersed the mob. To Rachel, bruised and humiliated, this was a
welcome relief. She did not notice the curious gaze of the soldiers,
the changing expression on the face of one, nor that another looked at
her intently for a moment, then, urging his horse to full speed, set
off in the direction of the House of Naaman.

Nathan, with wits sharpened by terror, lost none of these things nor
a host of others, and hastily came to the conclusion that their
deliverance was cause only for additional fear. He clutched Rachel’s
hand: “We must go back as we came. Hearest thou? We cannot go into the
city to-day. Dost thou not see that these are the soldiers from whom we
escaped? They will know me and guess whom thou art, even without thy
veil.”

He was violently pulling backward; the crowd, so long detained and
anxious to make up for lost time, surging forward. As well try to stem
the Jordan with bare hands! They were swept apart, and before Rachel
realized it, she stood within the portals of Damascus, dismayed and
alone. With Miriam in captivity and Nathan lost, it was more than ever
imperative that she find Ezekiel and that without delay, but how? She
stood at one side of the busy footway, anxiously waiting to see if
Nathan would join her. When he did not and she found herself again
attracting attention, she singled out one in the hurrying throng and
appealed to him timidly: “Canst thou direct me to the House of Ezekiel
in the street of the merchants of Israel?”

The man looked at her, shook his head, and answered in a language she
did not understand. Others she tried, but with no better success. They
were not unkind, merely uncomprehending--and indifferent. Peradventure
if she walked along slowly, constantly seeking, constantly asking,
she might--she must--somewhere discover one of her own people, or
at least one whose speech was the same as her own. Already the sun
was casting long shadows and with a sinking heart Rachel proceeded on
her way, never seeing a soldier who followed her cautiously and at a
safe distance. He also watched the sun. At last he approached near
enough to hear her question, put now not so much with timidity as with
desperation. He addressed her in her own tongue: “I know the man thou
seekest. Thou hast but to come with me.”

Although his pronunciation was distinctly bad, she turned with pleasure
at the words, but at sight of the speaker she shrank back, shivering.

“Thoughtest thou to escape?” He was regarding her with a kind of cruel
exultation. “I have found thee again as I swore I would, and now--”

His hand rested compellingly upon her shoulder. The girl pleaded
tremulously: “Is it not enough that thou shouldst have taken me captive
in Israel? Yet did the God of my fathers preserve me then and later on
the road hither. I shall believe that here in Damascus I shall fare no
worse. Thy name, I know, is Lemuel, and there must be some law, some
protection for the innocent--”

Despite the bravery of the words her voice faltered. She was weary and
heartsick. Had she endured so much only to fall into danger at every
step? Her captor had drawn her within an alley-way and in the fast
gathering dusk the hurrying pedestrians neither saw nor heard aught
amiss. He spoke in a tone of easy confidence, secure in possession, but
Rachel heeded not. She was planning escape, yet weighed down by a sense
of her own helplessness. With a grip on her arm which made her wince
with pain, she felt herself hurried along to an unknown destination.

Emerging upon a less frequented thoroughfare, they unexpectedly
encountered two men on horseback, riding slowly and straining their
eyes into the night as if in search of something or somebody. The man
at Rachel’s side glanced carelessly; again more intently and with
a muttered exclamation partially relaxed his hold. That instant’s
indecision lost him his prey. With a strength at which she wondered
Rachel tore herself out of his grasp and fled, whither she knew not.
A few moments had sufficed to change her into a fugitive, afraid of
people, afraid of the torches which the few travelers still abroad were
compelled to carry. She sought only some dark corner in which to stand
panting and then, afraid lest even its kindly shelter be sinister, to
hurry to another.

It was in the intense darkness and stillness which precedes the dawn
that the girl, utterly exhausted, crouched in the shadow thrown by
a large dwelling and fell into a deep sleep. When the world turned
gray two men on horseback extinguished their torches and approached
the entrance to this abode. The face of one was ashy with fatigue
and disappointment. Observing the huddled figure he bent over it and
uttered a joyful exclamation, beckoning for the other.

“Our search is ended. While we roamed abroad by night, she whom we
sought found her way alone to protection. Quickly, bring food and water
and borrow a cloak from one of the maid servants, while I remain here
to guard the maiden.”

The voices awakened the sleeper. Startled and confused, Rachel
found herself gazing into the face of the very young captain who
had commanded the little company of soldiers under whose escort she
had been brought from Israel. She recalled to mind the respect with
which he had seen to it she was treated; his courtesy the day he
had discovered her hiding place, yet fear made her suspicious. She
would have fled once more, but before she could rise she noticed the
compassion in his look, the deference in his manner. His reassuring
words were spoken in her own tongue and as though it were native to him.

The incident at the gate, he said, and Rachel recalled her experience
with a shudder, had attracted the attention of his servant, who had
brought him word. Together they had sought her through the streets of
the city throughout the night, hoping to aid her, to give her a better
impression of Damascus than she had evidently formed. As they had
returned, almost persuaded that she must have found friends with whom
she was sheltered, they had discovered her asleep, at the portal of the
House of Naaman, of whom she had doubtless heard and who was as good as
he was great. The servant had now gone for some refreshment. When she
had partaken and her strength was somewhat restored, she would permit
him, he hoped, to assist her to make plans for the future.

All at once the nerve-tension relaxed and Rachel found herself
strangely weak and trembling. She answered with puzzled relief: “Thou
dost not look altogether like my people, but thou speakest as one.
Canst thou direct me to the House of Ezekiel, in the street of the
merchants of Israel? He is my kinsman.”

The anxious expression left the young man’s face. “Yea,” he said, “as
soon as thou hast eaten and drunken--and here cometh my servant-thou
wilt find that I am the way. Behold, I go before thee. Follow thou me.”

An hour later Rachel, guided by the soldier, arrived at the street and
the dwelling she had so greatly desired to find, but disappointment
awaited her. “Ezekiel? Yea, he _was_ here,” she was told, “but a month
ago he died and only yesterday his family started back to Israel.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Rachel was not Isaac’s only problem. There was Miriam. That she was
related to the shepherd who had nursed him with tender care through
a long illness meant, to the young man, that he should see to her
welfare; that the gift he had brought his master’s wife from the
enemy’s country should be unappreciated, that the child was unwanted
and unwelcome, stirred him to profound indignation; and that she
grieved for the home and loved ones from which he had ruthlessly taken
her roused his deepest pity.

In compensation he gave her the best of himself--his leisure moments,
his most unselfish thought. All at once he became critical of his own
motives and those of others. Miriam had such an uncomfortable way of
looking him straight in the eye and innocently inquiring, “Thinkest
thou Jehovah would be pleased?” He had never thought before nor cared.
“Jehovah” was a name his mother reverenced and to which his sister was
not indifferent, but it had meant nothing in particular to him. Now,
however, with the obligation of answering the frank questions of this
small maiden, who seemed to believe him the embodiment of wisdom, he
began to observe and compare conduct, to ask himself what was worth
while and why. As the weeks and months went by, such considerations
could not fail to react upon his own ideals nor remain unnoticed by
others.

In his wife’s apartments lingered Naaman, soldier-statesman of Syria.
“What thinkest thou, Adah, of the little maid who is of the Land of
Israel?”

His wife toyed with a silken tassel. “I know not indeed, having seen
her but a time or two and that from a distance.”

“Then thou dost not care for the present Isaac brought thee, with such
elation, from afar?” Something there was in the cool displeasure of the
tone which caused the lady suddenly to remember that Isaac’s parents
had served her husband’s family; that Isaac’s mother had been Naaman’s
nurse; and that Isaac himself had been born in that very house.

She hastened to her own defense. “The maid of whom thou speakest hath
been so woe-begone I felt I owed it to myself not to be troubled by her
sadness. Milcah hath borne tidings of her and I was not attracted.”

His reply was dictated by long observation and much worldly knowledge.
“Milcah taketh precautions lest she be supplanted later. Fear hath
eyes of its own and its vision is oft distorted. Thou wilt be wise,
I think, to judge of the little maid for thyself. It hath been my
experience that where there is a drop of Israelitish blood, there is
trustworthiness. Oft have I wondered if their religion had aught to
do with it. Look thou at Isaac. Because he understandeth the tongue
of Israel, I sent him with Lemuel, kinsman of thy friend, to spy out
the land to the south of us. Of the two, Isaac brought back the more
detailed and reliable information.”

Adah was glad to turn the conversation into this new channel. “Was it
for this thou didst reward him with the captaincy of a small band? My
friends were somewhat displeased, hoping no doubt for such preferment
for Lemuel.”

The man frowned. “Should I not reward justly? Isaac is young, thou
sayest? Ah, but age is not a matter of birthdays. He joyeth in
responsibility.” The speaker smiled. “Hast thou not observed his care
over the little maid?”

Later and alone, Adah, wife of Naaman, sat wrapped in reflection.
It were undoubtedly right and politic to please one’s husband. His
judgment concerning the little maid should be respected. He was
impulsive but astute. Of course, when properly trained, even a tiny
maid would be useful, but oh, the tediousness, the annoyance of the
training! She would be awkward and heedless. Nay, for the present at
least it would be best to wait.




CHAPTER VIII

DOUBTS


Almost six months passed. In the House of Amos, friend of that Ezekiel
who had died, sat Rachel, the scalding tears dropping from between her
fingers. She was not unmindful that Rebekah, wife of Amos, was holding
a guarded conversation out in the courtyard with her bosom friend and
that it concerned her.

“I think her trouble hath affected her mind,” the neighbor was saying.
“When thou wert gone to the Street of the Bakers I peeped in at the
door and she was laughing and crying over a bracelet made of dried
grasses which was hung around her neck. She would have hidden it when
I appeared, but when I insisted upon knowing its history she said it
had been given her by the young shepherd to whom she is betrothed. They
were children then and played at a wedding and she kept the foolish
token. It is the nearest she will ever come to a marriage, poor child,
and I told her so.”

Rebekah nodded.

“Thou knowest,” the other woman continued, “that the soldier who
brought her hither cometh not at all since the first day or two, when
he came to inquire how she fared. Then he did not ask to see her,
nor even when he brought thee the gold wherewith to purchase her new
clothing. Didst thou not think it strange that he wished her to think
the gift came from Amos and thee? To my mind it is plain that he
desireth to be rid of the maiden. Peradventure he is relieved to place
the responsibility with thee.”

Under this positive indictment Rebekah’s double chin quivered. “All
we know of her,” she agreed, “is that some six months ago she came
somewhat after dawn, which hath seemed very odd to me, with a young
soldier, evidently an officer, seeking Ezekiel, and that Amos, in
pity for her distress, took her into our home until we could find out
something about her. Yet, beyond the tale she telleth, we know no more
than at first. Gentle she is and sweet and if what she saith be true--”

Rebekah’s friend regarded her severely. “The minute I saw her with the
soldier I knew that no good would come of it. Thou didst say the same
and her story goeth but to prove--”

The voices sunk lower. Rachel could catch the import but not the words.
However, she had heard enough. They doubted her account of herself
and she had no way whereby to prove it. She might, of course, make an
attempt to find the soldier who had been so kind. His name was “Isaac”
and he had spoken of the great House of Naaman as “home,” but she
hesitated to throw herself upon the mercy of any man. The bitterness of
being allowed a shelter on a sufferance which might terminate at any
time! Where was she to go? What to do? And not for herself alone was
she anxious. What had become of Nathan? How fared it with poor little
Miriam?

       *       *       *       *       *

In the meanwhile Miriam, formerly of the Land of Israel, now of the
Land of Syria but always, at least in her happier moments, a dweller in
the Land of Make-Believe, where you and I once lived, had discovered
something new. By piling the cushions high on that wide bench which ran
around three sides of the room, and standing upon them, she could look
through the window-opening out upon the street. The lattice, which kept
out the bats so nicely, would also prevent anyone on the outside from
seeing the face at the window.

There was so much to be seen close at hand! From the roof, the figures
on the streets of Damascus looked almost as small as had the ants
crawling about their hills in Israel. Why, there was Isaac coming and
he had a timbrel under his arm! She was sure it was for her because she
had mentioned, one day, how much better she could sing the Lord’s songs
when accompanied by music, and they had talked about timbrels. She knew
just how he would give it to her. He would make an elaborate bow and
say: “Fair lady, accept, I pray thee, a fond token of remembrance from
thy faithful subjects beyond the Great Sea who have sent this, through
many and great dangers, by the hand of thy devoted slave.”

She would take it with very grand airs, just as if she were a fair lady
with subjects beyond the Great Sea and it had been sent through many
dangers, when they both knew that he had bought it for her in that
very city in one of those puzzling little shops he had told her about
and which he was going to take her to see some time. She wondered if
it would be the day he would also take her to see Rachel, who was so
happy in the home of Ezekiel’s friend in the street of the merchants of
Israel.

Next she would become extremely grave and tell him that just before
he came into the courtyard somebody had thrown him a kiss. She knew
it for a fact, but he would never guess who it was. At first he would
not believe such a thing, then he would reluctantly admit that she
might have seen a kiss thrown, but it was surely meant for someone
else--Milcah, perhaps. This being denied, he would accept her word for
it, but be very much mystified and make so many wild and improbable
guesses as to the source from which it came that it was a great deal of
fun. At last he would give it up and she would have to tell him that
it was herself. At this he would assume a comical expression of relief
and say that such being the case he was not so distressed because, not
having any little sister of his own, he had adopted her, but if it had
been anyone else--here his tone would become tragic--he would be most
uncomfortable, for, as she knew, he was so bashful. At this they would
both laugh, for he was not bashful at all, and their play would be over.

They would then sit on the marble bench under the damson tree in the
courtyard, where they could see the fountain and hear the birds, and he
would give her a lesson. Every day he taught her a few words of Syrian
and encouraged her to tell him all her experiences since the day before
in that language so that she would the sooner become proficient. Thus
she began to “save up” things to relate and to “pick up” words as she
wandered among the maid servants. He had begun this task as a dreaded
duty. He continued it as a pleasure, finding her intelligent and quick
and her ideas frequently original.

Miriam neither guessed his one-time aversion to these lessons nor his
present satisfaction. He was learning tact as well as patience. She
only knew that he was sufficiently young to grasp her viewpoint just
as Eli had once done--that Eli about whom she was so voluble. “Because
Benjamin had Rachel to talk to,” she explained, “and I am going to
marry Eli when I grow up.” He wondered why he felt complimented that
she should tell him this “secret,” but he did. In response he gravely
approved her choice, and even asked the privilege of being the friend
of the bridegroom, who would, according to Eastern usage, make the
necessary arrangements! The lesson over he would say good-by until the
next day, and when he had gone she always found that the sun did not
seem to shine so brightly.

She was still gazing through the lattice when she was suddenly jerked
down, and a voice she had learned to fear said, indignantly, “I know
the man to whom thou art throwing kisses.”

Miriam fingered her arm ruefully. To get those bruises over that! She
answered a little triumphantly: “Nay, Milcah, it was no man at all. It
was only Isaac.”

There was a sound from the veranda wonderfully like a stifled laugh,
but it passed unnoticed in the excitement. Milcah’s tones were coldly
severe: “In justice I shall have to say that I can find no fault with
thy general conduct, but I have observed that thou art very bold toward
my brother. Shame on thee!”

Miriam was stunned. Bold! Why, to be that was to be the worst thing on
earth, for a bold maiden was never respected. Her mother had told her.
After a long minute she found voice: “Thinkest thou I do not know that
‘men’ are strangers or those who have no right to caress thee? Thinkest
thou my mother hath not warned me to be careful? Isaac is not a man.
He is just--just--Isaac. The same as Benjamin. I almost hated him at
first because he took me from my home”--the words came chokingly--“but
he hath explained to me that he cannot take me back, yet he repenteth
of the evil he hath done and seeketh to make me happy. _Thou_ hast
never been kind--nor anyone else in this big house save Isaac--”

She could say no more, but with heart almost bursting under its load of
grief and misunderstanding, she ran swiftly past Isaac without seeing
him and hid somewhere to weep for the mother she never expected to see
again. Milcah was limp with despair when her brother entered the room.

“At her age _I_ never attracted a man’s attention.”

“Nor at any age, sister.”

The woman glanced at him quickly and beheld what she had never thought
to see in his face--a wrath so great that she cowered before it. His
tones were new and strange: “Oft hast thou told me, sister, of our
great leader, Moses, who met Jehovah face to face in the flaming bush
of the desert. I go to the desert but to fight its wandering hordes of
warriors. Hast thou considered where _I_ am to meet Jehovah? Might it
not be in the pure heart of this little maid? Certainly I have done
nothing to deserve her gratitude and affection, and thou as little;
but if I were worthy, I think there is naught that could hold a man to
higher thoughts and better deeds than the trust and expectancy in the
eyes of a child.”

The speaker departed hurriedly. He too could say no more, for quite
suddenly his own shortcomings swarmed before him like black specters
with murderous intent. Why had he not told Miriam of her brother’s
captivity? Why had he not taken her to see Rachel? Why had he failed
to tell the older maiden of the presence in Syria of her betrothed?
Why had he not sought out Benjamin, as he had long ago promised? Was
it enough that he had assured himself of his benefactor’s safety? Nay,
he lacked courage. That was it: he was afraid, he, a soldier! He was
afraid to lose the flattering confidence of the little maid; afraid to
expose himself to the fascination Rachel still held for him; afraid to
confess the injury he had unwittingly wrought Benjamin, the man to whom
he was indebted. The thought was bitter: he--afraid. Yet it was true.
He would begin reparation by telling Miriam of Benjamin; by taking her
this very day to see Rachel; but she was nowhere to be found and he
went away regretful. On the morrow, if he could obtain permission, he
would be far away. _If_ he could obtain permission! Did he not come and
go at another’s will? The morrow might bring duties elsewhere.

Milcah, when Isaac had gone, sat down weakly upon the bench which had
been the scene of Miriam’s transgression. She was face to face with a
stupendous thought. Her young brother was growing into manhood. He
formed his own opinions and defended them. She had lost her baby! She
said the words over slowly, trying to comprehend; trying to tear loose
her heart-strings; trying to imagine him as he would be in the future.
She was dazed, bewildered, sorrowful. That he should have rebelled
against words spoken for his own good; should have defied her, to whom
he was so dear! The outburst had been so unnecessary, and then her
anger flamed against Miriam. Had it not been for _her_ it would never
have happened. Always was there a maid, large or small, to come between
a man and his family. Had she not seen it? It was the way of the world.
The only thing that saved the present situation was that this was a
little maid. How careful she would have to be never to offend one whom
he loved!

Meditating irritably, she was annoyed to find a small figure in her
lap, a wet cheek pressed to hers: “I am sorry, Milcah, that I said
thou wert not kind. I should have remembered thou wert not brought
up in Israel, and so thou dost not know about ‘showing forth his
loving-kindness in the morning and his faithfulness every night,’ but
be of good comfort, I will show thee how.”

The woman gasped. “I need not,” she commenced indignantly, and broke
off the sentence in the middle, glaring in displeasure but utter
helplessness into the tear-stained face of this unwelcome child who
was taking such unwarranted liberties. No one else would dare! Yet it
was distinctly pleasant to feel those clinging little arms. It roused
one to such unexpectedly human emotions. She wondered how it would have
been if her mother had not frowned upon Somebody. If the brief romance,
so quickly stifled, had come true, if she had married, would a little
maid of her very own be making charming overtures of affection like
this one?

All at once Milcah gathered the child to her bosom, a little awed at
the overpowering sweetness of it but wholly lost in its joy. Without
premeditation she was whispering soft words which had never been used
since Isaac had needed them; words which came falteringly from a tongue
to which they were new and strange; words she had thought never to
speak again. A long time they sat thus while a maid servant peeped in
at the door and, amazed at what she saw, went away stealthily to tell
the tale to those who scoffed at it as impossible.

Thus did Miriam end her Quest of the Hidden Heart, the same having been
found.




CHAPTER IX

INTRODUCTIONS


It was a week later that Milcah’s voice interrupted Miriam’s slumbers:
“Arise quickly and prepare thyself. This day thou goest with me to the
shop of Amos, the perfumer.”

A pair of bright eyes flew open, a cheerful voice answered, and an
agile little body was soon robing itself.

“Nay, not that garment, Miriam, but this which I have had woven for
thee, and sandals for street-wear and this padded cloak. The morning is
cool.”

The recipient of these unusual attentions gazed with delight, touching
the gifts with admiration and wonder. “’Tis so white, Milcah, the robe,
I mean, and it hath such a beautiful border of colored threads. I like
it better than fringe and I never had so fine a cloak before nor such
expensive sandals. They are like a pair sent to Rachel from this very
city by her kinsman, Ezekiel.”

It had been a very different week from any Miriam had passed before.
Milcah’s awkward motherliness had been all the more welcome since Isaac
had been away on business for his master. She had seen him for but a
brief and serious moment.

“When I return,” he had told her, “I must tell thee something thou
shouldst have known before. Also, thou shalt see Rachel, but to-day
there is not time enough,” and he was gone.

The speech had led to much speculation as to what that “something”
might be, but then she was puzzled by quite a number of things in the
new life. For instance, it was not a joyous household. No one was ever
merry, and if any inadvertently laughed aloud, he or she immediately
assumed an apologetic attitude which seemed strange when coupled with
the evident prosperity of the House of Naaman. Also, though of lesser
importance, there was one door in the Women’s Courtyard which never
remained open and through which none passed save Milcah and, less
often, Isaac. Miriam had never asked questions. To her, the Closed Door
was an accepted but mystifying fact just as was the Joyless Household;
just as had been the Lady of the Hidden Heart by whose side she was now
crossing the courtyard.

At a point just outside the gate they met Isaac, who greeted them
hurriedly. He had returned but an hour ago, he said, and was even now
setting off on another errand on which he would be gone a few days.
This being not unusual and Milcah likewise disposed to hasten, they
went their separate ways, but Miriam was distinctly disappointed. He
had not noticed the new garments of which she was so happily conscious;
he had not inquired where she went on this, the first occasion she
had left the House of Naaman since she had entered it; he had scarcely
seemed to see her at all.

Wondering much, she walked very soberly by Milcah’s side, but the
marvelous experiences of the next two hours crowded unpleasant
remembrances from her mind. For the first time she viewed close at hand
the streets and bazaars of Damascus; those crowded streets at which
she had once been affrighted; which she had so often observed from
the roof; which seemed mysteriously shorn of terror now; those small,
stall-like bazaars Isaac had described, crowded with every conceivable
merchandise, salable articles hung on the walls and piled on the
ground, the merchants sitting cross-legged in the center of their
wares. It was all so bewilderingly different from Hannathon, the only
“city” she had ever seen save Damascus!

The stern lines of Milcah’s mouth relaxed into a little smile as she
answered eager, excited questions and looked into the flushed face of
her companion. “The child taketh dress,” she thought to herself. “She
is not so unattractive as at first and she commenteth with intelligence
upon what she sees. Peradventure she may become useful to me. Her
nimble feet may oft save mine own from weariness. At once will I
begin--”

But Milcah’s thoughts received an unexpected check. She stopped short,
amazed and displeased, for there, on the footway of the busy street,
in front of the shop of Amos the perfumer, stood Isaac, talking low and
earnestly with a maiden whose full face was not visible from where they
stood. The two saw only each other, paying no attention whatever to the
jostling throngs which surged past them.

Milcah drew Miriam a little aside: “So this was the meaning of his
haste! Deaf is he and blind to his only sister, and when he is married
he will have time for neither thee nor me.” She was greatly agitated,
and her impressive tones carried an unaccountable chill to the heart of
her listener. She had lost her friend! That was why he had not seemed
to see her that morning. It would always be that way. Miriam brushed
away a tear as the two parted with lingering adieux.

For the first time they saw the face of the girl at whom he was still
smiling, and Milcah was not relieved to note that she was of undoubted
beauty. Evidently, too, she was of Israelitish blood, which made the
situation all the more hopeless. It would be easier to urge objections
against one of another race. With determination she turned to Miriam.

“The maiden went into the House of Amos. With him have I business
regarding perfumes for my mistress and with his wife have I some
acquaintance, so that I may, with no impropriety, inquire the meaning
of what we have witnessed. I would know how long this hath continued
and something of the maid herself. Before I am obliged to accept her
as a sister I desire to learn--”

But Milcah was speaking to empty air. Miriam had already disappeared
within the doorway and when the woman arrived and had exchanged with
the inmates of the dwelling the elaborate courtesies of the East, she
found the child and the strange maiden wholly engrossed in a happy
conversation. The older girl at last became aware of voices near and
questioning, annoyed glances. She looked up with a face transfigured
with joy.

“Two beautiful surprises hath come to me to-day: this little maid and
before that Isaac came--”

Rachel paused, perceiving the sudden coolness with which her words were
received, but lifting her head a trifle defiantly she concluded the
sentence almost with triumph: “And within the month I am to be publicly
betrothed.”

“I suppose,” commented Milcah, “that thou art counting the days.”

The girl looked her steadily in the eye: “I never wanted anything in my
life so much as I want a home in which I may hide from the cruelties I
have suffered since I was taken captive.” She brushed away a tear. “Yet
I would not be ungrateful for all the mercies vouchsafed unto me by the
God of my fathers, nor would I be so unjust to my betrothed as to marry
him if I did not love him much, much more than my own ease or comfort.”

A blush overspread her cheek and she smiled down at Miriam, whom she
was holding in a close embrace.

“Then thou art very sure thou lovest him and wilt make him a worthy
wife; that thou art not taking advantage of his goodness of heart nor
considering thyself first of all.” Milcah’s tone was judicial, almost
accusing.

Rachel answered slowly, wonderingly: “I know not why thou shouldst
ask, but since our vows are soon to be said before the world there is
no reason why I should not tell thee how I love him, have always loved
him--as he loveth me.”

Milcah’s heart sank. Here was confirmation of her worst fears. She
loved him too. She did not wish him to marry this maiden, nor any
other, but if his heart were set in this direction, she would not want
him disappointed. She would try to approve his choice; try to forget
her own loneliness when he should be absorbed in someone else and
forget her, as was natural, as all men did forget their families when
once they were married.

A little hand was laid against her arm, a little voice with compassion
in it was urging her to listen. In the light of what had gone before,
Miriam had understood Milcah’s remarks as Rachel could not; had
comprehended Milcah’s thoughts from the despair on her countenance, and
now came to the rescue of both. With a thrill of being at last needed
she realized that she held the key to an embarrassing situation. How
much more she knew of the whole matter than anyone else present! She
could guess why Isaac had come. Had he not promised to take care of
Rachel for Benjamin, to whom he was indebted? Into an atmosphere thick
with misunderstanding, Miriam volubly poured her explanations.

And now, she concluded, Isaac had gone to bring Benjamin, to whom
Rachel was betrothed, lacking only the public acknowledgment. Not until
Rachel told her did Miriam know he was also in Syria, a captive with
his flock, Isaac having spared to tell her lest she grieve for the
desolation of her parents. Her voice choked. But now that Rachel had no
home (Rebekah winced), she was glad he was near.

“Thinkest thou he will come?” asked Rebekah’s friend, sharply. “Will he
not resent the--the--interest of the soldier?”

Rachel answered with a trace of indignation. “He will be grateful to
the soldier, for much kindness hath Isaac showed me and asked naught in
return.”

Milcah, likewise indignant at the slur, found herself liking Rachel
immensely. In this maiden’s hands her brother’s reputation was quite
safe.

Miriam assured them that he _would_ come and that without delay, and
went on to add numberless details which bore the manifest stamp of
truth, even to the mention of the sandals she was wearing, which were
so very like a pair Ezekiel had once sent Rachel.

Long after farewells had been said and the visitors had departed,
Rachel caressed the grass-woven bracelet strung from a chain around her
neck, oblivious to comments, unheeding the low-toned conference between
Rebekah and her friend.

“The minute I saw her with him,” Rebekah was saying, “never did I doubt
either of them nor the tale they told.”

“Never,” agreed her friend, “and she with looks and ways so like
Ezekiel, as we have often said.”

“Well do I remember,” continued Rebekah, “the gifts he sent to Israel
and with what praise he spoke of this young kinswoman! The child,
Miriam, recalleth it to my mind. A lovable little maid! Ah me, how fast
they grow! To think I should not have known Isaac, a man now and an
officer, when as a lad his sister hath oft brought him to the shop!”

“If only the maiden were betrothed to the soldier!” sighed the friend,
“but to a wandering shepherd!”

“Yea,” Rebekah answered, sorrowfully, “and a sad day will it be for
Amos and me when we shall have to lose our sweet little Rachel!”

       *       *       *       *       *

That visit changed Miriam’s whole attitude toward her new life.
Although her longing for her parents and the old familiar faces and
places remained almost overpowering at times, yet in Rachel’s presence
and Benjamin’s nearness she discovered comforting home ties. The
certainty that her brother would soon be in Damascus and that she was
free to visit her friend, did much to bring contentment. A captive
she might be, but not a prisoner. The color began to come back to the
pale cheeks; she grew more cheerful and energetic, more diligent in
seeking ways of usefulness, and that is how it happened that she had an
adventure while Isaac was gone. She walked straight through the Closed
Door and stepped--not on but still further into--Milcah’s heart.

It was Memory that opened the door and Kindness which escorted her over
the threshold, and it all came about through her new timbrel. She was
singing in the courtyard and inadvertently paused near the Closed Door.

  “Show me thy ways, O Lord;
    Teach me thy paths.
  Guide me in thy truth and teach me;
  For thou art the God of my salvation;
  For thee do I wait all the day.”

Looking up, she was startled to find Milcah at hand with a hesitant
invitation.

“I never told thee before and asked Isaac not to let thee know that our
mother is living, lest thou annoy her. She is old and bedridden, and I
thought she would not enjoy having a child around, but to-day she hath
heard thee singing the Lord’s songs in which she rejoiceth and hath
asked that thou shouldst be brought to her. Dost thou wish to go? She
is a native of Israel.”

“Take me quickly, Milcah. I would be so very glad to sing to her,” and
though the woman looked incredulous, she did not delay.

Behind the Closed Door was a sight that ordinarily would not appeal to
youth, for age is not beautiful in the East. Wrinkled, bald, toothless
and feeble, it excited compassion in the heart of the little visitor.
She went to the bed and spoke kindly, stooping to peer into the weak
eyes and to pat the worn hand. Then, at a command, she picked up her
timbrel and sang again:

  “Blessed be the Lord,
  Because he hath heard the voice of my supplications.
  The Lord is my strength and my shield,
  In him hath my heart trusted,
  And I am helped;
  Therefore my heart greatly rejoiceth,
  And with my song will I praise him.”

That was only the beginning: the beginning of that particular visit
and of others which followed, and in between the songs were snatches
of conversation in the speech of Israel. In her youth the invalid had
been a resident of Tish-bi (or Tish-beh) in Gilead, the cattle country
east of the Jordan, in whose fertile valleys grew the spicy herbs for
medicine and perfume which had made her land famous all over the East.

In her village were the home and kinsfolk of Elijah, the prophet of
Jehovah, whom she well remembered with his long, thick hair, his
girdle of skins and his sheepskin mantle or cloak, and more than one
tale did she tell of his prowess in strength, for, exposed to the
raids of the fierce desert tribes as was Gilead on the east, every man
must be a soldier at need. She told of the prophet’s earnestness and
eloquence, his stormy moods of exaltation and despair, his wanderings,
his sudden reappearances where least expected, his invectives against
Baal by which he had roused the ire of the foreign Queen Jezebel, his
miraculous escapes from personal danger and the staggering blow he
finally gave Baal-worship on Mount Carmel.

Only through Miriam’s eyes, however, did she know Elijah’s successor,
Elisha the Healer, the civilized man who dwelt in cities, who for the
most part went about displaying the loving-kindness of Jehovah rather
than his terrible might; whose task it was to build up as Elijah’s had
been to destroy; who established the prophetic Guilds wherein the Law
which had been so long forgotten was once more taught. And then Miriam
and her new friend fell into more personal confidences, comparing
notes as to their coming to Syria, their impressions, their longings,
weeping and smiling together and parting only to visit again at the
earliest opportunity.

Thus did Hope, nature’s most renowned and successful physician,
undertake the cure of the little maid’s wounded heart as, far away, it
was doing likewise for her mother, though Miriam knew it not.




CHAPTER X

HANNATHON


The village or “city” of Hannathon in the Land of Israel saw startling
changes as a result of the Syrian raid. Gone were the flocks and herds;
gone were the stores of oil and wine; gone was the lately garnered
grain, and they who had journeyed to Jerusalem to the feast returned to
scant supplies. It was Eli who waited for them at the foot of the hill
and broke the news to the little companies as they arrived, but Caleb,
father of Miriam, came not.

“He tarrieth a day or two behind us,” said his friends, and Eli waited
impatiently one day and a second and yet a third after the last of his
townsmen had straggled up the hill. Then it was Sarah, and not Caleb,
who met his view, riding dejectedly her faithful and weary beast and
leading the other, on the back of which was bound something still and
covered.

As Caleb had traveled, making what haste he could in pleasant
anticipation of home and family, he had been set upon by thieves. He
had not risen from the narrow, rocky road in which he had fallen from
the blows of the robber band, but the timely arrival of other pilgrims
had doubtless saved her from the same fate. They had dragged his
body into a convenient cave while they tried frantically to restore
breathing, but finding it quite useless they had bound the burden to
the back of his patient ass and accompanied her to within sight of
Hannathon.

In the pitiful horror of her tale Eli felt that his own was matched. If
he could only spare her! But he could not, and told her as tenderly as
possible. She listened numbly, without exclamation, without tears. It
was as if brain and nerves had already borne more than they could take
cognizance of. After a time he helped her up the hill, where Judith was
waiting; waiting in dread of the displeasure she knew she merited, yet
keyed up to defiance. There was, however, no harsh rebuke. In fact,
Sarah seemed scarcely to recognize her as she leaned heavily upon Eli.
Hastily Judith unrolled the thickly padded rug or quilt which served as
a bed and the two laid her upon it. Without a word she turned her face
to the wall and Eli beckoned the girl to the door, where he whispered
the sad news concerning Caleb.

Later in the day a crowd of white-faced men and women laid the body
reverently away and sealed the rocky tomb with a heavy stone. Sarah,
on her bed, appeared unconscious of all that passed, and Judith would
not leave her. After doing a hundred things which occurred to her as
necessary for the bodily comfort of her kinswoman, the girl patiently
watched the long night through, the one witness to Sarah’s dumb agony.
Eli was, of course, with his mother. A neighbor, coming to offer her
services, had said that Hannah might not live.

Mad fancies took possession of Judith that awful night. She had the
feeling that every hour was a year and that, by morning, she would be
an old, old woman. Again, she was a mother, brooding over a sick babe,
and she stroked the head on the mattress and murmured soothing words.
At other times she had a wild desire to shriek, to tear her hair, to
stamp and rave, but in the presence of that awful stillness came peace.
In the gray of the morning she opened the heavy front door and let in a
stream of sweet, cool air. As she stood there her mind cleared.

There was something tangible about that long street with its
flat-roofed houses, seen dimly through the mist; there was something
tangible about that silvery rim rising higher and higher in the east
and gradually dissipating the shadows; there was something tangible in
the chill wind that swept over and around her. In a little while she
would go for fuel. They would enjoy the warmth of a fire even if there
was little to eat. As she turned back into the house Sarah broke her
long silence. She was holding something in her hand and peering at it.

“Neither husband nor son,” she was saying in a voice very unlike her
own, “but this--_this_--which can avail nothing; this for which hath
been spent the earnings of years; this for which Caleb was slain and
which was yet not found because I had hidden it; this which hath no
power to avenge my daughter or to bring me back my loved ones or to do
aught but torment with its impotency.”

Raising up on her elbow, she threw out of the door whatever it was she
held in her hand, and lay back exhausted. After a moment she went on in
that strangely rambling tone: “Neither husband nor son to avenge the
captivity of my daughter; to--”

A tall form stood in the doorway. It was Eli. At the words he came
forward and bent over the figure on the pallet, his hot tears dropping
on her face.

“The son who is without a mother shall care for the mother who is
without a son. An hour ago my mother fell victim to the soldier’s
sword.” He clinched his hands and drew a long, sobbing breath. “I will
avenge thy daughter and my brother and my mother. For one thing only
will I live henceforth: to follow into Syria those who are gone; to
find them and to secure their ransom. Their sorrows shall be mine;
their weeping shall be even as mine own, and woe unto him by whom they
were taken!”

The woman seemed strangely excited. She rose unsteadily and tottered
to the door. “I threw away that which would help thee to accomplish
thy vow. It was a pearl, a pearl of great price which we brought from
Jerusalem, meaning to give it to Miriam when she is older.”

Attempting to cross the threshold she fell, overborne by lack of
nourishment, weariness and grief. Eli raised her with his one good arm
and he and Judith again laid her on the bed. He lingered, speaking
comforting words the while: “When it is fully light we will look for
thy pearl. Fear not, it shall be found. Judith and I will seek--” but
Judith was slipping hastily away.

“I go for firewood,” she explained, and partially closed the door
behind her. Once outside and assured that Eli still sat beside her
aunt, she sank to her knees and groped upon the ground. Handfuls of
earth, sticks and stones, thorns and stinging ants rewarded her search,
but she cared not. The sun rose higher and she lifted her head in
smiling thankfulness. At last she rose, rejoicing, clutching something
in her hand, hugging it to her bosom.

She was about to re-enter the house when, far below her, she espied
the familiar figure of a man. In demonstrative Eastern fashion he was
beating his breast and pouring dust upon his head, customs indicative
of overwhelming sorrow. The girl suddenly changed her mind and went
down the hill, passing the man but paying no attention to him. Half
an hour later he passed her where she was industriously and demurely
gathering brush. In the common calamity Eastern etiquette might well be
disregarded. He stopped to speak to her as though she had been a man
and an equal.

“Woe is me,” he began. “Gone are my flocks and herds; gone are my
stores of wine and olives; gone is my newly garnered grain; naught
remaineth but the bare fields wherewith to mock me while famine and
sickness and death stare our village in the face.”

“Not to mock thee, my lord,” she replied, her voice low from
nervousness and the fear of being overheard by some unsuspected
passer-by, “not to mock thee do thy fields stare thee in the face, but
to save us from the disasters thou dost mention.”

His tones held surprise and a certain amount of incredulity. “A prudent
mind is thine, but long will it be until next harvest, and how shall we
live until then?” He regarded her shrewdly while she made answer.

“In our house is a little food; in Hannah’s a little more; probably
some remaineth in every dwelling. Do thou go quickly, my lord, gather
up whatever there be and put it in thy storehouse. Then it shall be
that day by day the people shall come unto thee for food and thou shalt
apportion it, so-much and so-much for each person. Thus shall the
gluttonous divide with him that hath little and so shall all be fed.
Fear not, thou shalt plant and reap in due time. Hasten, my lord, the
village waiteth upon thee.”

In his eyes was frank admiration. “Wise are thy words and quickly will
I do as thou sayest, but how thinkest thou I can plant without seed and
reap with nothing wherewith to sow?”

Judith’s hand opened and trembling a little she held before his dazzled
eyes the pearl she had just found: “A jewel, my lord, given unto me by
my father and kept hidden until now. Do thou take it and go unto other
cities and buy seed. So shalt thou and I and the village be saved from
death and thy prosperity come again. Only, I pray thee, tell no one
whence came the pearl.”

She paused, a world of entreaty in her manner. He assented, his hand
clutching the jewel, but his eyes fastened upon her.

“Most discreet art thou of all the women of Israel and long hath my
soul cleaved unto thee. I will do as thou sayest, and when I return it
shall be, if thou thinkest well, that I shall ask for thee at the hands
of thy kinswoman, Sarah, and thou shalt be my wife.”

Judith stooped without haste and picked up her bundle of brush. “Yea,
my lord,” she murmured, preparing to leave him and dropping her eyelids
to hide an exultant gleam, “thy servant shall be obedient unto thy
wishes in the matter.”

Halfway up the hill she paused and looked back. He was diligently
examining the pearl. Her lip curled slightly.

“Thy _soul_ cleaveth unto me, thou sayest? Nay, for hereabouts they say
thou hast none.” She laughed to herself. “When a faithless Israelite
taketh unto himself a wife who is a ‘heathen’ they who know us will
say that no worse fate could come to either. And when the two who are
most despised form an alliance, each should know that there is no
friend save in the other.”

The sun had risen fully when Judith returned to the house. Eli, groping
unavailingly upon the ground, drew her aside for a whispered word. “No
pearl can I find and she had not strength to throw it far. Thinkest
thou she had the jewel but in a dream? Thinkest thou that sorrow hath
affected her mind?”

The girl drew a breath of relief and letting fall the brush pretended
to assist him in the search. “Yea,” she assented with apparent
reluctance, “surely it is as thou sayest, and she but dreamed. As if
she would cast away a valuable pearl! Nay, but thou hast spoken the
truth,” and sighing heavily she passed into the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

Adah, wife of Naaman, was slightly indisposed. Restlessly she tossed
on her silken pillow, wooing in vain the sleep which came fitfully and
with disturbing dreams. Her attendant had departed on some errand when
through the open door there stole a small shadow. Softly it moved about
the room for a few moments, touching this and changing that, then it
came and stood over the fair form of the mistress of this magnificent
home. It stooped, straightened up as if considering, then bent hastily
and kissed gently each eyelid. The eyes flew open in bewilderment and
at the same moment a delighted little voice exclaimed:

“I knew it would. It never faileth. I have been looking at thee for a
long time through the open door and thou wert so restless I thought
it better to wake thee up entirely while I give thee a fresh, cool
pillow,” suiting the action to the word, “then will I kiss each eyelid
again and thou wilt go straight to sleep. Dost thou notice how I have
propped these other pillows to shut out the light, and drawn the
curtains so they will sway with the breeze and make thee think thou art
breathing the sweet air of the courtyard? There, I have smoothed thy
robes and thou wilt be much more comfortable. Now, a kiss here--and one
on this eye--nay, open them not; thou must not get too wide awake, for
I have not time to sing thee to sleep to-day. There--sh--sh!”

The object of these unexpected attentions drew a satisfied sigh. It was
pleasant to be put so entirely at ease without having to think about
it at all. The others fussed so and it grew monotonous to be giving
directions continually. She had never been taken possession of in just
this way before. Everybody else--even Milcah--was so irritatingly
anxious to be dignified and proper. There was nothing disrespectful in
these quiet tones. It merely showed sense. A moment later there floated
through her drowsy consciousness the startling intelligence that this
must be the little maid of Israel whom she had so dreaded until
“trained.” Taking care not to open the eyes so surprisingly closed,
the lady murmured a command to stay right there lest she should want
something farther.

“I should like to,” Miriam answered serenely, “but thou hast everything
thou wilt need for quite awhile because thou wilt be asleep. I have
to take my timbrel now and sing to Milcah’s mother. She is much, much
older than thou and needeth me much, much more, but I will come again
to see thee when I can spare the time,” with which cheerful assurance
Miriam betook herself off with the gladness of being at last wanted.

Her newest acquaintance, so unceremoniously disobeyed for the sake of
duty, lay there smiling and then--to her own amazement as she thought
about it afterward--actually went to sleep as she was bidden and awoke
refreshed, as the little maid had said. She awoke too with a delightful
sensation of anticipation, wondering how and when this astonishing
child would keep her promise of another visit. Nay, she would not send
for her lest it mar the charming spontaneity of the occasion and, had
Miriam but known of this, she might also have known that Adah was not
accustomed to looking forward with pleasure. To her, life had become a
weary round of sameness with dread calamity as its certain goal.




CHAPTER XI

CONFESSION


Somewhere out on the Syrian hills a shepherd was engaged in a most
interesting occupation. At the door of the sheepfold he was holding
a light rod, forked at one end, under which the flock passed as he
counted. It was always the last task of the evening.

“Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. So far nothing hath
disturbed thee through the day now gone. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine.
Nay, Master Bold, thou wilt wait thy turn. Eighty, eighty-one,
eighty-two. Come, thou timid one, thy mother is already in and calleth
for thee. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five. Now, Bright Eyes,
what mischief art thou up to? This rod is a means of counting, but it
can be turned into a means of punishment if it be necessary to make
thee see thy duty. Eighty-six, eighty-seven. Nay, not so much crowding
there. Youth is eager, knowing not that time is long and weariness
certain. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. What, my pearl, the heat of
the day hath been too much for thee? Wait thou.”

The shepherd hastily dipped his fingers in the horn of olive oil that
hung at his belt and anointed its temples.

“There, so shalt thou be refreshed, and here, do thou drink of this cup
of cold water which overfloweth for thee.”

The needy one attended to, he went on with his count of the others.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two--”

Two horsemen approached, the one behind leading a third animal which
was without a rider. At a sign, the one with the led horse halted while
the other dismounted and with some impatience waited until the long
enumeration was finished. Then he advanced toward the shepherd.

“Peace be unto thee.”

“And to thee,” the shepherd made answer. “Thou art in uniform. Hast
thou orders for thy servant? Quickly, thy name and errand. One of my
sheep hath strayed and I go to seek it, hastening lest the darkness
descend and I be unable to find it.”

“Well thou knowest, Benjamin, that I am Isaac, servant to Naaman,
commander-in-chief of the armies of Syria, but I come on a private and
not on an official errand. Lead thou the way and I will go with thee.”

There was an awkward silence broken at last by the soldier: “Thou art
looking somewhat haggard since I saw thee last, Benjamin.”

“I have passed through much sorrow of spirit, Isaac.”

“But surely thou hast no fault to find with thy treatment. Thou hast
a well-built sheepfold: the long, low buildings to shelter thy flock
in storms, the large space for them to roam in when thou dost not
bring them to pasture, and the whole surrounded by wide stone walls,
surmounted by sharp thorns to keep out wild beasts. Nor have we a hard
master to serve. Thy faithfulness and ability will be noted by those
who have charge of such matters for the king.”

The shepherd’s tones were infinitely sad: “Could any reward compensate
my parents for the loss of their only son; for their loneliness and
grief and real need of me? Could any reward make up to my little sister
for the brother who should guard and guide her? Could any reward atone
to me for the loss of my well-beloved, my betrothed?”

The light was already dim as they stumbled over the rocks and through
patches of woodland, the long briars catching at their garments and
tearing the flesh. They passed another sheepfold. Benjamin raised his
voice in a shout: “Hast thou found a sheep which is lost?”

Clearly the answer came back: “Nay, we have none but our own.”

Sighing, the shepherd went on, the soldier abreast of him.

“I have come to redeem my pledge, Benjamin.”

The other’s face was sadly accusing. “Here, on these lonely hills, with
only the fast-falling night for a witness, and not before the eyes of
men?”

The soldier’s face flushed. “If thou meanest our last meeting on the
way hither, I had thought thou wouldst understand. It was through no
information furnished by me that thou wert taken, nor was it by my
band. Naaman is Captain of the Host. I have but a few men under me and
my authority is small. I could not help thee then. Besides, thou wert
in no personal danger, else I would have risked it. It was thy flock of
which Eleazer’s company was so proud. They took thee because the sheep
knew thy voice but a stranger would they not follow, fleeing from any
but thee.”

A contemptuous smile played around Benjamin’s mouth. He unclasped from
his wrist a broad gold bracelet and handed it to Isaac.

“I thought thou wouldst be apt to consider this too costly a token,” he
said.

A pained look crossed Isaac’s face. “I redeem it with what hath cost me
more: the delight of a woman’s presence and a woman’s sweetness and a
woman’s wonderful devotion which otherwise might have been mine. I have
come to invite thee to a wedding--thine own wedding--with Rachel of
Hannathon in the Land of Israel.”

The shepherd was plainly startled. “Thou hast come to ask me to marry
my betrothed? I do not understand.”

“She was captured about the time thou wert by one of the men in my
company,” the soldier explained. “I am glad to say I was able to save
her from familiarity at the hands of the soldiers--”

“For which I am grateful to thee, Isaac.”

“But three days’ journey from Damascus she left us with another
captive, a young lad called ‘Nathan,’ being sore afraid. By accident I
discovered her hiding place, but knew not it was the maid of my dreams,
she being enveloped in her wedding veil, as I afterward learned it was.
Nevertheless, I discovered her identity in time to soften the hardships
of the journey with food and water, together with the leopard’s skin
thou gavest me, her clothing being insufficient protection against
the cold winds which swept down from the Lebanons. I was quite sure
the two would come to Damascus, so I had the gate watched and word
brought to me of her arrival. She appeared to be alone, the boy having
disappeared, and though she had wandered far out of her way in the
city, I found her after some search and conducted her, as she desired,
to the street of the merchants of Israel. Her kinsman, however, whom we
sought, had died a month before.”

Benjamin’s voice betrayed uneasiness. “And then?”

“And then I found lodging for her in the house of one, Amos the
perfumer, also of Israel, since which time she hath been there cared
for, provided with necessary raiment and awaiteth thee, desiring that
thou come quickly.”

Benjamin’s attitude became questioning. “It is now the height of the
rainy season. All this occurred months ago and I hear but now.”

“Thou art hearing as soon as it was convenient for me to bring thee
word. Am I in a place of authority? Do I not come and go at another’s
bidding? Besides, it was but little more than a week ago that she told
me of the whispered conversations which always break off when she
appeareth, the averted glances and, almost worse than this, the pitying
kindness of her friends--”

The shepherd’s face grew white and stern. “Then didst thou think
it was time to send for the one who would not fail her? I suppose,
Isaac, _thou_ hast not thought of marrying the maiden--considering the
circumstances.”

The soldier sought to restrain his anger. “I did,” he answered, “or at
least I would have had it not been for another maiden to whom I would
have found it hard to explain matters. This other--”

“I see it all,” the shepherd responded, bitterly. “Having a little
authority and noting that the maid was fair, she was thy lawful prey,
whereas the maiden who is surrounded by care and affection thou canst
not bear to offend. My little Rachel, pure as the snows of Hermon, and
entirely at thy mercy--”

He raised his stout staff. The soldier threw up one arm to ward off the
blow but he did not draw the short sword which hung at his girdle.

“Thou dost not let me make myself clear,” he said, gently, “but thou
shalt know for thyself. And another sorrow I have unwittingly brought
thee. At the same time that Rachel was taken by my band, Miriam was
also captured, although I knew not she was thy sister.”

Benjamin lowered his staff, grief succeeding indignation. “And what of
her? Tell me.”

“I have myself seen to her welfare, and my errand here is to tell thee
of both maidens and to conduct thee to them that thou mayest assure
thyself--”

Benjamin assented briefly. At that moment his keen ear detected the
far-off bleat of a sheep. Guided by its cries, he made his way to it
as quickly as possible and with his light, hooked rod disentangled
its wool from the cruel thorns which caught and tore his own flesh
meanwhile. Catching the forelegs together with one hand and the
hindlegs with the other, he swung the exhausted animal over his
shoulder and began retracing his steps. Isaac followed, a dozen times
essaying to reopen the subject upon which he had come prepared to
speak, and a dozen times being repulsed by the gloom in which Benjamin
seemed wrapped.

They passed the sheepfold where inquiry had earlier been made and the
shepherd raised his voice in a shout, “Rejoice with me, for I have
found my sheep that was lost.”

Arriving at last whence they had started and the weary and injured
animal tenderly cared for, Isaac and Benjamin took opposite sides of
the fire, each preferring the company of his own bitter thoughts to
conversation. A recumbent shepherd kept watch before the door of the
fold. Two more slept. To use the tongue of Israel would have been
to insure privacy to the message, but each waited for the other. If
Isaac were sufficiently penitent, thought Benjamin, he would talk even
though the words came falteringly. As it was, his errand was one of
expediency and no real satisfaction would be gained by forcing from his
lips details of the confession he should make voluntarily. If, thought
Isaac, Benjamin wished to ask questions, he would answer them fully,
but why give unasked information which was distorted and misunderstood
as soon as uttered? And so, each nursing a sense of injury, the long
night passed.

A couple of days were spent in making preparation for the care of the
flock while Benjamin should be away, and the fourth they started for
Damascus. At dawn a gentle rain was falling. The substitute shepherd
was delighted. Since the flock must remain within shelter of the
fold while the storm lasted, it were that much easier cared for. To
the three whose horses stood waiting, the rain mattered not at all.
Benjamin moved here and there, giving directions and making sure that
all was well before his departure. Once he paused and took a sick lamb
in his arms:

“I go to bring another,” he whispered, tenderly, “bruised and wounded
as thou art, but her spirit, like thine, shall be healed with the oil
of loving-kindness.”

An hour later he was riding across the rain-soaked plain, the other
horseman a little in advance, the servant in the rear. The two
foremost were quite unchanged, the one lost in the depths of profound
irritation, the other in melancholy, and neither speaking save when
their common errand made it necessary.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miriam took an early opportunity of again calling upon the mistress
of the household. She felt no sense of obligation beyond her promise.
The visit was entirely a friendly one and was so understood. On the
threshold she paused with a bright smile of greeting, which was
cordially returned. Entering, she found a cushion of the right height,
threw it upon the floor and sat down, resting her arms confidingly on
Adah’s lap, studying the face above hers.

“I have noticed how sad thou art, and I think it is the way thy house
is built. Thou wouldst not be nearly so lonely if thy dwelling were
like ours in Israel: all in one big room with the animals in one part
and the family on a raised floor in the other. Of course thou hast too
large a household for that, but thou dost not know how comforting it
is to hear the animals stamping around in their stalls at night and on
rainy days. Here it is so quiet I cannot sleep sometimes.”

Adah frequently did not sleep, but she had never attributed it to the
silence.

“If thou couldst but rise early in the morning,” Miriam continued with
animation, “and grind the wheat--thou art so rich thou couldst have
an ass or a camel harnessed to the mill to do the hardest part of the
work--and if thou couldst make up the dough quickly and bake it in
cakes for thy family’s breakfast, it would give thee so much delight.
Hast thou never tried it?”

“Not the pleasure of toil, Miriam, but I have sometimes wondered--”

“And if thou wouldst pretend to find fault because thy bread is eaten
so fast and thy husband would pretend to find fault because thou hast
not baked enough, and he would caress thee and say thou canst bake the
best bread to be found in any house in Israel--I mean in Syria--it
would be such joy to thee. Hast thou never known this?”

“Not the joy of service, Miriam, but I have often thought--”

“And if thou didst see to the clothing of thy entire household instead
of having Milcah do it for thee; I mean the spinning and weaving and
washing, and couldst look after the conduct and instruction of thy men
servants and thy maid servants. If, while thy husband sits in the gate,
judging the cause of the people, thou wert also considering the needs
of the poor, thou wouldst never have time to be sad. Hast thou never
done these things?”

“Not enough to give me the happiness of being necessary, but I have
sometimes envied those who were.”

Adah recollected herself with a start. To be making such undignified
admissions! Her countenance settled back into its old lines of haughty
indifference and Miriam was quick to notice the change. She took the
older face tenderly between her hands and kissed it, quite unaware that
she was not expected to take such liberties. Her voice was full of pity:

“Thou dost look so sorrowful. I never knew before how much thou dost
need me. I can teach thee so much. I will show thee how to be happy.”

Adah thought it extremely doubtful, but it would have been cruel to
discourage such cheerful confidence. Besides, she saw a loophole of
escape from an embarrassing conversation: “Thou hast no time to give to
me.”

Miriam pondered. “I will take time,” she said with decision, “just as
much as I can spare from Isaac and Milcah and their mother.”

She ran to the door and looked appraisingly at the position of the sun
on the courtyard foliage.

“I must go now,” she said; “it groweth late. See how the shadows
lengthen?”

Adah, left alone, smiled, then she sighed. Alas, that the sorrow of the
House of Naaman should be past the little maid’s generously offered
assistance, past the ability of the wisest men and the greatest gods of
Syria!




CHAPTER XII

UNDERSTANDING


Out on the Syrian plains three horsemen plodded steadily through the
storm. At last they halted, shivering, in the shelter of a great rock.
One went about the necessary preparations for a slender meal, another
faced his companion contritely.

“I am so sorry, Benjamin. I--”

“We usually are, Isaac, when we see what sorrow is wrought by our
wrongdoing.”

“I have been trying to put myself in thy place, Benjamin. I can realize
something of what thou hast suffered. I admit that it is all my fault
that--”

“I have never thought of blaming anyone else, Isaac.”

“I wish,” impatiently, “that thou wouldst let me explain. I was greatly
surprised that--”

“I am sure of it, Isaac. We go along doing what we want instead of what
we ought, and we are always surprised when God’s ‘Thou shalt not’ makes
us stop and think.”

The other made a gesture of despair. “Have I lost thy confidence
entirely? If thou wouldst but let _me_ tell the story instead of
telling it thyself in thine own way, thou wouldst be better prepared--”

“Rachel and I have been companions since babyhood, Isaac, and never
have I been unprepared for her lightest wish, nor am I unprepared now
for her dire distress. As for my sister, it will go hard with thee if
thou hast allowed ill to come to a child.” He closed his lips in a way
that revealed both strength and determination.

The soldier faced him without flinching. “We near Damascus,” he said,
coldly, “and it is necessary that we speak of certain arrangements.
We wish to observe the usual customs, but our situation is peculiar:
that which is usually furnished by the family of the maiden we must
ourselves provide. Rachel will need festive robes and a veil and a
girdle and a chaplet for her flowing hair, not mentioning the perfumery
and the jewels which every bride desireth, and saying nothing, also, of
_thy_ festive robe and nuptial wreath and the myrrh and frankincense
for thine adorning.”

The shepherd buried his face in his hands. “Not once have I thought of
these things, but only of her need of me. And I a captive, without even
a trinket I can sell, and my flock the stolen property of an enemy!”

Isaac tapped the bracelet so lately transferred from the other’s arm to
his own. “I anticipated this when I asked for my pledge. When sold, as
I intend it shall be, it will provide all and more, but I am curious
to know why thou wert allowed to keep the token. Eleazer’s band which
took thee is not noted for its gentleness nor its generosity.”

“I know not the reason, Isaac, save that I fought for it once and twice
and thrice and was not overcome.”

His tone was abstracted; now it became passionate: “But thinkest thou I
would take so much from thee--from _thee_?”

Isaac spoke soothingly: “Peradventure not for my sake, Benjamin, but
for Rachel--whom we both love!”

The shepherd looked up quickly. “Love?” he queried, his mood changing
to contempt. “But the other maiden more.”

Isaac laughed. “The other maiden--” All at once he became serious.
“Thou wilt understand when I tell thee--” but a glance at his
companion’s forbidding countenance caused him to shut his lips in a
grimness which was not lost in their short resting time, nor in the
several miles which they traveled, nor even in Damascus itself. Only
once was there speech between them and that was as they entered the
city gates.

It was Benjamin who broke the silence. “Thou hast told me of Rachel,
but not of my sister. Take me, therefore, first to Miriam that I may
know for myself how she fareth.”

Isaac bent his head stiffly. “It is well,” he said, and led the way to
the largest and most magnificent dwelling the shepherd had ever beheld.

       *       *       *       *       *

To her mistress, Miriam spoke Syrian as far as possible; to Milcah,
either Syrian or the speech of Israel, more often a mixture of the
two, but to Milcah’s mother it was joy unspeakable to use only her
native tongue. Unfortunately, this pleasure was not to last. The
feeble strength waned fast, and one morning Miriam ran swiftly to
Milcah, imploring her to hasten to the invalid. She herself sped to the
gatekeeper.

“Do thou send to the barracks and there leave word that Isaac come home
as soon as he arriveth in Damascus. His mother--”

For reply the gatekeeper pointed to the street. In company with two
others he was just dismounting. The gate was opened for them and a
breathless little figure, tense with excitement, rushed into his arms,
unmindful of his companions.

He bent his head over hers for a moment, listening to her broken words,
then, with a courteous explanation to the stranger, he hurried down
the courtyard and turned into that in which his mother’s room was
located. Miriam started to follow, her mind intent upon this new grief,
but a hand touched her on the shoulder and she looked into the brown,
questioning face of her brother.

The warmth of her welcome left him no room for jealousy of Isaac.
Both faces beamed as genially as the sun, which had finally succeeded
in dispersing the clouds and drying up the rain drops. She guided her
visitor to the spot that she and Isaac liked, the seat under the damson
tree near the fountain. He gazed in wonder at his surroundings, at the
richness and beauty everywhere, marveling that she seemed so much at
ease amid all this magnificence. It was so different from what he had
expected to find, nor could he understand the greeting he had just
witnessed between herself and Isaac.

“Art thou not afraid of the man who took thee captive?” he asked.

Radiant with the happiness of her brother’s coming and clinging to him
as if he were a pleasant dream which might be lost, she answered quite
serenely: “Afraid of Isaac? Nay, thou canst not fear one who loveth
someone thou dost love.”

He thought she referred to Rachel and it was like the thrust of a knife.

“Ever conscious is he, Benjamin, of the debt he oweth thee. He hath
told me.”

The shepherd was bitterly incredulous.

“Before thou seest Rachel,” she went on, “I must tell thee something
she knoweth not I have learned.”

A stern look crept into Benjamin’s face.

“Rachel liketh Isaac very much indeed--”

The shepherd paled. This possibility had not occurred to him.

“But I think Isaac liketh her not at all, else he would have visited
her.”

Benjamin uttered an exclamation, but she was too full of the importance
of her discovery to pay attention. She continued impressively, looking
around to make sure she was not overheard:

“Not since he found her, cold and tired and hungry, just outside this
wall one daybreak and conducted her to the street of the merchants of
Israel, where Amos and Rebekah took pity upon her distress, never once
did she see him until the morning. I went with Milcah and we found him
talking to her on the footway. He had stopped just a moment to tell her
that he and his servant were starting to bring thee. I think he would
have done nothing for her at all, not even on the way hither, if she
had not been thy betrothed. He would not even promise to help her when
I first asked. Wouldst thou not have supposed he would consider her as
sweet and beautiful as thou dost and I?”

The shepherd was too bewildered to reply at once. “Art thou very sure
of what thou sayest?” he finally stammered, an odd excitement in his
manner. “Thy words sound strange to mine ears. I would hear all thou
knowest,” and Miriam was very obliging.

Beginning with the last time he had visited their home in Israel
(which had been a few days before their parents went to the feast at
Jerusalem; when he and Rachel had come to a full understanding), she
told him all that had befallen her and what she knew concerning Rachel.
He heard with varying emotions, and all too soon Isaac stood before
them. On his face was the dignity of sorrow. The gladness died out
of Miriam’s countenance; his grief was hers. He pressed the hand she
slipped into his and addressed Benjamin.

“My mother--” he began and his voice broke. In a moment he went on: “My
servant will conduct thee to Rachel and attend upon thee. After the
custom of our people I must remain in seclusion until after our period
of mourning hath ended. Nevertheless, the House of Naaman is thine
abode as long as thou art in Damascus and whenever thou comest hither.
My home is thine. And this I give into thy keeping for the purpose of
which we spoke. I will instruct my servant regarding its disposal.”

He unclasped the bracelet from his arm and for the second time gave
it to the shepherd, but his present manner bore no resemblance to the
first. Something of the difference occurred to Benjamin. He called
after the retreating figure. He ran and placed himself before Isaac,
bowing low before him.

“Thy servant hath misjudged thee. Forgive, I pray thee. What am I that
thou shouldst show such kindness unto me?”

The shepherd’s voice faltered before the other’s coldly courteous
manner. He went on almost timidly: “My sister hath explained much that
I could not understand hitherto. Surprise and perplexity hath gone and
in their stead hath come shame. I would that thou shouldst overlook--”

The cold steel of Isaac’s eye might have been the cold steel of a
weapon piercing Benjamin’s heart, the effect being much the same.

“Thou didst once save my life, which is precious unto me, and I have
given thee that which is dearer than thy life, thy betrothed. The debt
hath been mutually repaid. Henceforth we owe each other nothing.”

Tears sprang to the shepherd’s eyes. “Naught save remembrance and good
will. I would that we might both remember this obligation.”

There was no answer unless Isaac’s silence and his averted head might
be construed in the negative.

Benjamin tried again. “As thou didst once admit thy guilt to me, so do
I now acknowledge to thee my fault and plead my penitence.”

“It is too late, Benjamin. Thou hast refused to listen to the
confession I sought thee voluntarily to make. Thou hast assailed my
motives with insult. Thou hast outraged every feeling of affection I
ever had for thee. For the sake of all that is past we must not allow
ourselves to become enemies, but friends we can never be again.”

The shepherd persevered although seeming to find speech difficult: “We
are both wrong, Isaac. Should we permit the winds of trouble to dry
up the fountain of loving-kindness and to scatter abroad the waters
of bitterness? Captivity filleth my mind with suspicion. Resentment
causeth thee to hate. Is it right?”

Isaac stood immovable, without speaking. Miriam, where they had left
her, ceased her weeping and running to where the two stood slipped a
hand in each of theirs.

“I shall be so lonely now that Isaac’s mother hath gone. Thou wilt stay
in Damascus as long as thou canst, wilt thou not, Benjamin?”

He sought to comfort her, yet he could not leave his duties longer than
was necessary. He would go to Rachel now, the arrangements would be
made for their marriage according to the customs of Israel, and after
the formal betrothal feast he would hurry back to his flock because it
was with an hireling who cared not for the sheep. When the rainy season
ended he would return to Damascus for his bride and take her to the
home he would prepare meanwhile. The present arrangements would consume
but a few days. “But when I am no longer here I shall think of thee as
still being brave, shall I not, Miriam?”

“Yea,” she said, tremulously. “Thou wilt have sad enough meditations,
longing for Rachel and thinking of our home in Israel and of father and
mother.” There was a long pause. “But thou must not grieve over me. At
first I thought I should die here, until I knew that somebody loved
me. Now Milcah doth a little, and I think my mistress will, but I have
never had to wonder about Isaac. He always hath. He will watch over me
as thou wouldst.”

She leaned confidingly against the soldier and he slipped his arm
around her: “The heart of my little maid can safely trust in me,” he
assured her. Then, to Benjamin: “Behold, the other maid of whom we
spoke.”

Miriam looked up wonderingly, not understanding Benjamin’s
embarrassment nor Isaac’s defiance, but neither troubled her. She
smiled upon them impartially. “And what hath made it easy for me to
love Isaac,” she went on, “is because he loveth thee so much, Benjamin.
It hath made me so happy. Else I could not bear things even now.”

She was caressing their two hands, holding them to her cheeks and
patting them; thus she failed to see that each young man avoided the
other’s eye.

“I love thee both so very much,” she confided.

They each smiled down upon her indulgently, and somehow their eyes
met--with the smile still in them, and this time they did not turn
away. Oddly enough the coldness, the constraint faded before that look
as snow disappears before the genial warmth of the sun. They parted in
a manner quite satisfactory to the little maid, who beamed upon them
both. Suspicion and resentment had fled before the affectionate trust
of a child!




CHAPTER XIII

CHANGES


The death of Milcah’s mother made changes in the House of Naaman. Adah,
its mistress, was inconsolable, not with grief but with vexation.

“So Milcah will sit on the floor for a whole week and mourn! Of course
I wish her to treat her mother’s memory with respect. I am myself
willing to pay for the mourning men and mourning women. I will provide
the spices and linen in which the body is to be wrapped. I will even
have it laid in the rocky tomb her people prefer, but I cannot go
without bathing and dressing for a week. Who will see to my raiment and
my perfumes?”

To Miriam, who had brought the message, this was a very simple matter.
“Thou hast so many servants,” she began, but her mistress interrupted
irritably:

“Thinkest thou Milcah would instruct any who might supplant her? Nay,
for jealous is she and sour of disposition, hence doth she keep both my
maidens and me dependent upon her.”

Miriam was genuinely distressed. “Milcah is not young and much pain
doth she suffer at times, for she hath told me. Oft hath she waited
upon thee when naught but determination urged her tired footsteps.
Many times have I wondered what will become of her when she is unable
to work.”

“She will be taken care of, as was her mother, and in place of a
daughter _thou_ shalt attend upon her.”

The little maid clasped her hands. “Then will I be able to show how I
love her. Thinkest thou she will let me make her hair look prettier?
When Rachel, the maiden to whom my brother Benjamin is betrothed, was
sick many weeks I waited upon her continually.”

Adah surveyed the small figure doubtfully. “Thinkest thou the duties of
the bath-chamber would be too much for thee with older maids to help?”

Miriam thought not, and with enthusiasm began a week which ended all
too quickly, for Milcah resumed her old duties when the period of
mourning was past. With fine delicacy the little maid absented herself
entirely from the apartments of her mistress, but when three days had
elapsed she was sent for.

Adah surveyed her with a half displeasure. “Why dost thou not
come without being commanded? Knowest thou not that I have found
thee teachable and quick and have determined to make thee one of
my handmaidens? Already have I talked with Milcah, and she is not
displeased, nor will she keep from thee knowledge that will be of use
when thou art older. Hear thou? She calleth thee. Thou mayest go.”

The older woman beamed upon her. “I see by thy face thou hast heard.
Young art thou to find such favor in the sight of thy mistress, and
much will I have to teach thee, but that thou shouldst be chosen for
such honor doeth credit to my instruction.”

Thus did it come about that Miriam became necessary to the House of
Naaman, and in gladness of heart she began that very day to fill the
place she had won for herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Far away the sun had begun to shine also for another heart. A month
after the Syrian raid Sarah was still upon her bed, a little paler, a
little weaker every day. Judith had been her faithful attendant, and
so it happened that when Abner came, as he had promised, to ask the
girl at the hands of her kinswoman, there had been no opposition. The
betrothal “feast” had been held minus the usual festivity, the pall of
melancholy having settled upon the tiny “city” of Hannathon. Also, the
principals to this strange alliance were not popular. Lastly, there was
nothing to feast upon, the daily rations, doled out by Abner, being
barely sufficient to keep the people alive.

A few weeks later, as was the custom, Judith went to the home of
her husband, whither she would have removed Sarah but for vigorous
objection.

“If they should return and find the dwelling closed--” said the woman.
“Nay, but here must I remain,” and no argument availed to change her
decision.

Thus it had come about that Eli had gone to dwell with Sarah in
place of the son and daughter she had lost, and Abner, upon Judith’s
insistence, sent a maid servant to care for her in Judith’s stead.
Eli was Sarah’s one stay and comfort. He treated her precisely as he
would his own mother, sustaining her feeble strength largely by his own
cheery courage and unfailing hopefulness. Under his tender ministry she
had begun to grow stronger. The time had come when she no longer kept
to her bed.

“I must live to welcome them when they come back,” she told him, and he
turned his head to hide a tear of pity.

Never did she tire of planning for the journey he should some time
take to ransom the captives, although both clearly apprehended the
difficulties first to be overcome. “Yet will we trust in Jehovah,” he
assured her, confidently, “and he shall bring it to pass.”

The first obstacle was removed when Abner, returning from a short
pilgrimage with seed for sowing his fields, agreed with Eli that the
latter should work on his land for wages, the same to be collected at
harvest time. The second obstacle yielded when Nathan, ragged and weary
but rejoicing, arrived in Hannathon. Finding that his mother’s home
was closed, he had come at once to Sarah’s, and however doubtful his
tidings it had been eagerly received: Rachel had reached Damascus. At
this very moment she was doubtless enjoying the peace and plenty of her
kinsman’s abode. Miriam had been well treated on the journey and had
borne up bravely. Of Benjamin he knew nothing at all and the mother
wept afresh.

To Eli the important thing, next after the safety of his brother,
was that he now knew the name of the soldier in charge of the party.
Isaac, once found, could tell him the whereabouts of the captives.
But surprise was not confined to the dwelling of Sarah nor yet to the
abode of Rachel’s parents. It was also present in the House of Abner.
The master had brought the mistress a most unexpected gift: a pearl of
great price which he had not sold for seed, as she had supposed.

“The grapes and olives be surety for that wherewith I am to sow, and
because thou hast been prudent and far-seeing I return unto thee the
jewel given thee by thy father. Behold, thou hast what is thine own,
yet none but thou and I shall know, lest it be stolen from thee.”

Judith, receiving the gift with smiling thanks, frowned when Abner had
departed. Throwing the pearl upon the floor she stamped her foot: “Thus
hath our deeds power to follow and torment us! Thou,” addressing the
jewel, “hast served thy purpose. Why comest thou back to me like a
spirit from the sepulcher to remind and to mock, yea to be ever unto me
like a live coal in my bosom?”

       *       *       *       *       *

It had been late autumn when Miriam came to Syria; but winter rains
were now over and Damascus rejoiced in an absence of dampness and
chill, nor had the extreme heat come on with its irritating dust. The
charm of one day had not faded when another began, but the nameless
gloom which always hovered over the House of Naaman had not lifted, and
Miriam pondered much.

All this time she had never seen the master of the house, but, running
across the courtyard one morning, she met him face to face and bowed
low. She knew him by his splendid dress, his air of authority, the
deference paid him by the numerous servants moving here and there. When
he had passed she staggered back against the wall, faint with horror,
vainly seeking to erase from memory what she had witnessed. Now she
knew why he had not braved the inclemency of the weather heretofore. It
was leprosy!

Her errand forgotten, the little maid went directly to her mistress,
out of breath with haste. Impulsively she clasped between her own the
hand she had thought so white and idle.

“Not until this moment, my mistress, did I know that thou art grieved.
I thought thou wert lonely in this big house, but I have beheld the
reason for thy sorrow. Oh, my mistress, would God that my lord were
with the prophet that is in Samaria, for he would recover him of his
leprosy!”

Adah, wife of Naaman, looked down upon the flushed and eager figure
kneeling beside her and gently drew away her hand. She was not
insensible of the kindness intended, but it was so futile.

In vain Miriam told her of the miracle which had saved Hannah’s sons
from bondage and of many another wrought by the Man of God who dwelt
in Israel, but her words fell upon an unbelieving heart. Wonderful was
it, thought Adah, to have the unquestioning belief of youth before
experience disillusions, yet how absurd to suppose that what Rimmon
and Baal and Chemosh and a host of other gods could not do, even
though Naaman had offered rich gifts, could be accomplished by this
almost unheard of Jehovah! Nay, it were impossible, and lest fruitless
expectation be aroused and a fresh disappointment experienced, she
would say nothing to her husband of this well-meant but wholly
impossible suggestion.

It was, however, to reach Naaman’s ears a few days later and in another
manner. Miriam spoke to Isaac about the matter and urged it with
vehemence. He could not resist her pleading, but he was reluctant,
doubtful.

“Yea, I will tell him all thou sayest, but he hath tried so many things
so many times I fear he will not heed.”

Isaac was, however, mistaken. Naaman, commander-in-chief of the
armies of Syria and popular hero, was accustomed to solicitude. To
him it seemed neither unusual nor audacious that a small maid servant
should have suggested a means of relief from the awful malady which
was slowly sapping his strength. He paid it the compliment of a brief
consideration, wholly untouched by the hopelessness of his wife or
the hesitancy of his favorite man servant, with both of whom he spoke
concerning it.

Small matter that this Jehovah whom she named was little known
and probably much less powerful than she believed. He had long
suspected--and who would not among so many gods?--that latent abilities
sometimes resided in the most unlikely. In favorable circumstances who
could tell? Nevertheless, it was a long journey to Israel and in his
condition a painful one. Besides, there were other plans, suggested by
people for whose judgment he had the greatest respect, which could not
be discountenanced in favor of one so vague. Nay, he would try remedies
closer at hand.

Isaac bowed and withdrew, dreading the message he must carry to Miriam.
He told her with compassion in his face, his voice, his manner, yet
with an attempt at cheerfulness which deceived neither of them.

After a little she turned the head which had been averted. “Isaac,
believest thou?”

He hesitated, then hit upon a happy expedient. “I believe _thee_,
little maid.”

“Wouldst thou be pleased to do whatever thou canst for me, Isaac?”

There was a flash of amusement on the young man’s countenance. “Knowest
thou, Miriam, thou wilt soon be a woman? Already thou art akin to her
thou shalt be.” He reached into the flowering tree above their heads
and broke off a small branch. “Even as this beauty is the delight of
our eyes, so art thou the delight of my heart. I swear it. See, I bind
these flowers upon that heart in token of my fealty. There shall they
remain, and though they wither, that for which they stand shall never
die. Needst thou other assurance?”

But she was not laughing. “Believest thou in Jehovah, Isaac?”

“Was I not taught so to believe, Miriam?”

She sighed. “If Eli were only here to make thee understand! But when
thou believest Jehovah as thou believest me, then wilt thou speak to
thy master with boldness and insistence and he will hear.”

Isaac patted her cheeks. “I am not sure, Miriam, but that I have known
Jehovah, at least as long as I have known thee. Be very courageous,
little maid. Thy plea shall yet save thy master,” but neither knew how
long a time must first elapse, nor that this same unselfish entreaty
would some day cause international complications.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the meanwhile an event occurred which, at least temporarily,
banished the subject from Miriam’s mind. Rachel became legally
Benjamin’s wife. With all the lavish display and elaborate ceremony
of the East they were married. That is to say, the bridegroom walked
three times around the bride ere he lifted the detachable portion of
the heavy “veil” (really a thick garment enveloping her from head to
foot) and threw it over his shoulder as a token that he accepted the
government of this woman. In so doing the bride’s blushing face was
exposed to the fond gaze of her husband and the curious looks of their
assembled friends.

Following this the guests broke into song, accompanying themselves with
timbrels, tabrets, cymbals, and the clapping of hands. There was no
priest, no religious observance, nothing but this public demonstration,
but it was considered sufficient and binding. The “sweet singer” now
came forward. As a matter of fact, he did not “sing” as we understand
the term, but recited in a monotonous, sing-song voice, composing his
production as he went along. First he recounted the charms of the
bride, calling attention to her physical beauty with such detail and
fulsome praise that Rachel, with burning cheeks, kept her eyes cast
down, ashamed to look anyone in the face. Then he told of her modesty,
her amiability, her industry, her frugality, and a host of other
virtues, real and imaginary.

After the bride’s personality had been dissected, so to speak, the
sweet singer turned to the bridegroom and did the same for him, to
Benjamin’s great disgust and Isaac’s would-be-concealed amusement. The
principals having been disposed of, the indefatigable singer turned his
attention to each of the guests in turn, reciting their eminent history
and complimenting their virtues at as great length as the singer’s
knowledge extended or his imagination could, at a moment’s notice,
supply. For a whole week the celebration lasted. The street of the
merchants of Israel rejoiced loudly and there were flowing wines (at
Isaac’s expense) and much gluttony and revelry.

The happy occasion ended with a night-time procession through the
streets of Damascus, accompanied once more by the usual music of
timbrels, tabrets, cymbals[2] and the clapping of hands; the usual
lamps and torches carried by each individual to light the dark
streets and add to the festive appearance; the usual waiting crowds
to shower congratulations and good wishes upon the happy couple.
The route should have been from the home of the bride to that of the
bridegroom. In this case it was from the abode of Amos, in a long and
circuitous march, back to it again. Miriam, sole representative of the
bridegroom’s family, at the head of the chosen maidens, escorted Rachel
to the bridal chamber. This happened to be the guest room on the roof,
which had been decked with flowers and rendered sweet with perfumes.

By this act public notice was served that the bride had been
willingly received into the heart and home of her husband. Shortly
thereafter, the bridegroom was left at the door of the dwelling by
Isaac, heading the young men, and the public expressions of felicity
were now complete. The next day came the leave-taking. Rebekah and
her friend wept copiously. Milcah smiled upon Rachel with the most
perfect cordiality and approval. Rachel herself and Miriam were both
very misty-eyed as they bade each other farewell. Isaac and Benjamin
held a brief but earnest conversation in which all traces of former
misunderstandings seemed completely obliterated, and Amos lifted his
hands and voice in blessing as the newly married pair mounted patient
asses and started alone into the hills of Syria to set up that most
important of all sanctuaries, a home.




CHAPTER XIV

DECISION


Two years went by and Miriam passed her twelfth birthday. Thereafter
she was no longer known as “the little maid” save as a title of
affection still retained by her mistress, Milcah, and Isaac, but
referred to in terms which meant “a young woman.” Insensibly her
manners grew quieter. No longer did she impulsively speak her mind to
Adah, nor bound unexpectedly into Milcah’s arms, nor indulge in the
old, familiar caresses where Isaac was concerned, although she could
not have explained these changes any more than she could have given a
reason for being taller and prettier, as she was told she was. Day by
day she was becoming gently reserved and charmingly shy and elusively
sweet as maidens are wont to be.

Two more years went by and spring came again, the fourth since Miriam
had come to Syria and the third since she had first urged the visit of
her master to Israel. More and more had she become a necessary part of
the great household which had at first been indifferent. Her time was
now spent largely in the apartments of her mistress, or in attendance
upon that lady when she overlooked the affairs of the house or rode
in her chariot. A few times had she visited the House of Rimmon,
the sun-god of the Syrians, but because it distressed her this was
not always required. On several occasions had she been to the palace
and, with Milcah, quite often saw the tradespeople and helped make
selections of merchandise for her mistress.

Yet these years, so eventful to Miriam, had brought little change
to the House of Naaman save, if possible, to deepen its gloom. Adah
had grown more languid, more petulant, more sad. The little maid had
not taught her how to be happy as she had so cheerfully promised.
Naaman, still demonstrating the futility of one remedy after another,
was plainly growing worse. Each winter the rains had washed out the
roads and made traveling as far as Israel an utter impossibility. Each
spring, when the dry season set in once more, Miriam had entreated
her mistress, appealed to Isaac and been disappointed afresh at the
rejection of her plan. Still she hoped and grew patient.

Once more she pressed her query, tenderly, anxiously, without receiving
an answer. She knelt beside her mistress, despairing, insistent.
“Knowest thou not that my lord is no better and that Jehovah thinketh
upon thy sorrow? Oh that he would go to the prophet that is in Samaria!”

Caressingly Adah took Miriam’s face between her hands and looked at her
through tear-blurred eyes. “All that I possess would I give, little
maid, for the confidence of youth, but even as the ruthless rains wash
away the footpaths, so doth Experience, in the autumn and winter of
life, steal away courage and joy. Yea, well I know that thy master’s
malady groweth worse, but what availeth a long and painful journey with
disappointment at its end?”

Finding that neither argument nor persuasion availed, Miriam abandoned
the subject and waited until she should be able to see Isaac. The next
day she was fortunate in having speech with him just before he was
summoned to his master’s apartments. Briefly she outlined the last
conversation with her mistress and its hopelessness.

“But because thou dwellest in his favor, Isaac, speak thou unto him
yet again that he perish not. Believest thou that Jehovah can do this?
Believest thou, Isaac?”

“Yea,” looking into the serious depths of her dark eyes, “yea, Miriam,
I believe.”

The time was auspicious. The burden of discomfort which Naaman had
borne so long had become irritating, loathsome, intolerable. If, by
enduring a little more, he could end it forever--yea, he would take the
journey to Israel. It was a forlorn hope, but he would risk it.

Breathless with haste, Isaac paused a brief instant before Miriam. He
chose to be very mysterious. “What wouldst thou, little maid, if thou
couldst have thy choice?”

Expectantly she searched his radiant countenance and caught the gayety
of his mood. “Not fruit nor flowers; not silken garments, nor fine
linen, nor choice food, for thus sumptuously do I fare every day.
Not even a new timbrel, for that thou didst give me when I was but a
_little_ maid is beautiful with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Naught have
I to wish for save that my master should seek Jehovah through the Man
of God who dwelleth at Samaria.”

“Then thou hast thy desire. He goeth!”

“When?” she asked, excitedly.

The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “Our master’s impatience brooketh
no delay, as thou wilt know from knowing him, but he must first obtain
the king’s permission and the king’s credentials ere he dare venture
into another kingdom to ask a favor of a monarch with whose house Syria
hath been time and again at war.”

Miriam was dismayed, incredulous. It had seemed such a simple matter to
her.

Isaac smiled. “Thou dost not consider how great a man is our master.
Knowest thou not it is an affair of state?”

He left her and she ran with swift footsteps to tell the glad news
to Milcah and then, with greater deliberation, to speak of it to her
mistress.

Next morning the household was early astir. The general air of
excitement precluded sleep to even the most laggard, yet why this straw
of relief appeared more able to bear the weight of their longings than
previous efforts no one could have told, nor, indeed, did they pause
to ask. None, at least, save Miriam. At the top of the stone staircase
which led to the roof she unexpectedly met Isaac. He greeted her gayly.

“All is well, little maid, so far. To-day I go to the palace to request
an audience for my master with the king.”

“Thinkest thou, Isaac, that he will approve the journey?”

“The thoughts of a king, Miriam, are past finding out, but we have a
good omen.”

He pointed to the opal sky, beautiful in its sunrise tints. “Seest
thou? As the Syrians say, our all-conquering lord, the Sun, goeth forth
from his habitation with smiles to the arms of the virgin East who
haileth his approach with blushes.”

Miriam pointed to the distant mountains. “Seest thou the good omen? No
haze shrouds them from our view, but even as they stand immovable and
protecting, so Jehovah is ever a shield round about his people. The
rosy sky, against which the mountains show dark and clear, reminds us
that our hope is in the Lord our God who only giveth us the victory.”

The soldier stood abashed, but in his eyes there dawned a something
which was akin to reverence and more. The girl, catching the look quite
accidentally, flushed as prettily as the sky they had been watching
and fled instinctively, even as she wondered why she did these things.
Yet she did not seek explanations of anyone.

       *       *       *       *       *

With armament resplendent and an obsequious group of
soldier-attendants, as befitted the importance of the mission, Isaac
was dispatched to the palace. Having passed the gatekeeper and been
conducted across two or three courtyards to the entrance of the king’s
residence proper, the guard suddenly stood at attention while Isaac
found himself in the presence of the chief officer of the palace.

Each bowed to the ground, exclaiming, “Peace be unto thee.” Three times
this was repeated.

Each then put his hand to his heart, which was meant to say, “My heart
meditates upon thee.”

Each next put his hands to his lips as if to say, “My lips speak well
of thee.”

Finally, each put his hand to his forehead, which conveyed the
flattering intelligence, “My intellect delights in thee.”

Lastly they fell upon each other’s neck and embraced fervently.

These civilities over, they stooped and rested in the comfortable
Oriental fashion while they held converse. My lord high officer
inquired for his visitor’s grandfather. Instead of replying truthfully
that he was long since dead, diplomacy required that Isaac relate a
tale of courage and honor, whether true or untrue, which he ascribed
to the _other’s_ grandfather.

Well pleased with the compliment, my lord high officer inquired for
Isaac’s father, with the same result. Next, my lord high officer
inquired for Isaac’s master and attributed to him deeds of valor which
Isaac entirely disclaimed for Naaman, pronouncing blessings upon the
other’s master, the king.

By degrees and after a considerable time had elapsed, the moment was
opportune for the delivery of Isaac’s message. He had come to request
an audience of King Ben-hadad for his master, Naaman. My lord high
officer was politely kind. He would see that the message was conveyed
to his master, the king, and in the course of a few days an answer
would be returned. Although his real errand was now completed, Isaac’s
manner was casual and betrayed no haste, after the approved style of
Eastern courtiers. For quite awhile longer they chatted with gravity
and pretended interest, then they rose, bidding each other farewell
with the same elaborate gestures which had marked their meeting.

With a sigh of relief and a complacence born of duty well performed,
Isaac and his soldiers took their way homeward and the House of Naaman
began that waiting program which was to be its chief occupation for
some time to come and of which its master was to grow almost fatally
weary before it should be brought to a happy ending. In a few days, as
promised by my lord high officer, the watchman stationed upon Naaman’s
roof to note the approach of the king’s messenger sent the joyful cry
echoing through the courtyards: “Behold, he cometh.”

Instantly the great house responded with a bustle of preparation and a
suspension of all unnecessary tasks, giving itself up to the delightful
thrill of expectancy. The crowd of mendicants, the halt and maimed and
blind, pensioners upon Naaman’s bounty, melted away from before his
gate--at the command of the gatekeeper, aided by a stout staff and one
or two men servants--like snow before the sun. The courtyards were
cleared of all save those whose privilege and duty it was to be there.
Isaac, not now in the dress of a soldier but in the soft, fine raiment
of a rich man, as befitted the master he represented, met the stranger
at the very gateway.

By means of those elaborate bows which had characterized Isaac’s
previous visit to the palace, the messenger was finally drawn within
the greater privacy of one of the inner courts. This not only shut
them out from the gaze and hearing of the curious but conveyed the
complimentary impression that he was received into the bosom of the
family. His message was brief. On the morrow his master, the king,
would give audience to his well-beloved servant, Naaman, at the fourth
hour of the day. Yet, however concise the communication, Oriental
etiquette forbade its delivery in a hasty manner or without due
ceremony. A long time was it before Isaac, bidding farewell to this
important guest, was at liberty to pay a scarcely less ceremonious
visit to his anxious master and to stand at length, smiling, before
Miriam, that she might hear the joyful tidings.

The next day, promptly at ten o’clock, Naaman and his imposing
bodyguard of soldiers appeared at the palace. A no less imposing
retinue of palace officials and servants, led by my lord high
officer, met him at the palace gate and with great apparent respect
conducted him to the throne room. Here he and his king exchanged
the same elaborate courtesies which had marked the meeting of their
representatives a few days before. Yet with a difference! The latter
had been coldly formal, meaninglessly polite. This was the greeting
of friends, of those whose regard for each other was built upon a
solid foundation of respect and affection, although there was not
the slightest trace of undue familiarity on the one hand nor lack of
dignity on the other.

Salutations concluded, the king commanded all who attended him to
retire from the immediate vicinity. Naaman, following suit, gestured
to Isaac, and his bodyguard likewise withdrew to a distance. The two
highest dignitaries of Syria could now converse in such privacy that
their tones alone were audible to those who stood at either end of the
long throne room. Impressively yet briefly Naaman recited the facts:
it had become known to him, through a maid in his household, that
there dwelt in the city of Samaria, in the Land of Israel, a prophet of
Jehovah, the little-known God of the land. This seer, it appeared, was
a man mighty in word and deed, able, so the maiden stated, to heal even
the dread disease of leprosy. Now, therefore, if he had found favor in
the sight of his master, the king, he hoped it would please the king to
allow his servant to depart in peace upon this mission.

Ben-hadad was gracious. The affliction of Naaman, the man whom
all Syria delighted to honor, was also his affliction. Any chance
of relief, however remote, must be seized with as little delay as
possible. If Jehovah, the God of the Israelites, acting through his
prophet, was thus powerful, to effect a cure would be but a small
matter and one to be quickly accomplished. He, the king of Syria, would
write a letter to the young king of Israel, son of their late enemy,
Ahab, which letter should be delivered in person by Naaman. The request
therein contained would of course be immediately granted. The affair
should take precedence of certain other state business so that, in a
few days, the letter should be written and dispatched by messenger to
the House of Naaman.

Thus comforted and highly elated at the success of his mission, Naaman
and his attendants made the usual elaborate adieux and departed.
It was not that an interview between the king and his army’s
commander-in-chief was either unusual or infrequent, but this had been
fraught with national and international consequence, and ceremony was
necessary. Not often did one monarch ask a favor of another without
intending to reciprocate, but this visit of Naaman to Israel, with its
consequent exchange of diplomatic courtesies, meant a closer alliance
of the two nations; a declaration of friendship, as it were, which
would last as long as it served their purpose and which might not be a
bad thing in these days of Assyrian encroachments.

Miriam, watching the approach of the party from her favorite spot on
the roof, observed that the leader lifted his shield of beaten brass
and pointed to the distant mountains. She understood. Isaac was telling
her that Jehovah, in whom she trusted, had brought it to pass: the
king’s answer was favorable, and breathlessly she ran to carry the
second message of hope to her mistress.




CHAPTER XV

CONSTERNATION


In that portion of the veranda where stood Isaac and Miriam, eagerly
discussing recent events, there was much passing to and fro of men
servants and maid servants, picking up crumbs of talk like hungry
birds at a feast. With an imperious gesture, borrowed from his master,
Isaac made known his displeasure. Instantly each individual had duties
elsewhere.

Miriam laughed. “What a great man thou art becoming, Isaac!”

“Nay,” he answered, “but if this mission of our master to Israel be
prospered, then must we flatter and defer to thee, for thy position in
the household will be enviable.”

Immediately regretting the contamination of her mind with any taint of
worldly wisdom, he ignored her surprised exclamations and spoke of the
rich stores which were being gathered in preparation for the journey
to Israel, a thank-offering to the prophet should Naaman be healed.
Much gold and silver, not in coins--which came at a later period--but
in bulk, ready to be cut and weighed according to the amount required
when occasion arose for paying or giving, and, in addition, the famous
products of Damascus looms and other Eastern merchandise: silk that
would neither wrinkle nor cut; cotton and linen of exquisite weave, and
heavier fabrics, all made up into the much-prized “changes of raiment,”
which would last the fortunate possessor a lifetime and still not be
worn out.[3]

Miriam asked a half-indignant question: “Thinkest thou the Man of
God will regard this? Nay, but only that our master may know Jehovah
liveth.”

Isaac looked at her strangely. “It is customary, when asking a favor,
to take in thine hand a present, and I have never known a prophet
who would refuse it. Have we not tried many prophets and many gods?
Besides, is not our master very rich and Damascus the gateway between
Assyria on the east and Egypt on the west, a city great in commerce and
industry? Yea, these things are but right.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It had been a late spring. That is to say, the dry season had been late
in arriving, and for diplomatic and business reasons Naaman’s journey
to Israel was not commenced until nearly midsummer, but the great day
came at last. Miriam, her cheeks glowing with excitement, watched it
from the latticed window where she could stand now on fewer cushions
than formerly. It was an imposing procession. Isaac, at the head,
looking very splendid, Miriam thought, waved her a farewell as they
went past the lattice. He could not see her, but he knew she was there.

She gazed eagerly, noting every detail. After Isaac came his servant,
carrying a long pole on the end of which was a brazier of coals, the
smoke of which would be a cloud by day and a fire by night, thus
guiding the drivers behind no matter how far they straggled apart. A
bodyguard of horsemen entirely surrounded the chariot, in which was
Naaman, with one driver and one attendant, the latter supporting a
sort of awning on poles to protect his master from sun and wind as
he traveled. A second chariot followed in case of accident to the
first. At the rear of the bodyguard rode a man whom Miriam had long
ago learned to distrust, Lemuel by name. At a little distance followed
the camel train with its precious burden of merchandise and another
soldier-guard. Another space and then the asses, laden with food,
water, camping equipment, and the various necessities of such a lengthy
journey. Last of all came a few asses and camels led, these to be used
in case of emergency. A few more soldiers completed the cavalcade.

It was impressive, picturesque, noisy, with gaudily dressed drivers,
the decorated animals with their tinkling bells, the cries in many
languages of those who urged them forward, to say nothing of the more
ordinary sight, the soldiers in dress-uniforms, dazzlingly bright, with
the sun reflected on metal helmets and shields and scalelike coats of
mail. No wonder Damascus paused in its business and pleasure to admire
and applaud as the party filed slowly and with dignity through its
streets and out of the southwestern gate. No wonder Miriam was excited,
entranced, delighted. In her wildest dreams she had not beheld it thus,
but after it had passed there came a feeling of desolation such as she
had not experienced since that first terrible night in Damascus. Almost
an hour later Milcah found her, huddled among the cushions, moaning and
weeping.

“They have gone; gone to Israel; and I am left here!”

Astonished but not unsympathetic, Milcah attempted comfort, but the
writhing, disheveled figure and the wild sobs frightened her. Running
excitedly to her mistress, she succeeded in startling that lady out
of her accustomed languor and a few moments later they both bent over
Miriam with deep concern. Adah gathered the girl in her arms.

“Desirest thou to go to Israel, little maid? Thou dost, thou sayest?
Thou art grieving for thy father and mother and thy home there? Nay, do
not weep. Thou shalt go. Only be thou patient until we learn how it is
with thy master.”

Gradually, under these assurances and Milcah’s ministrations, Miriam
became calmer. Wearied by her outburst and half ashamed, she was
persuaded to rest in a darkened room until she should feel quite
herself again. To her own surprise, she found she was strangely weak
and unnerved. For days she could not rise, and then she dragged about
the great house, pale and dispirited, until the excitement of watching
for the return of the party brought a little color to her cheeks and a
little hope to her heart.

Meanwhile Naaman and his company proceeded on their long, long way in
the scorching heat. Unerringly Isaac led his party out from the cool
shade of the orchards surrounding the city of Damascus; by broad,
rocky terraces to the wind-swept Plain of the Hauran, toward Mount
Hermon’s rugged dominance in the south. Past wheat-fields and pasture
lands, a few insignificant water courses and occasional small groves of
trees. Over the plains they went, across the Jordan and up the broad
and fertile Vale of Jezreel, brown in the midsummer heat and drought.
A twist in the valley and they were in the basin in which Samaria
was situated. Up, up, three hundred feet or more to the very top of
the cone-shaped hill upon which sat the city itself, impregnable,
beautiful, commanding a wide view of the Valley of Jezreel at its feet
and the blue waters of the Great Sea (now called the Mediterranean)
only twenty-three miles distant.

The approach of so large a procession could not remain unknown. Long,
long before it wound its slow way up the hill, among the gardens and
scattered houses of the suburbs, the watchman in the tower had noted
its strength and its probable importance and hastily communicated
this intelligence to the proper officials, who had, in turn, sent a
message to the palace. Long, long before it entered the square chamber
of masonry which in the Orient they call a gate, prepared to emerge
therefrom into the city through the opening in another wall, the elders
or judges sitting on the stone benches ranged along the two blank walls
were ready with questions. Was their errand one of peace? Who were they
and whence did they come? What was the purpose of this visit to their
city and whom sought they?

Isaac’s duties multiplied. He was now not only guide but interpreter
and the trusted servant who should present his master’s all-important
plea to the city officials. More than this, he was the courteous
diplomat who must secure the favor and the good will of these officials
who would, at their discretion, give them safe conduct to the king. The
examination into their credentials was conducted with great solemnity
and consumed a vast deal of time, but with the happy result that the
procession of foreign guests was conducted with much ceremony through
the crooked streets of Samaria to the celebrated Ivory Palace of the
king; those streets so narrow that two camels could not go abreast and
leave room for foot passengers, so shaded from the heat of the sun by
the windowless buildings on either side that, had it been more unusual,
it would have been depressing.

In the East there is courtesy but no haste. One wing of the palace,
with its own courts, was set aside for the use of the visitors, and
trusted servants and high officials busied themselves in making these
accommodations comfortable for those who honored the roof by their
presence. Isaac was granted a formal interview with the chief officer
of the palace, the occasion being much the same as in Syria, when he
had appeared to request audience for his master with King Ben-hadad.
Now as then an interval must elapse while the message was conveyed to
King Jehoram and he returned an answer, but in consideration of the
distinguished position which Naaman occupied in his own country and the
compliment which his visit implied, this was considerably hurried.

The next day Isaac, chief servant of the embassy, received a call from
the chief officer of the palace, appointing the hour and day when
King Jehoram would receive in person the letter of King Ben-hadad
and the officer whom it introduced. Naaman, tired from the long and
exhausting journey, was glad to have a few hours of rest, but as the
hardened soldier recovered somewhat from his pain and fatigue, he grew
impatient for the interview. The hour came. Amid great splendor Naaman
was conducted into the presence of the young King Jehoram, the letter
was presented, courteous greetings and assurances of friendship were
exchanged, and then Naaman was escorted back to his apartments to await
the real answer to his plea; the favorable reply anticipated but not
yet given! Though compatible with Eastern custom, it was a situation
calculated to inspire distrust in the breast of the suffering Naaman
and uneasiness on the part of his servant, Isaac.

In that portion of the palace they had just left the air was charged
with excitement. The king, surrounded by his counselors, old and young,
rent his garments with true Oriental display of grief and vexation.
What power had he to cure a man of leprosy? Was he a god to kill and
make alive? No reasonable human being would suppose he could do this
thing. Nay, it was merely a pretext for Syria to declare war against
Israel. Not content with petty raids on their fertile valleys almost
every year; not satisfied with carrying off their flocks, their grain,
their wine and their oil, and even a captive now and then; not content
that Jehoram’s father, Ahab, had spared Ben-hadad’s life when the
latter was at his mercy, and made a treaty of trade and peace when
he might have been less generous; not satisfied with this and all of
these, Ben-hadad now, without just cause, sought an open rupture. And
Israel--was Israel prepared to resist an invasion? Nay, but as the
ravenous dogs fell upon travelers in the night so would Syria fall upon
them and rend them in pieces!

The counselors of the young king shook their heads and mingled their
tears with his, their hearts heavy with sorrow. If this thing came
upon them--and it had--they must meet it like men. What did prudence
dictate? It was a long conference, prudence seeming to dictate quite a
number of things. As a result, the king hastily sent from one end of
his kingdom to the other, taking account of his resources: the number
of his fighting men; his weapons of war; his food-supplies; his gold
and silver. His counselors met in secret session again and considered
Israel’s trade relations, her diplomatic friendships. Was she able,
alone, to meet the enemy? Would she have help? Upon what could she
depend when this unfavorable answer should be returned as soon, indeed,
it must be?

Despite the urgency of the occasion, this census consumed some time
and was, alas, in no wise satisfactory. It was a fact, grave but
unmistakable, that Israel was not prepared to meet a foe of Syria’s
means, of Syria’s army, of Syria’s leadership! Israel never faced
a greater crisis. Her king was commanded to do the impossible or
else--there were no need to complete the sentence. The veriest child
could speak the answer and dread it, and King Jehoram lifted up his
voice and wept in the demonstrative Eastern fashion. Consternation,
though veiled, was not confined to the palace. The arrival of so large
a procession, its gorgeous display of wealth, the foreign garb of its
people and their probable errand could not fail to be a matter of
public interest and conjecture. The hopelessness of its mission could
not long be kept from the populace, nor fail to sound a note of dismay
to the thoughtful.

Meanwhile, in the apartments paneled in ivory, among the simple but
costly furnishings, Naaman paced restlessly. Was this prophet of
Jehovah on a journey to some far country that he came not? Was there
any deception on the part of this young king that he failed to return
a favorable reply? Did he consider it a matter of so little importance
that he could safely procrastinate? Could there have been any mistake
in the information which had sent him hither? Down, far below, into the
Valley of Jezreel Naaman looked, but the yellow grain fields merely
nodded in the summer heat and refused to answer. Off to the blue strip
of the Great Sea he raised his eyes, but the flashing oars of the
Phœnician galleys rose and fell unheeding. Toward the hills he looked,
but from their bare, brown hulks no help arose and Hermon regarded him
coldly from its snow-crowned peak. Weary, puzzled and in pain, Naaman
strove, sighing, to wait yet another day while the little maid whose
cheerful assurances had been the cause of his visit, lay upon her bed,
in the grasp of a great longing, knowing not that her unselfish plea
had brought about international complications and deep consternation to
her beloved Land of Israel.




CHAPTER XVI

HOPE


In a crooked and somewhat retired street of Samaria stood a house
which, next to the Ivory Palace of the king, was the most noted in
all Israel. On the outside there was nothing to denote any special
importance, nothing to particularly commend it to the attention of
the young man who walked along slowly, scanning each dwelling with
interest. It might have been the home of any well-to-do citizen. The
stranger paused doubtfully, asked a question of a passer-by, and then
approached the entrance gate, rapping loudly.

One in the garb of a servant but with the air and manner of authority
responded to the summons. That is to say, although not opening the
portal he called through it to know who was there and what the errand.
These questions being answered satisfactorily, the stranger was allowed
to remain standing without until the servant within walked leisurely
across the courtyard and ascended a flight of stone steps in the corner
to the flat roof of the dwelling and so into the presence of an older
man, to whom he bowed low and who, in return, greeted him eagerly.

“No message hath come to me from the king, Gehazi?”

“None, my master.”

“And what saith the people to-day?”

“Despair filleth all hearts, my lord, and the king rendeth his garments
and weepeth, for there be none to help.”

The face of the older man suddenly became gray and drawn and he went on
talking, but as if to himself: “Neither king nor people remember that
Jehovah is their refuge, a very present help in trouble. Yet will not
the son of Jezebel hearken nor the people whose minds the priests of
Baal hath darkened.” He stood silent a moment, then stretched out his
arms over the parapet, toward the panoramic view of the city and valley
below.

“O Israel, that ye would consider and know that the Lord is good and
that thy strength cometh from him, whose servant I am!”

His head sank upon his breast in meditation, but ere long he roused
himself and spoke with decision: “We have waited many days, Gehazi. Now
shall they see the salvation of the Lord of Hosts. Do thou send to the
palace and say to the young King Jehoram, ‘Wherefore hast thou rent thy
garments? Let this man, Naaman, come now to me and he shall know that
there is a God in Israel and I, his prophet.’”

Gehazi again bowed low, murmuring some words of assent, after which he
remembered to speak of the visitor below.

“A stranger, my master, is without the gate, desiring to talk with the
seer. He giveth his name as Isaac of Damascus, a soldier. Shall I bid
him enter?”

“Knowest thou his voice, Gehazi?”

“Nay, my master, but it hath the ring of sincerity.”

“Then shall he be admitted. Doubtless he cometh with this Syrian,
Naaman, and seeketh me to inquire of the Lord concerning him. I await
him here.”

Gehazi leisurely descended the stairs, crossed the courtyard, opened
the gate and received the visitor within. Isaac’s sandals having been
left outside, Gehazi brought forth a basin over which the young man
held first his hands and then his feet while the servant, from the ewer
which he held, poured water over them. Isaac then wiped off the water
with the towel which hung from the other’s girdle.

Gehazi now disappeared and a moment later set before the stranger
a little bread and wine. This was partaken of with the audible
satisfaction which Eastern etiquette demanded--the smacking of lips
which told of the pleasure conferred by this attention.

These ceremonies over, the visitor was conducted to the roof, where
the host awaited him. Gehazi bowed low before his master: “It is Isaac,
a soldier of Damascus.”

The older man forsook his meditation and looked toward his guest. In
the meanwhile, he of whom they spoke, apparently seeing nothing at all
had yet seen everything. No detail of his surroundings had escaped his
observant eye.

“If I like not the master better than the man,” he thought, “then
shall I know that the little maid hath been indeed mistaken in putting
confidence here,” and he sighed.

Noting that he was expected to approach, Isaac ran forward, prostrating
himself. Rising, he reverentially took between his hands the face
of the seer and kissed his head. Immediately the older man extended
his hand, which the visitor clasped, and each kissed the back of the
other’s hand. Isaac’s greeting was the tribute of an inferior to a
revered superior. Elisha’s extended hand was a condescension which the
younger man understood as placing him on the footing of an equal or
that of an honored guest, yet courtesy forbade him to speak until his
host had first taken the initiative.

The keen gaze of the latter seemed to penetrate his gorgeous costume
and lay bare every secret of his soul, but the voice was kindly: “What
is thy need, my son?”

“Thou art Elisha, prophet of Jehovah?”

“Yea, my son. What wouldst thou?”

What would he? Isaac’s voice fairly trembled with the earnestness of
his desire, and he spoke rapidly: “That thou wouldst heal my master,
Naaman the Syrian.”

The prophet sighed. “Neither king nor people have asked this thing at
the hand of the Lord. Great love hast thou for thy master that thou
comest to me.”

“Love and gratitude and admiration and pity, my lord. All these have
I for my great and good master, Naaman, but I have come to thee more
in dread of sorrow to a little maid whom I carried away captive almost
five years ago and who hath brought to mind the teaching of my mother,
who was of the Land of Gilead. Thou must know, oh my father, that among
so many gods it is hard to know the one supreme save as now and again
one performeth some mighty work which causeth men to say, ‘Lo here,’
or ‘Lo there,’ but my mother and this little maid have ever maintained
that Jehovah is God alone, who only doeth marvelous works. If this be
so, thou his prophet canst heal my master of his leprosy.”

Straight into the troubled eyes of his young visitor the older man
looked and smiled. “It is well, my son. To win the unselfish affection
of a child; to love a maid purely and protectingly and to keep thyself
worthy of both will be to thy remorseful soul as waters of cleansing.”
Then, sternly: “And to atone for the evil thou hast wrought to the
House of Caleb, I charge thee to do this thing lest the wrath of
Jehovah fall upon thee.”

Awed and assenting, Isaac stood through a few moments of silence on the
part of his host. At last the latter turned to him. “As to thy master,
Naaman, behold, before thy return to the palace, he will have received
a message from the king to present himself to me. To-morrow at this
hour thou shalt bring him hither and both he and thou shalt know the
only true God.”

The speaker made a gesture by which his visitor understood that the
interview was ended. With respectful ceremony Isaac made his adieux
and started back to the Ivory Palace, back to his impatient master. As
he went he reviewed the events of the past few weeks, the disquieting
rumors which his familiarity with the language had enabled him to
hear in the long walks he had taken through the city with a view to
news-gathering, a pastime inspired by Jehoram’s delay and Naaman’s
depression. It was this which had driven him to the prophet. He must
know for himself if there were hope.

At the palace gate there awaited him a servant whom they had brought
from Syria to say that his master desired his presence without delay.
Isaac presented himself humbly, half expecting the wrath which he
encountered.

“So thine own business and pleasure are more to thee than mine, Isaac.”

“Nay, my master, I--”

“The king’s messenger hath been here and thou away. None but Lemuel to
speak his tongue and he haltingly and the message one of importance.
Yet peradventure I should not have expected thy interest. Thinkest thou
I have not marked thy many absences of late and this the longest of
all?”

“But, my master, if thou hadst followed me--” The eager tone trailed
off into silence. How could he relate the disheartening tidings he had
heard on every hand when it could but add to his master’s impatience
and perhaps frustrate the very purpose for which they had come? The
pause was lengthy.

Naaman’s manner changed from sarcastic irritability to amused
toleration. “I had forgotten, Isaac, how oft thou hast been in this
land. I should have remembered thy youth and thy good looks and the
charm of the maids of Israel.”

“Nay, nay, my master. I but went--”

Naaman waved aside the explanation. “Few maidens are unwilling to
smile upon a soldier, but it mattereth not,” he said with finality. “I
should not expect from thee the wisdom of age. I do not expect it. But
go now and make what preparations are necessary, for to-morrow, at the
fourth hour, we present ourselves before this prophet of Jehovah for my
healing. The mouth of the king hath spoken it.”

Other mouths, both within and without the palace, took up the words and
repeated them until, between excitement and curiosity, Samaria slept
badly that night. The next morning, at the hour appointed, the narrow
streets of the city were packed with humanity as the Syrian embassy
wended its slow and stately way to the house of the Man of God.

In front rode several dignitaries in chariots representing King
Jehoram. Next came Isaac on horseback, attended by his servant and
a soldier or two who preceded the chariot of Naaman. The Syrian
bodyguard, who followed, were escorted by the flower of the Israelitish
army. In the rear came the pack-animals, their picturesque drivers,
and a few more soldiers. It was a civil and not a military procession,
and the splendor and dignity of both countries were represented. Amid
gaping crowds the company came to a halt before the House of Elisha.
Slowly and as if in expectation of their arrival, the gate opened. The
moment was tense with expectancy. As a mark of respect to the prophet
all dismounted, including Naaman, but it was not Elisha. It was his
servant, Gehazi, with a message:

“Thus saith the Man of God: ‘Go wash in the Jordan seven times, and thy
flesh shall come again to thee and thou shalt be clean.’”

All eyes were turned upon Naaman, who flushed crimson with rage
and disappointment. The Jordan indeed! The muddy, swift-flowing,
treacherous Jordan! Contrast it with the clear, sparkling waters of
the Abana and Pharpar back in Syria! If all he needed was to dip in
some river, he much preferred those at home. They were, at least, less
repulsive than this boasted stream in a foreign land. Were they not
better than all the rivers of Israel? And the idea of sending a servant
with the message! Why did not the prophet himself come out, and stand,
and call upon the name of his God in the spectacular manner of the
East? Why did he not strike his hand over the diseased flesh and effect
a cure with all the ceremony it was natural to expect? The meanest
servant could have hoped for nothing less than such treatment as he,
Naaman, had received. To put the most charitable construction upon the
act, the prophet had evidently not understood the position held by his
visitor, else he would have acted more in accordance with the customs
of the day. Nevertheless he, Naaman, had not come all the way to Israel
to be treated discourteously, slightingly; to be mocked and ridiculed.
The long and painful journey had been worse than useless. They would
return whence they had come and woe to Israel when Ben-hadad heard!

The Syrian embassy whispered among themselves. The elders of the city
and the dignitaries from the palace held a brief parley and then
approached Naaman with an air of dismayed humility, with apology and
almost with entreaty, but the outraged visitor was conscious only
of the insult put upon him. In the face of his anger all of Isaac’s
diplomacy served only to ruffle his feelings the more and to make the
efforts of the young interpreter and servant appear ridiculous in the
eyes of those who saw the futility of anything but surrender to the
exasperating circumstances. The king’s representatives were thoroughly
alarmed. In a few days, perhaps, when the wrath of their mighty visitor
had cooled, he might be persuaded to try the remedy, which appeared
even to them as questionable, if not absurd. If he did not care to
be reasonable, or if the prescription failed, then, indeed, the last
state of this miserable affair would be worse than the first. Years
ago King Ahab had had Ben-hadad at his mercy; Israel had put her foot
upon Syria’s neck, but since then other wars had changed entirely the
complexion of Eastern politics.[4]

It was a crestfallen party which took its slow departure from the
prophet’s house. Even the horses seemed to feel the general air of
gloom and walked less proudly. Isaac, chagrined at this unexpected
turn of affairs, heard not the comments of his companions, saw not the
jostling and awe-struck throngs, cared not for his master’s ire. He
was conscious only that back in Syria was a maid with the light of
happy expectancy in her eyes and it must not be dimmed! He resolved it
fiercely, striving to consider the situation as calmly as possible.
For Miriam’s sake, considerations of self were obliterated. Into the
struggle he threw his all, risking his future and the favor of his
impulsive master. At a turn into the wider street which led to the
palace, Naaman, with uncooled wrath, commanded greater speed, but
Isaac, turning, wheeled his horse directly in the path of the chariot,
thus halting the entire company.

The anger in his master’s eye was like a drawn sword, but love for
Miriam was like a shield, warding off the thrusts. His voice slightly
trembled but he held his ground: “My father, if the prophet had bid
thee do some great thing, wouldst thou not have done it? How much
rather when he saith to thee, ‘Wash and be clean’?”

Naaman, the bluff man of moods, at first irritated at such daring,
gradually became aware that he admired it. He himself had experienced
great moments and high courage. And there was no selfishness in the
plea. Isaac was asking for nothing which could benefit him personally.
Naaman looked at the straight, young figure, at the earnest face, at
the yearning affection in the eyes. “My father,” he had said. Naaman
felt the charm of deference from youth to age; the tribute of regard
from man to master; the acknowledgment of respect from an inferior.
“If the prophet had bid thee do some great thing, wouldst thou not have
done it?” He would. He was keyed up to any effort. That was wherein lay
the disappointment. “How much rather when he saith to thee, ‘Wash and
be clean’?” The logic appealed to Naaman’s sense of justice. Why not
indeed? It could but fail as had everything else. Why take all this
trouble and then refuse to do the thing recommended?

The king’s representatives looked on in amazement. Who and what was
this youthful interpreter and courtier that he dared speak words of
remonstrance and exhortation to this powerful foreigner? That he
was doing just this was evident even though the language used left
the exact sentences in doubt. The Syrian soldiery held its breath
in wonder, uncertain whether to admire Isaac’s bravery or condemn
his temerity. They would decide according to the outcome. Naaman’s
expression passed through a series of changes and took on the cool
matter-of-fact.

“On,” he directed, “on--to the Jordan!”




CHAPTER XVII

REWARDS


From the city of Samaria to the banks of the Jordan was some
thirty-five miles, considerably more than a day’s journey each way.
It lacked an hour of noon when they started, so Naaman’s party was
obliged to encamp over night, and it was late the following afternoon
when they finally reached their destination. With an eagerness that
knew no faltering, no uncertainty, Isaac had led the way. Now, finding
a shallow spot in the turbulent river near one of the fords, a spot
warmed for hours by the summer sun, Naaman had dipped seven times, as
directed, the seventh turning vague hope into joyous certainty. He was
healed every whit! Joy knew no bounds. The king’s representatives had
embraced him and each other. Israel was saved! The Syrian embassy was
scarcely less contained. Even the camel drivers from the desert and the
lowest of the servants shouted with loud voices and great enthusiasm
and Naaman beamed upon them all, but it was Isaac to whom his first
words of relief and happiness had been addressed, and Isaac upon whom
he smiled with tenderness and even affection.

With hearts attuned to see the wonderful yellows and browns of the
Valley of Jezreel in late summer, their horses’ hoofs had again
pattered its long expanse, the laden camels and asses driven in the
rear. One more night they had encamped and now they came straggling up
the hill they had descended three days before. But the young leader
had made a slight error in judgment as to the time of arrival. It was
shortly after sunset, a few minutes past the hour when the city closed
its gates--and no man came to open! Lemuel, companion of Isaac’s old
scouting days, approached him with a respect so profound that its
insincerity was patent.

“Sir, there be not room among this crowd of mendicants,” glancing
contemptuously at other belated travelers, “to spread our camping
equipment with due regard to our importance, and without it we shall
find the night dews too heavy to be pleasant. I pray thee have the
gates opened without delay that thy servants may render thee the honor
due so great a captain.”

Annoyed, Isaac ceased thundering at the gates and became aware of the
murmuring among his own party and the derision of the merchants and
others who, like themselves, seemed doomed to spend the night with only
the city walls for a covering while the chill air of the mountains
penetrated even the thickest of garments. The voice of Naaman commanded
silence. He spoke compassionately to Isaac.

“My son, he at whom the multitude throws roses feels mostly the thorns.
He who by any act becomes more noticeable than his fellows is the
target for their envy. Only a brave man can afford to be prominent. Do
I not know, I, the veteran of a hundred wars and judged of all? Courage
in the peril of battle I know thou hast, Isaac, for with mine own eyes
have I beheld, but courage in the peril of success, hast thou fortitude
sufficient for this?”

The Syrian party had unconsciously drawn closer together, away from
the motley crowd of late-comers who were striving to make themselves
comfortable in the shadow of the walls and were fighting energetically
for the best places. The king’s representatives, in another group,
were making a determined onslaught upon the stout gates with their
swords and spears. Lemuel again drew near Isaac, this time in hurried
pompousness.

“Answer thou wisely,” he said in an undertone. “He meaneth to reward
thee. Remember that I have been thy friend, thy companion since
boyhood, intimate enough for such jesting as I had with thee a moment
ago.”

Isaac shook off the counsel impatiently. His action had been inspired
with no thought of reward, save in the joy of the little maid; yet
Naaman was rich and generous and a gift not unlikely. If given a
choice, he knew what he should ask. He had considered the matter,
but the plan did not include Lemuel. The latter fell back a pace. His
words had reached no other ears than those for whom they were intended,
being drowned in the din of the pounding on the gate. Naaman, amiable
in the delight of physical relief, gave a few brief directions and his
party settled down to waiting with whatever calmness they could muster.
Audible complaints ceased. At last, on top of the city wall, a watchman
was seen approaching from the tower at the far corner. At first a
speck in the distance as he made the rounds of the wall leisurely, he
finally stood near enough to the gate to survey the assemblage outside.
With unsympathetic eye he viewed the poorer travelers and the belated
merchants, but a change came over his countenance as he beheld the
king’s representatives and the Syrian embassy. Instantly he disappeared
within the city and the party without drew a sigh of content.

Yet the gate was not opened; that is, not the great gate. A smaller
one within the larger was flung wide and the watchman appeared with
obsequious interest: “Behold the needle’s eye. Enter thou and thy
beasts.”

The men could get through readily, and even the horses could with
difficulty, but hard is it indeed for a camel to go through the eye
of a needle! They were made to kneel and then, with much tugging and
cursing and shouting their drivers at last succeeded in getting them
through its narrow space. The asses required almost as much effort,
having to be unladen and their burdens strapped upon them once more on
the city-side of the gate. Finally, only the chariots and the least
important luggage remained under guard without while the watchman
closed the small gate decisively against the envious groups left
deriding and pleading and cursing in the shadow of the walls.

The next morning Naaman’s company again stood before the abode of
Elisha. Again was it surrounded by gaping throngs. Again had the
city of Samaria cause to be both curious and joyful. Did not all
wish to gaze upon this great foreign diplomat who had been healed in
the Jordan? Did not his recovery mean that war had been averted from
Israel? What would he say to the prophet and what part of his goodly
treasure would he leave behind? Part of this question had been answered
before it had been asked; answered before he left the palace, when he
had proffered a gift to the king, a gift generous in itself but small
in comparison with what he had brought, most of which was intended for
the Man of God.

Naaman’s visit to the prophet, however, had an even greater
significance than the crowd surmised. In fact, his errand was
threefold. First, he had come to bring a thank-offering. Second, he
wished to make public confession of his belief in that Jehovah who,
though Israel’s national God,[5] should now be his own. Third, he
desired greatly to have the prophet’s advice on a matter which weighed
heavily upon his mind. This time he was not required to deal with the
servant, Gehazi. Instead, with all the elaborate courtesy of the East,
Naaman was received by Elisha in person. Not with the abruptness and
haste which we of the West are pleased to call “business,” but with
deliberation and delicacy, Naaman made known his errand.

“Behold, now know I that there is no God in all the earth but in
Israel; now therefore, I pray thee, take a blessing of thy servant,”
and Naaman stretched forth his hand toward the camels laden with
treasure, those rich stores of which Damascus was proud and which,
brought in this form, was the current idea of wealth.

Elisha demurred. “As the Lord liveth, before whom I stand, I will
receive none.”

Naaman stared. Surely he did not mean it. This was merely the usual
reluctance, the hypocritical hesitancy which might be expected. All
over the Orient it was customary to give presents to the various
holy men who were successful interpreters of the wills of their
respective gods, and none ever refused. This man had a different
manner: a courtesy without servility, an assurance without bigotry,
self-respect without self-esteem, but he was human! Once and again
Naaman urged acceptance of the offering, but Elisha was firm. A murmur
of surprise ran through the ranks of the Syrians and Naaman turned
impatiently, commanding their withdrawal that he and the seer might
converse in private. Isaac, sole attendant upon his master, as Gehazi
was upon Elisha, communed with himself: “So saith the little maid,”
and went over in his mind her protests against this gift and his own
worldly-wise replies. So different was Jehovah from other gods! So
unusual a man was his prophet!

Finding insistence useless, Naaman with fine feeling ignored the
benefit he had thought to confer and begged instead that a favor be
granted him. “Shall not then, I pray thee, be given to thy servant
two mules’ burden of earth?” From the land Jehovah was supposed to
especially bless Naaman would take sufficient holy ground to erect
in heathen Syria an altar to this new God. “For thy servant will
henceforth offer neither burnt-offering nor sacrifice unto other gods
but only unto Jehovah.”

The prophet graciously gave consent and dispatched Gehazi with servants
of their visitor to see that proper attention be given the matter.

Naaman’s brow clouded as his host stood waiting in dignified civility.
Drawing nearer, he spoke in tones which betrayed his agitation of
mind. “In this thing, however, the Lord pardon thy servant; that when
my master, the king, goeth into the House of Rimmon to worship there
(for thou knowest that my master, the king, leaneth upon the hand of
thy servant) and I must needs bow myself in the House of Rimmon as
its worship requireth; when I bow myself I make request that the Lord
pardon thy servant in this thing.”

For a moment the prophet did not speak and Naaman waited anxiously.
His was not a nature which could practice deception or tolerate it in
others, yet between his own religious convictions and his official
duties as a member of the Syrian Court was a great gulf fixed. Elisha’s
answer fell upon his hungry heart like a refreshing shower on parched
ground.

“It is well. Go thou in peace.”

The great soldier prostrated himself before the seer, who politely
bade him rise, and their farewells over--those long farewells of the
Orient--the Syrian embassy turned its face homeward, wondering greatly
at what it had seen and heard.

Through the gate of the house just left peered a frowning face. Gehazi,
servant to the prophet, had regarded his master’s decision concerning
the gift with some displeasure. True, Elisha was not poor, but to
allow wealth to pass as lightly through his fingers as a man openeth
his hand and droppeth seed in sowing time! But stay, should not his
own services be rewarded with a little, a very little indeed, of
what this foreigner was reluctantly carrying away? His eyes, lighted
with cupidity, grew cautious as they searched the apartments within
for trace of his master. In a moment he had shut the gate softly and
stepped outside.

Isaac, hearing behind them the footsteps of a runner, looked backward
curiously, checking his horse. Naaman, hearing at the same moment,
commanded his charioteer to stop while he dismounted. Walking a few
steps toward the runner, whom he perceived to be the prophet’s servant,
he greeted him anxiously.

“Is all well?”

The man reassured him. “All is well, but my master hath sent me,
saying, ‘Behold even now there be come to me from Mount Ephraim two
young men of the Sons of the Prophet. Give them, I pray thee, a talent
of silver and two changes of garments.’”

In answer to this request, Naaman generously insisted upon giving more
than was desired: “Be content, take two talents,” and although Gehazi
objected with well simulated humility there was in his tones no such
decisive finality as had been present in the voice of his master.

Calling two of the servants, Naaman saw to it that they bore before
the messenger the heavy silver, cut and weighed, and the two changes
of fine raiment. Well satisfied that at least something of all he had
taken had been accepted, the Syrian captain reentered his chariot and
the party waited for the return of the burden bearers. Isaac looked
after the trio questioningly.

“There be many Sons of the Prophet,” he reasoned with himself, “would
their leader, the Man of God, honor two above the rest? Nay, it seemeth
not so to me. Somehow I like not this man Gehazi. Never once, in all of
our dealings, hath he looked my master or me straight in the eye!”

At the same moment another mind was dealing with the same problem.
Gehazi, elated at Naaman’s generosity, had been likewise perplexed.
To receive a present was one thing, to dispose of it quite another,
especially in view of the two servants who carried the treasure and
before whom he must act the part of Elisha’s messenger as he had
represented himself to be. At the tower in the vineyard at the foot of
the hill he dismissed the men and took the burden himself, staggering
under its weight. Within the house he hastily disposed of his new
possessions and betook himself to his master, wondering if his absence
had been noted and striving to assume an air of innocence by busying
himself about necessary tasks.

Elisha’s keen eye rested upon the guilty countenance: “Whence comest
thou, Gehazi?”

“Thy servant went no whither.”

The prophet’s righteous indignation was kindled at the falsehood. “Went
not my heart with thee when the man turned back from his chariot to
meet thee?”

The fear in the craven face opposite told its own story. The prophet’s
wrath overflowed. To have upheld the honor of the Lord of Hosts and
then this misrepresentation! “Is it a time to receive money and to
receive garments and olive-yards and vineyards and sheep and oxen and
men servants and maid servants? The leprosy therefore of Naaman shall
cleave unto thee and unto thy seed forever.”

Gehazi cowered, weeping and pleading, but the stern edict had gone
forth. Already he knew himself to be the loathsome object Naaman had
once been, and at the same hour when Isaac lay down to sleep with a
smile upon his face, Gehazi rent his garments and cried aloud outside
the gate through which Greed had driven him.




CHAPTER XVIII

PLANS


Naaman, freed from the bondage of physical suffering, made plans for
the future with all the abandon of a joyous child. The first day of the
return journey he talked much with Isaac, whom he graciously permitted
to ride beside him, the target for both the flattery and the malice of
his less-favored associates.

“There remaineth, Isaac, most of the treasure we brought to this land,
despite our trifling gifts to King Jehoram and to the prophet’s servant
for his master’s almsgiving. Had it not been for thee I should not now
be healed. Behold, the gift is thine.”

Isaac bowed low. “Nay, my lord, for had it not been for the little maid
we should not now be in Israel.”

The great man pondered. “The maid shall be suitably rewarded, but what
desirest thou for thyself?”

Thus encouraged the young soldier dared to speak of what had been in
his mind since that day of healing at the Jordan. “Yea, my lord, much
more than thou wilt wish to give, but if, oh my lord, I have found
favor in thy sight, grant, I pray thee, that Miriam be allowed to
return to Israel and to her home as she longeth to do, and that thou
shouldst also allow to return with the maid her brother Benjamin, a
friend to whom I am much indebted, but who, being a shepherd, was
carried into captivity with his flock by Eleazer’s band about the time
I took Miriam.”

“But for thyself, Isaac, what for thyself?”

The soldier gazed beseechingly at the older man. “For myself do I ask
these things. Do they not mean the reward of a conscience at peace? And
that is something, my lord, I have not had this long time.”

Naaman was silent a moment, lost in thought. At last he spoke: “It
shall be done, Isaac, even as thou desirest, but more. This treasure
will I divide between thee and the maid, and when she is old enough she
shall be given thee in marriage. I see thou hast a tender affection for
her. It is well.”

With a gesture of dismissal Naaman was turning away, but Isaac
caught hold of the fringe of his garment, speaking with unmistakable
earnestness. “Thou hast spoken truly, my master. I love the maid as
she cannot now comprehend and she loveth me, but not in the way I
would wish. There be many kinds of love, and when she is old enough to
consider such things I pray thee help her to be happy.”

Naaman could not hide his amusement. “I see, Isaac, that I was not
wrong when I accused thy good looks of leading thee into experiences.
Thou speakest of love wisely.”

The amusement faded into seriousness. “Oft have I thought, Isaac, that
thou hast shown discretion far beyond thy years. As thou knowest,
my steward groweth old. In time he must be supplanted by a younger
man, and even now he needeth to lean upon the stronger arm of youth.
Where can I find one more diligent and less self-seeking than thou?
Behold, from henceforth thou shalt be no longer a soldier, but greater
responsibility shall be given into thine hand. In time thou mayest be
over all of my substance as was thy father before thee.”

Isaac stammered his thanks, but its lack of enthusiasm irritated his
master. “Carest thou not for the reward I would give thee? Peradventure
thou hast some other request. Speak and conceal it not.”

And Isaac spoke, too utterly miserable to be prudent. “Could I be born
and grow up in thy house, my master, and not wish to be even as thou
art, a man of war? Could I be thine armor-bearer and not feel that war
is more glorious than peace? Could I be promoted to the captaincy of a
small band and not wish to lead a greater? Could I follow thee and not
wish to be like thee? Thy wealth thou hast inherited, but the affection
of the people thou hast won by thine own valor, thine own worth. I had
dreamed even of this. Once I gained the favor of Naaman, Captain of
the Host. Henceforth thou dost ask me to seek only the favor of Naaman,
the rich man.” He ceased speaking, his breast heaving, tears in his
eyes.

Naaman stared at the dejected figure with incredulity and growing
displeasure. Why all this show of emotion over a benefit he had thought
to confer? His kindness was misconstrued. His thoughtfulness was
considered intrusive. He was defied and rebuked by a servant. Yet he
might have expected ingratitude. It was the way of the world. He had
imagined that Isaac was different, but he had been disillusioned. His
tones held the sadness of disappointed hope.

“I had believed thou wert glad to serve me, Isaac, but thou art like
the others: thou wouldst rather serve thyself. It is well that I should
have learned this before making any mistake.”

With a disdainful gesture he turned from his one-time favorite. Isaac,
shocked into full understanding of the mischief his tongue had wrought,
dropped to the rear of the chariot and by degrees to the rear of the
company, affecting not to see the curious and surprised glances with
which his action was greeted by his companions. Lemuel rode forward
hastily. Passing Isaac he leaned from his saddle, speaking in so low a
voice that even the soldier nearest could not catch the words, much as
he tried:

“Thou fool! Knowest thou not his imperious temper? Couldst thou not
bear with his impatience? Thou shouldst have considered only the
reward. Thou hast had thy chance and lost it. Next to thee he hath
seemed to regard me with favor. Peradventure the opportunity thou hast
thrown away will be mine. Behold, I go to do his bidding.”

He pushed his way to a place just behind the chariot, where he rode
for a time, respectful and attentive. Naaman, saddened and perplexed
by Isaac’s outburst, accepted Lemuel’s attentions with a certain
degree of grateful appreciation which gradually became relief and
even pleasure, and when evening fell, Lemuel’s tent was pitched next
Naaman’s, in the very center of the encampment, while Isaac kept to the
outer circle. The evening meal was long since eaten; the bustle of the
camp had quieted into the soundlessness of night; not a figure moved
among the dark tent-shapes and masses of camp paraphernalia. Even the
pack-animals were quiet, but hour after hour Isaac lay awake.

The stars looked at him with far-off, unsympathetic faces. He was
bitterly humiliated. Why had he so rashly thrown away his master’s
favor? Why had he treated his future advancement as a child would
lightly discard a withered flower? It was not merely of himself he
should think, but what would Miriam say when she knew? The impetuous
youth who had never faltered before a foe quailed now, in imagination,
before the clear vision of a maid’s disapproval. And then the remedy
flashed through his mind. Discarding it at first as absurd and
impossible, he ended by weighing carefully reasons for and against.
At last he rose and stealthily went for his tired horse. No watchman
questioned his action or interfered, but the significance of this did
not occur to him until afterward.

Leading the animal apart from the camp he stopped in the shadow of a
great rock. He was facing the road which led to Damascus. A little
farther along there crossed it the no less important highway which went
down into Egypt. It was well known to every traveler and each twist and
turn of it had been familiar to Isaac since his scouting days. He would
have no difficulty finding his way. Egypt was his destination. There
would he be a soldier. The ruling power was always anxious to recruit
its forces with any foreigner willing to serve, and how much more would
he be welcomed when it was known that his father had been an Egyptian!

Although the decision was made, the young man hesitated. To be a
soldier for pay, and pay alone! To fight, not to defend the weak and
repulse the strong but to uphold the quarrels of a master he should
hate! To leave the impulsive, impatient but kindly and generous Naaman,
the only master he had ever known! To cut himself off from jealous,
loving Milcah and repudiate the home of his mother! Most of all, never
to see the maid again! What would she think of this desertion? He
shuddered at the word, yet it was that despicable thing--desertion
of duty. He wavered an instant, then his face set into lines of
bitterness. By whatever name it might be called it was necessary.
Was he not already disgraced? Had he not foolishly and without just
cause forfeited his master’s favor? Did he deserve or could he expect
sympathy or even respect from Milcah and Miriam?

Still he did not start. Before his mind’s eye passed quickly a panorama
of all his dreams, now brought to naught. Brushing a mist from his eyes
he sighed and mounted the fiery little steed of the desert, once a gift
from his master. Motionless he sat in the shadow, staring, for down
the road, like a moving picture, came a band of mounted men. Was his
dream coming true? Was this the phantom command he had often seen in
imagination? And then he came back to realities with a start. His horse
seemed to feel the suspicion which passed through his rider’s mind and
was instantly alert, responsive, trembling slightly, but eager for the
fray.

On the company came. There was no mistaking the camels and the armed
men, though not a sound of their advance came to the sensitive horse
and to the man who crouched in the shadows, listening. It was this
silence which proclaimed their errand. They were robbers coming by
night with the feet of their animals muffled, their object being no
other than Naaman’s treasure, upon which they hoped to pounce while
the camp slumbered, exhausted by a hard day’s travel. And then it
occurred to Isaac for the first time that the watchmen should have seen
and reported. He remembered that he had noticed no passing to and fro
on the usual rounds. Was there a traitor within the camp? But he had no
time for investigation. He lifted his face to the stars for an instant
and through the cool stillness of the night sent a long, weird call.

It was the Syrian battle cry. The camp responded without delay, and
Isaac, dashing out of his shadowed retreat, led the first charge
against the oncoming robbers, made desperate by the miscarriage of
their plans and the surprise of the attack. It was a longer fight
than might have been anticipated. Their numbers were almost evenly
matched and both sides felt that so much wealth was worth fighting for.
Naaman’s party, however, had the handicap of weariness, for its leader
was pushing toward Damascus at a forced speed. Isaac never understood
how it was that he and his master and Lemuel became separated from the
rest and cornered. He only knew, with the clearness of vision which
comes in a time of emergency, that the chances were all against them
and in favor of the robbers.

In that moment, also, there swept over him the certainty that he had
never cared for Naaman the soldier and even less for Naaman the rich
man, but that Naaman his master was dearer to him than all the world
except the little maid. He saw the battle-line draw closer and closer
about them. He noted the spear-thrust which Lemuel avoided and which
Naaman, though he did not see, would soon feel unless, by a quick
movement on his own part--in Isaac’s side he felt a sharp and agonizing
pain as if he were being burned with red hot lead. His strength
suddenly forsook him. Crumpled up on the rocky road, held fast in the
grip of a dull torture and a nauseating weakness, the struggle surged
around and over him and he cared not, nor knew when it ceased.

It was long past daylight when his dull eyes opened upon his
surroundings and his stiff lips tried to frame a question. It was
Naaman himself who bent over him tenderly and answered with a
matter-of-factness in itself reassuring:

“Three of our men have we lost and four beside thyself are dangerously
wounded. The others are able to be about the camp and to minister to
the sufferers. We shall rest here for two or three days and then resume
the journey slowly. Yea, the treasure is safe and we have buried many
of our enemies. But rest thou and so shalt thy strength return.”

The speaker gave his patient a drink of something that was cool and
refreshing and bathed his wound with a mixture of oil and wine which
was supposed to have great virtue in soothing and healing. But Isaac
could not rest until one more query was answered.

“And thou?”

His articulation was feeble, but it was understood. As his master
stooped to reply two scalding drops fell upon Isaac’s hand and the
words came chokingly:

“Safe--thanks to thy fidelity.”

And then Naaman did a strange thing for one who was merely a master. He
gathered Isaac within his arms and wept openly over him.

“That I should have forgotten how high flame the fires of youth; its
ambition and its courage and its boldness; its longing for achievement
and its impatience of restraint. Yet of these is manhood born. Ah, if
thou stayest with me, Isaac, I will remember, yea, I will.”

The younger man looked up into his face wonderingly. Stay with him!
What did he mean? He was not going to Egypt. Not now. He was going back
to the little maid, and home. He was, however, too weak and too weary
to make explanations, so he closed his eyes and when he opened them
again the stars were out once more and his master still lingered beside
him.




CHAPTER XIX

HOME


In the House of Naaman at Damascus all was anxiety. As soon as the
days were accomplished when the caravan might return, a watchman
was stationed upon the roof to give tidings of its arrival, but day
succeeded day without sight of the party itself or even a messenger. At
least twenty times between dawn and sunset did Miriam run lightly up
the stone staircase to her own favorite spot. Shading her eyes with her
hand she would gaze long into the grayish distances and then, sighing,
descend to her mistress, who, weary with waiting and unutterably
distressed at the delay, had ceased asking questions with her lips
and now asked them only with her eyes. When no gladness appeared in
Miriam’s expressive countenance, Adah would sink back upon her silken
cushions with one brief exclamation:

“It is as before. We could expect nothing else.”

Not even the little maid’s confident cheerfulness could rouse her
to hope. Added to the gloom of her mistress, Miriam experienced
other trials. Her position in the household began to be somewhat
uncomfortable. She could not fail to be aware of whispered remarks,
slighting, scornful, amused. If a visit to the prophet who dwelt in the
Land of Israel were all that was needed for her master’s restoration,
why had he not returned ere this with the healing predicted? The delay
was proof positive of the failure of his mission. And who had doubted
that it would fail? Certainly not they. Had they not said all along
that if Baal and Rimmon and Chemosh and Tammuz and all the other gods
could do nothing, was it not highly improbable that this Jehovah of
Israel, of whom the maid was always talking, could do more? And the
idea of one in her place offering advice to her master!

It was on a particularly trying day that anticipation was changed
to certainty. It needed not the cry of the watchman nor the tense
excitement with which the household responded to apprize Miriam, for in
her own particular lookout on the roof she had observed for herself.
Far in the distance she had noted moving specks which could be no other
than a caravan. Fascinated, hopeful, she had watched its approach
until assured from appearances that it _might_ be Naaman’s party. She
had seen the sudden paralysis of Damascus traffic and had heard the
exultant cry of the multitude, two marks of respect accorded only the
great and the popular. It _must_ be Naaman’s party! Slowly and with
dignity the procession moved through the narrow, crowded streets amid
the cheering throngs and came to a halt before the arched gateway.
With wildly beating heart Miriam knew that it _was_ Naaman’s party.

Peeping over the parapet surrounding the roof, she noted that the
household had hurried into festal garb and gone forth to meet its
master in the solemn joy of the dance, accompanied by the music of
silver trumpets and cymbals, stringed instruments and timbrels. Her
place was with them, but surprise and dismay held her motionless for
a long moment, then she bounded down the steps and ran, panting, to
the apartments of her mistress. Adah, in excitement scarcely less than
Miriam’s but decidedly more controlled, stood by the doorway, trembling
and waiting. Miriam, with white face, clutched her garment and her
voice sounded strange even to herself.

“My mistress, knowest thou? Knowest thou?”

She could proceed no further. In Adah’s eyes the light of happy
expectancy slowly faded--and it had shown there momentarily. In its
stead came the old, deep despair. Dropping back a pace she covered her
face with her hands.

“I should have known--oh I think I did know--yea, I knew.”

Miriam, in utter misery, gazed at her fixedly. “Thou knewest and didst
not tell me. Thou didst wait and let me find out for myself that his
horse is led and riderless and that they carry a prostrate figure!
Someone hath told thee and thou hast concealed it from me. Oh, how
couldst thou?”

Adah moaned. “That he could not be healed I felt, I knew, but that it
is with him as thou sayest--Miriam, art thou sure?”

But Miriam was gone. With swift steps she passed various members of
the elated household. With unseeing eyes she rushed past its master
on his way to his wife’s apartments, and though he stopped and spoke
graciously she noted not it was he. Her objective was a room in another
courtyard where the figure she had seen was being tenderly cared for.
Here she knelt beside Milcah and stroked Isaac’s hand, openly weeping
over him; took from the servant the cooling drink and administered it
herself; listened to an account of the battle with the robbers and
forgot to ask for Naaman, and left the room only when she and Milcah
were satisfied that it was quite safe to leave him in the hands of
other attendants for the time being.

She was soon summoned to the apartments of her mistress, where she
prostrated herself before her master, but he gently raised her.

“Look upon me, little maid, and behold what thy faith hath wrought.”

Timidly she raised her eyes as she was bidden and the look lingered. To
behold him thus restored! Around the mouth which life had molded into
sternness played a little smile, to which the lips of his wife and her
handmaiden likewise responded.

“Well did I know that Jehovah would do this,” Miriam exclaimed,
delightedly, “if my lord would but go to the Man of God who dwelleth in
Samaria in the Land of Israel.”

Adah, with the lassitude all gone, drew Miriam down beside her while
the story was told from beginning to end, and the little maid heard
with such great happiness that the attitude and the recital seemed the
most natural thing in the world and not at all, as it was, an unusual
piece of condescension. Nor did either master or mistress appear to
remember. The tale finished and questions asked and answered with
entire frankness, Naaman suddenly propounded a query.

“And now what wouldst thou, little maid? Behold, a gift is thine.”

Into Miriam’s eyes crept a certain wistfulness and they entreated her
mistress. Adah turned her own away. Like the sharp thrust of a dagger
she remembered the girl’s wail on the day Naaman had started to Israel
and her own words of promise. Yet how could they let her go? Oh,
anything but this!

Miriam’s reply was not, however, what was expected by either of her
auditors. “A gift, my lord? Nay, for I sought only thy good because I
loved my mistress and thee.”

Naaman’s keen eyes searched her face. “We express our thanks by a gift,
little maid. Speak thou and be not afraid.”

“Then, my lord, let thy gift, I pray thee, come to Isaac, who
deserveth it more. He it is who hath brought this to pass more than thy
handmaiden. Thou wouldst not have listened to me, yet wert thou ready
to hear the servant in whom thou delightest.”

Naaman toyed with the hilt of the buckler which hung at his girdle.
Strangely unselfish were these Israelites. First the prophet, then
Isaac, now Miriam. “Yea,” he said aloud, “and Isaac shalt have his
reward, but something must be given also to thee. Speak! What wouldst
thou?”

Thus importuned the girl hesitatingly voiced her desires: “Thou
knowest, my lord, that with great anguish of spirit have I thought upon
the distress of my father and mother, bereft of both son and daughter,
and that with great longing have I desired to know how it fareth with
them. If, therefore, I have found favor in thy sight, I pray that thou
wilt allow my brother, Benjamin, who is a captive shepherd in the
Syrian hill country, to return unto them.”

Adah drew a sharp breath of surprise and relief, but Naaman was not
satisfied. “Yea, thy brother shalt go. Isaac hath already asked this
thing, but in Benjamin’s hand he shall carry a gift to thy parents.
I have told thee that but a little is gone of all that we took into
Israel. What wouldst thou?”

Miriam’s decision was prompt. “If thou couldst find it in thine heart
to give him some of the sheep. Thou knowest he hath tended them until
they are dear unto him, and with a few, my father’s flock could again
be restored.”

Naaman hastened to grant the request. “A few sheep would be but small
recompense for all that I owe thee. He shall take the flock with its
increase. I will send a messenger to the palace and the king will give
orders to his servants that this be done.”

Miriam knelt before him, her face transfigured with joy. “So good art
thou to thy handmaiden, my lord. I thank thee,” and slipped hastily
away while Naaman and his wife conversed long and earnestly on a
subject Adah presented and which appeared to be of concern to the
little maid, since her name was frequently mentioned.

“Let us consider well,” advised the man, gravely, “and if thou art of
the same mind a week or so hence--”

But evidently she was, for Miriam was again summoned to appear before
her master and mistress, and in a maze of bewildered delight soon
afterward sought Isaac on the veranda, where his couch had been placed.

“And when I am _daughter_ to the House of Naaman, thou who hast taught
me so much must teach me yet more,” she said with smiling confidence in
the help which had never been refused.

She was surprised at his averted head, his long silence. When he did
speak it was slowly and with seeming difficulty.

“When thou art daughter to the House of Naaman it will not be my right
to teach thee anything. Then will I come into thy presence only to do
thy bidding. I shall be thy servant even as I am servant to my master
and mistress.”

The smile left Miriam’s face. She put her hand on his arm and he
covered it with his larger one.

“But, Isaac,” she began, in a dismayed little voice, “why, Isaac--” and
got no further, for he went on earnestly:

“But I am glad for thee, Miriam, truly glad. Thou art entirely worthy.
Sweet art thou and refined and teachable, and with the advantages they
will give thee thou shalt be second to none at the court. They have
chosen wisely, much as they owe thee, and thou shouldst be grateful and
pleased at the honor.”

He smiled at her encouragingly, trying to steady the voice which
sounded so unlike his own, and went on telling her all that the new
position would mean in responsibility and opportunity and happiness.
Very quietly she sat listening, her hand still in his, but when Milcah
came, bringing some nourishment for the invalid, Miriam slipped away to
her favorite nook, trying to think calmly. Somehow joy had fled.

It had gone for Isaac also. Over and over he told himself how glad
he was for her, and over and over his heart mocked him with its own
desolation. Never again would she come to him with her innocent
confidences; never again bring him her problems to be solved; never
again would he have the sweetness of knowing that he was first to her!
And that was what he wanted; wanted it more intensely than he had
ever wanted anything in his life. Once he had craved the affection of
another maiden. Now he wondered that he should have been carried away
by a fancy. That was a dream, an impossibility. This was reality and
likewise an impossibility, and Isaac was unutterably wretched.

For a week Miriam avoided him, as he knew she would henceforth, and
then she sought him once more as he moped in the courtyard. It was the
same Miriam he had always known. As if they had parted but an hour ago
she plunged into the continuation of her tale.

“I am not going to be daughter to the House of Naaman.”

He was startled. “Miriam! What right hast thou to choose? Thy master
and mistress hath spoken. Naught is left for thee but to obey.”

“We can always choose between right and wrong, Isaac.”

He regarded her helplessly. “But what will thy mistress say? She will
be very wroth with thee.”

Miriam shook her head. “Nay, for I have already explained, and she is
not wroth. She laughed.”

He could not understand. “Laughed? At what?”

“I know not,” with a puzzled frown. “What other answer could I make to
her questions and her planning but that I could not be daughter in the
house where thou art only a servant?”

A long moment of silence. One searching glance and Isaac’s thrill was
strangled by disappointment. Quite frankly her eyes had looked into
his. Very matter-of-fact were the comments she was making upon the
sacredness of friendship and the gratitude she felt for his great
and constant kindnesses. He resisted the impulse to laugh as her
mistress had done. The barbaric joy which her words had awakened died
prematurely. In a little while he was the kindly, serious Isaac of her
former acquaintance. He drew her down on the stone seat beside him,
speaking in a tone of authority he had never used to her before.

“Sit thou here while I speak plainly to thee. Thinkest thou I shall let
thee ruin thy future for the sake of what thou canst not understand?
Shall I take advantage of thy innocent generosity to thine own hurt?
Am I so weak and my friendship so poor, so mean that I will allow thy
inexperience to deprive thee of that which thou dost so richly deserve?”

He spared neither himself nor her. He told her of the great riches of
the House of Naaman, of its power, of all the advantages which would
be hers. He reminded her that this was a childless household; that
its mistress was lonely, needing a daughter’s companionship; that he
and Milcah would be proud of her in the new relationship, and that she
would be able to accomplish much good for the name of Jehovah, her God.

She was distressed at his reception of her tidings. She wept at the
sternness of his tone, but her decision remained unchanged.

“Thinkest thou I have not thought of all these things, Isaac? Have I
not been to the court with my mistress and beheld its glory and its
folly? It would be wickedness to me. To be daughter in this household
would not mean to give more time or greater service to my mistress, but
less of both, for would not my duties be increased? More than this,
as daughter here I must bow to Rimmon, but as handmaiden I can serve
Jehovah. Thinkest thou the Lord, who looketh upon the heart, would
be unmindful of my deceit? Nor, as I have told thee, would I thus
ungratefully treat my friend. Thinkest thou I could be happy were I to
take precedence of thee?”

Isaac was sternly resolved. “Miriam, thou must take heed to what I say.
Quickly, before it is too late, thou must go to thy mistress and say--”
but Miriam had gone.

In her place stood Milcah, shocked and reproving, as is the right of
elder sisters. “I was passing through the courtyard shrubbery and
heard. That she should tell a man what she told thee! And at her age!”

Isaac’s serenity unexpectedly returned. “That it should be ‘at her
age,’” mocking Milcah’s tone, “is the only sad part of it to me.
Would she were two or three years older! Would she had whispered it,
hesitatingly and with a blush! Then would it have pleased me better,
but as it is, she knoweth not what she hath said, and when she findeth
out she will not mean it.”

Milcah’s sharp glance encountered one of the maid servants lingering
within a doorway, smiling upon Isaac. The sight infuriated her, and by
contrast, Miriam’s friendly admissions appeared the embodiment of frank
childishness. She sighed.

“Useless is it to enlighten her or to chide thee, for Miriam is just
Miriam, and neither thou nor I would have her different,” and so
saying, Milcah went her way.




CHAPTER XX

DEVOTION


The gatekeeper at the House of Naaman was extremely wise. Old and
faithful and trusted, he was an autocrat whose word few had the
temerity to question. For years he had admitted and dismissed through
that gate high and low, rich and poor, distinguished and obscure,
speaking to each in his own tongue and with the manner his rank and
errand demanded. For this reason he felt entirely competent to judge
for himself of the worth of any applicant for admission, without
referring the matter to higher authority. When, therefore, two young
men of poverty-stricken appearance and speaking the language of Israel
came, demanding to see the master of the house, it required but a
moment to decide that their request should, by all means, be refused.

They were undoubtedly grieved and disappointed. The next day they
came again, also the next and still the fourth, but neither arguments
nor persuasion availed with the gatekeeper. Then they changed their
tactics. They pursued a policy of watchful waiting, coming every day
and crouching on the roadway outside the forbidden walls from the
earliest beam of sunrise until its last faint glow in the evening.
Against such warfare as this the autocrat of the gate was incensed, but
not despondent. Others had made like attempts at various times, but had
never been victorious.

To the sorely tried youths, their enemy’s resources seemed unlimited.
By turns he tried threats, blows, indifference, sarcasm, and ridicule,
enlisting the sympathy and ready help of the assorted variety of
hangers-on who might always be counted upon to linger in the vicinity
of a rich man’s dwelling. To the gatekeeper’s surprise and disgust, it
was all useless. Smarting under defeat and in great irritation the old
man carried his grievance to Isaac.

“Right hast thou been to tell me,” the young man assured him. “Either
they be thieves watching their opportunity, in which case the soldiers
should pay heed to them, or else they bear a message sufficiently
important to be heard. I will see them at once.”

Meanwhile the two on the roadway without held converse in low tones.
“Not in vain have we daily watched these comings and goings,” said one,
“for much have we learned of the ways of the household and the manner
of behavior therein.”

“Yea, and what meaneth more to us,” responded his companion, “much
have we learned as to _whom_ it is that cometh and goeth: soldiers and
servants, merchants and mendicants and messengers of various sorts as
well as visitors of rank and distinction. Of importance must this man
Naaman be and of considerable possessions. Thinkest thou he will demand
more than we can pay?”

“Thou knowest the alternative,” was the grim answer.

“Then,” went on the speaker, “also have we seen the master himself, I
take it, but never close enough to have speech with him. Likewise hath
the mistress passed and a maiden who always goeth forth with her, a
maiden very gorgeously appareled and of great beauty whom we supposed
to be the daughter of the house save that her looks betray a different
lineage. All these and more, yet never the young soldier, Isaac by
name, who carried her away.”

“And if it were possible,” was the quick retort, “I would be content
not to see him.”

“More concerned am I,” pursued the other, “that he should not see me.
He may remember that out of his hand did I escape and seek to take me
again. Yet to redeem my promise and thy vow are we come, and I shall
not begrudge the price.”

At that moment an air of expectancy ran through the group outside the
portal, a thrill which communicated itself even to the two who were
conversing and who, by reason of the hostility offered them, had been
obliged to surrender the strategic position opposite the entrance
and take refuge under the wall at a little distance. The gatekeeper
appeared, beckoning violently. The idle pauper group, each individual
of which hoped this honor was for him, crowded about the man, only to
be repulsed with grumbling curses. The two young men, having learned to
expect nothing but unkindness, merely gazed and wondered. At last they
became aware that it was they who were being called.

“Come, thou gaunt tricksters. Thou of the brawny arm,” to the younger,
“and thou of the burning eyes,” to the elder. “Thou Israelitish
impostors! Come and tell thy errand to the favorite servant of my
lord Naaman. Come quickly that thou mayest be gone before he loseth
patience.”

The two looked at each other questioningly, disregarding the curious
and envious eyes upon them.

“What new insult thinkest thou--?”

Out of the gate limped a soldier very little older than themselves and
halted before them with a grave salute.

“Peace be unto thee if thy errand be peace. Naaman, my master, goeth
forth on a matter for the king. Quickly, therefore, thy names and what
it is that bringeth thee hither.”

The young men bowed low before him and the elder made the necessary
explanations.

“A long and toilsome journey hath thy servants taken and one beset with
danger, and five lean and hungry years have they spent in preparing
that they might speak to the master of this house concerning a matter
on which only he can speak with both knowledge and authority. So I pray
thee, if thy servants have found favor in thine eyes, grant that their
request be carried to him.”

“It shall be done,” the soldier answered, tersely, after a momentary
hesitancy, and conducted them forthwith past the sacred gate and the
once frowning gatekeeper (now all smiles) to the outer courtyard.

Scarcely had he left them and scarcely had they time to observe the
magnificence of the surroundings, when he returned, a few steps behind
his master. The latter suffered the usual elaborate salutations of the
East with visible irritation.

“The king’s business, on which I go, requireth haste,” he told them,
thoughtlessly speaking in Syrian. “State thy errand in as few words as
possible that I may tarry but briefly.”

The elder of the two, continuing to act as spokesman, bowed low before
the soldier, who was standing apart: “Thy speech is that of Israel and
thy master is not able to understand thy servants. I pray thee stand
near that thou mayest tell thy lord what thy servants say and tell them
what he saith.”

A smile played round the soldier’s mouth. “Nay, for my mother, who was
of the Land of Israel, taught its tongue to my master, whom she nursed.
Say on and he will understand. Long hath Isaac’s people served the
House of Naaman.”

“Isaac?” The question--or exclamation--was like the swift thrust of a
sword dividing friend from friend. The speaker drew back with hostility
in eye and voice. “Thou art Isaac?”

The soldier wonderingly assented.

“Then thou art he who hath brought us hither. Five years and more,”
sternly, “hast the captivity of a maid been on thy conscience, if thou
hast a conscience; a maid whom thy soldiers stole from Hannathon in the
Land of Israel.”

Surprise, resentment, and then infinite sadness overspread Isaac’s
countenance. “Nay,” he said gently, “not five, but twenty-five, fifty,
an hundred, hath been the years of my remorse.”

The travelers exchanged glances.

“Then do we not need to be told how it hath fared with the maiden,”
said the spokesman, and turned his back upon the soldier, addressing
Naaman in the tongue of Israel.

“Thy servants be Eli and Nathan, from the city of Hannathon in the Land
of Israel, and we have come to redeem out of thy hand this captive
maid, Miriam by name.”

Naaman frowned, and he spoke slowly. “Thy words do I comprehend but not
thy meaning. ‘Redeem,’ thou sayest.”

Out of his bosom Eli drew a piece of sheepskin, which he carefully
unwrapped, displaying two huge bracelets and a ring.

“When these are weighed, my lord, thou wilt find that they are of
considerable value.”

Naaman exchanged a look with Isaac and assumed an air of sternness.
“And when the truth is known thou wilt be found to have stolen them.”

On the faces of the two young men was blank despair. “Say not so,
my lord. It is the product of five years and more of toil for us in
the fields and vineyards of Abner of Hannathon. Robbed of his flocks
and herds and his stores of oil and wine by the same hand which made
Miriam’s parents desolate”--he paused and cast a contemptuous glance at
Isaac, who winced as if he had received a blow--“naught had he left but
his land, so he agreed with us for wages, and the God of our fathers,
who heard the sighs of the maid in captivity, also prospered Abner and
us.”

Naaman surveyed the jewelry appraisingly. “Five years’ wages for two
would scarcely equal their value. Thou hast obtained them by fraud.
Peradventure even now he for whom thou wert hirelings mourneth his
loss.”

Genuinely distressed, tears came to the eyes of Eli. “Nay,” he said,
eagerly, “my lord misjudgeth his servants. Privation hath been sister
unto Toil and both have been sweet unto us for the hope wherewith we
were comforted. My lord can see that these be the hands of workers--”
he stretched open palms toward Naaman and commanded Nathan to do
likewise. “These are not the hands of those who live delicately on the
earnings of others.”

Naaman surveyed their hardened and calloused hands, to which his
attention had been directed, but he saw yet more: their emaciated
appearance, their coarse clothing, above all, their earnestness, but he
seemed to find no words.

Slowly Eli drew from his bosom another and yet smaller piece of
sheepskin and unwrapping it, passed it without speaking to Naaman.
The latter looked long and with surprise, examining it diligently and
commenting briefly.

“It is a pearl of great price. It hath never belonged to thee.”

“Never,” assented the spokesman. “It is a gift from Judith, kinswoman
to Miriam and wife of Abner, who considereth herself to blame for
Miriam’s capture. Loath was I to take it, but she besought me with
tears and we reflected that what might mean much to the maid was but a
little thing to Abner, so we hearkened to his wife.”

The conversation was interrupted momentarily when Lemuel, bowing low
and with many apologies, crossed the courtyard hurriedly and whispered
a message in Naaman’s ear. With a hasty glance at the sun the great
captain turned to Eli.

“Put up thy jewels into thy bosom. Very dear unto her mistress is the
maid, and the sum thou canst offer tempts me not. Nay, for I would tell
thee--”

With one dismayed look at his brother Eli spoke again with calm
finality: “Then one thing more do we bring my lord, all that we have to
give. Let, I pray thee, thy servants remain as thy bondmen and let the
maid return to Israel and to the mother who yearneth for her.”

The younger brother now advanced, prostrating himself and echoing Eli’s
request: “Let Nathan and Eli serve thee as thou seest fit, but let not
the maid remain in captivity.”

Frank admiration beamed from Naaman’s countenance. “Nay, not as bondmen
shalt thou remain in this house, but as guests. Meat and drink shall
be set before thee and changes of raiment shall be brought. Thou shalt
see the maid and have audience with her mistress. Much of gratitude
and affection do we owe Miriam, and if it please my wife to let her go
into Israel, naught of what thou hast offered would we take, but a gift
should she carry in her hand. Already hath request for the maiden’s
freedom been made by my well-beloved servant, Isaac, and--”

Toward the gate they had entered flitted a smiling maiden, attended by
an older woman and a maid servant. She stopped to pick a flower from
the courtyard garden. Two women passed and she spoke to each, not with
familiar chat, but with pleasant authority, both hurrying off to do her
bidding. As the three entered a chariot which was in waiting and to
which she was assisted with every mark of respect, she turned her head
and the visitors saw that it was the gorgeously appareled maiden they
had once supposed to be the daughter of the house.

“Behold,” said Naaman, “the maid whom thou seekest. She goeth--”

A rush of faintness caused Eli to lean heavily upon his brother. It was
not _this_ Miriam for whose sake they had toiled and suffered, but a
Miriam poor and abused and possibly degraded. Upon the stone floor of
the courtyard Eli fell. It was the tragedy of an unnecessary sacrifice.




CHAPTER XXI

TIDINGS


Somewhere out on the Syrian hills a mother caressed her babe. “Awakest
thou, little one? Knowest thou that when thine eyes open it is as if
sunrise had come and when thou closest them again it is as sunset?”

The exultation went out of her face, but the tenderness remained in her
voice. “To think, joy of my life, that thou shalt never know thine own
people! Never shall the eyes of thy father’s father or thy mother’s
mother behold thy sweetness and delight in thee.”

The next words came with a low intensity like the fierce growl of some
mother-beast called upon to defend her young: “Always shalt thou be a
stranger in a strange land with not even memories, such as thy father
and I enjoy, to console thee. Scorn and misunderstanding and bitterness
of spirit shall be thy portion forever. O little son, dearly as I love
thee, how can I bear to see thee grow into manhood thus?” Her bosom
heaved and her eyes suffused with tears.

She was startled by a long, low peal of thunder and a great gust of
wind which blew violently into the tent through the raised flap. With
the babe in her arms she went quickly to this opening, which served
as both door and window, and peered out anxiously. A few large drops
of rain were already falling, giving promise of the deluge which came
suddenly, even as she looked. For some reason the babe wrinkled up its
tiny face and began to wail. The woman, with a quick movement, let fall
the curtain flap and retreated from the entrance, soothing the child
meanwhile.

“Nay, little son, it is not Rimmon, whom these Syrians sometimes
worship as the sun-god and sometimes as the storm-god. He is not, as
they believe, punishing his people for their sins, lashing them with
the fury of the storm. It is Jehovah, sending rain that grass may grow
upon the hills to provide food for his creatures. Surely, none knowest
better than thy mother that he is of tender mercy. Nay,” as the cries
grew louder, “weep not even for thy father. Long before thou and I
thought of rain he had sensed the storm and securely hidden his sheep
in some cave of the mountains where the forethought of the shepherds
hath already stored food for such emergencies. Skillful and tender
and watchful is thy father. The worst for us is that we shall have to
spend the night alone, so far from the sheepfold and the tents of other
shepherds. Shall we sit here, just within the door, where we can see
what passeth without, heart’s delight?”

Suiting the action to the word she lifted the tent-flap a little and
peered out, uttering an exclamation. “It is hard to see through the
blinding rain and the wind, sweet one, but someone cometh.”

Again she looked. “It is not sheep, and so I know it is not thy father.
Rather it seemeth like a chariot. Yea, it _is_ a chariot with horsemen
before and behind.”

She clasped the babe to her in an agony of apprehension. “Only king’s
messengers ride with chariot and horsemen. They come in haste, as if on
urgent business. They will stop when they see the tent and seek shelter
from the storm. And thou and I alone!”

Scarcely had she ceased speaking when she detected that the little
company was, as she feared, preparing to halt. The foremost horseman
dismounted and, approaching the tent, entered with an air of insolent
authority. The woman, face to face with her intruder-guest, drew back
in fear. He smiled triumphantly.

“Twice,” he said, “nay, thrice hast thou escaped me. Once in the
gorge in Israel when thou fedest wild pigeons and knew not thou wert
observed; once as we journeyed toward Damascus, and again in Damascus
itself. Thrice had I thee in my power. Wert thou not _my_ captive?
Thrice hast thou escaped through the help of thy friend--peradventure
more than friend--Isaac.”

The woman lifted her head proudly, resenting the sneer, a torrent of
indignant denials on the end of her tongue, but his manner immediately
became conciliatory: “Yet though the gods, who have ever been kind to
me, have brought thee into my hand once more, and there be no Isaac
near to secure thy release, thou hast no cause for alarm. Only speak
thou favorably of me to the maiden I have brought hither and all shall
be well with thee and with thy husband and babe. Refuse, and--”

His words were cut short by the arrival of the rest of the party,
who crowded into the tent unceremoniously, but though the threat was
unspoken, the woman shuddered. It was as if personified Evil had
intruded into the sacredness of Home. Retreating as far as possible
into the dim shadows of the tent’s interior, she watched apathetically
the entrance of two women, heavily veiled. That they were persons of
importance was evidenced by the deference with which they were treated
by the soldier-escort, chief of whom was Lemuel.

The older woman was speaking querulously: “Never should we have come to
seek those who are but wayfarers. Saidst I not to thee that only storms
and uncertainty would be our portion?”

Her companion, evidently much younger, answered, soothingly: “Yea,
and many more discouragements didst thou prophesy, but said we not
that none of them should delay the message of joy we carry, for is
not Jehovah able to deliver us out of them all? See how he hath now
provided shelter for us.”

Lemuel, dropping the tent-flap, which he had held as the two entered,
bowed deferentially to the last speaker: “Rightly hast thou spoken,
Miriam. Blessed be the name of Jehovah, as I learned in our recent
visit to Israel.”

It was noticeable that the girl did not return the smile but drew away
somewhat coldly. The woman within the shadows suddenly recovered her
self-possession, noting that this was the tongue of Israel and not the
despised Syrian. Hastening forward she spoke those courteous words of
greeting which no Oriental householder would, under any circumstances,
omit, placing her services and her possessions entirely at the disposal
of the strangers and drawing the two females of the party into the
woman’s portion of the tent while the men made themselves quite at home
in the other and larger section.

The younger traveler received these kindly ministrations of her hostess
with a wondering hesitancy. “Thou art not--thou canst not be--” she
began, then, throwing aside the drenched veil worn on the journey, she
peered intently into the face which could not be seen plainly in the
semi-darkness.

“Thy voice,” she continued, “and what I can see of thy countenance--”
and then a glad cry rang out: “Thou _art_ she whom Milcah and I have
sought, lo, these many days. Thou art Rachel, wife of my brother
Benjamin. Blessed be the name of Jehovah, who hath brought us to thee
safely!”

“Yea, blessed be the name of Jehovah!” piously echoed the men of the
party, but two of them exchanged glances partly amused and partly
sinister yet altogether significant.

It was an evening of joy. After the tiny lamps had been lighted and
the wayfarers had eaten, Rachel listened to Miriam’s recital in amazed
incredulity.

“That we should return to Israel when we had despaired of seeing our
kindred again! That our son should be reared in the land of Jehovah
instead of in this country of many gods! And that we should return as
thou sayest, not as those who flee from an enemy but with a gift in our
hand, the sheep that Benjamin loveth, nay, I have not heard aright.
Truly thy master is good unto thee and unto us. And thou wilt come
also?”

For a moment Miriam struggled with emotion. “Nay,” she declared with
sad finality, “thou must know that since my master’s healing at the
hands of the Man of God, Jehovah only doth our household worship and
there be none to teach them his ways when I am gone. Besides, is it not
Benjamin and the flock which will be of most help to our parents? What
am I that I should ask more when I have already been granted much?”

Her lip quivered and very unexpectedly she found herself weeping in
Rachel’s arms. The cords of captivity, however entwined with love, have
ever been found to cut the very heart-strings! The storm without almost
drowned conversation within and very early, sleeping mats were unrolled
in both sections of the tent, the lights were extinguished and silence
reigned.

       *       *       *       *       *

All day long the same rain had dripped and drizzled upon the streets of
Damascus, driving its inhabitants to shelter. All day long the several
courtyards of Naaman’s house had been deserted and the two young men
from Israel, guests for several days under its hospitable roof, waited
in isolation and impatience for the interview they had been promised
with Miriam and her mistress. Instead, a servant had come with a
courteous message to the effect that the maiden was on a short journey
and Adah was indisposed, but it was hoped it would please them to abide
there for a time, and so they had remained.

Some time during the night the wind changed and drove a fine spray
through the lattice, sprinkling the sleepers below and slapping them
in the face with its raw breath. Nathan sprang to his feet with an
exclamation of disgust, dragged his quilt-mattress to another and dryer
part of the room and was soon dreaming again that he was a soldier with
a commander who looked extremely like Isaac.

Eli too arose, but with greater deliberation. Peering through the
lattice into the inky blackness without, he sighed. “Rain coming with a
quiet steadiness that seemeth to deluge my heart with its cold torrent.
Persistence hath the power of accomplishment. Already are the roads
washed out and a long winter must we remain in Syria before travel to
Israel will be safe or comfortable. And the mother, old before her
time, bent under the weight of misfortune like an olive tree before a
storm, can she endure? So different hath been our coming from all we
had planned! To find the maid well treated, even honored and beloved,
how it would hearten the mother could we but send her word! And
yet--what if Miriam should not wish to go?”

Others there were in the House of Naaman who felt the wind’s rough
caress. Isaac, in no wise discomfited by the spray, as became a
soldier, merely moved away from the lattice, but drowsiness had fled. A
thought of Miriam came to him. She would be greatly disappointed that
she must wait throughout the long, wet months of winter, for when she
should learn that Eli had come, she would desire to start for Israel at
once. Now the rain had made it impossible and his heart was filled with
a great pity, even though her going meant more to him than he dared to
dwell upon. Perhaps, in all that great abode, Adah, its mistress, alone
felt pleased over the storm. Staring into space with wide-open eyes
for hours, she had listened to the rain’s gentle patter, listened with
a kind of fierce joy.

“Until spring Miriam cannot go,” she whispered to herself. “Months
must she abide here. Blessed respite! But how can I spare her at all?
She who hath been the sunshine, the courage, the hope in our time of
darkness and distress. She who hath taught me to be happy as she said
she would. Ah, empty will be the house and dreary the days without our
little maid!”

       *       *       *       *       *

For two days the storm expended its fury. The third dawned clear, and
a wind which threatened to tear down the tent dried the soaked earth.
The fourth found Benjamin, with his sheep, pushing forward with as
much speed as the safety of his flock would permit, anxious for the
welfare of his loved ones. He was surprised and delighted to greet
his unexpected guests, and with a joy scarcely less restrained than
Rachel’s listened to the wondrous tale his sister had traveled so many
miles to bring him.

“But thou also shalt ask to go. Behold, is not the House of Naaman
indebted to thee?”

Miriam shook her head. “There is no debt, but if there were, would it
not be more than repaid when thou and thy flock are restored to those
who need both? And thou wilt tell my mother that I have kept the Lord
alway before my face, even as she bade me promise.”

The voice faltered, and Benjamin put an arm about her. “Be of good
courage, little maid. Thinkest thou Isaac will let thee weep for thy
kindred? Nay, but he will speak to his master and he to thy mistress,
and when we start for Israel in the spring thou shalt go also. Rest
thou in hope.”

Miriam tried to smile and, saddened that the storm should have rendered
her errand futile, but rejoicing in the confidence it had inspired, she
lingered yet another day and took her departure. Almost at the last
moment Rachel drew her aside for a whispered word.

“Put no confidence in this Lemuel who hath charge of thy party. Not now
can I explain, but I fear for thee if thou dost trust him.”

Miriam nodded. “Isaac told me the same and wished greatly that I
wait until he should be well enough to bring me himself or spare his
servant, but the tidings seemed too joyful to delay.”

Milcah, Miriam’s perpetual shadow, put in a word: “And so my brother
besought his master that I be allowed to come with the maiden, and
our mistress, who can deny her nothing, hastened the plans lest
disappointment befall her.”

At a little distance Lemuel was talking confidentially with a fellow
soldier. “Pleased am I that our errand hath ended well,” he was saying.

“Yea,” rejoined the other with a sneering smile, “pleased if it please
the maid and, better still, pleased if it please her master and
mistress, for very dear unto them is Miriam since Naaman’s healing. So
shall thine own schemes be furthered.”

Lemuel frowned. “My creditors agreed to wait.”

“And the gods, whom thou art always boasting have thee in their favor,
have given thee this opportunity. How much thinkest thou is the
treasure which hath been given to the maid?”

But it was time for the little company to start back to Damascus and
with a sigh of relief Lemuel took his place at its head. He gritted his
teeth as, obeying his order, the man to whom he had been speaking took
a place in the rear.

“Better were this Jehovah-worshiping maid than thy insolence,” he said
under his breath. “May the gods help me to find favor in the eyes of
the maid and most of all in the eyes of her mistress, who holdeth the
maid’s future and the maid’s fortune in her hands!”




CHAPTER XXII

MEETINGS


In a guest-chamber of the House of Naaman Nathan hovered anxiously
around his brother. They had heard the happy announcement of Miriam’s
return, had seen the great house transformed into a scene of busy
festivity as if some honored guest were about to arrive, had even stood
at a distance and observed the bit of rivalry between the soldier who
had brought her hither and Isaac, who assisted her to alight from the
chariot into the arms of her waiting mistress, had noted the happiness
in her countenance and had turned away, sick at heart. Later the
servant who had been in almost constant attendance upon them had come
to name the hour when they would be conducted to Adah’s apartments, but
for the present they were quite alone.

Eli spoke dully, his whole attitude one of extreme dejection: “Strong
were we to labor when we thought of the maid despised and ill-treated.
Sacrifice was as sweet to us as the cool air of morn. Joyful were we
as they who conquer in battle when we had this--and this--and this--”
touching the separate pieces of jewelry which lay in a glittering heap
beside him. “Enough and more did we deem them for her ransom, yet how
little it profiteth! All of her impressionable years have been spent
in the midst of such plenty, such riches as we in Israel knew not
existed save in kings’ houses. Nor hath she been required to labor.
Peradventure she scorneth toil. Her master refuseth to let her go, and
she would not wish to be redeemed even if we had sufficient gold to
purchase her freedom.”

He regarded the jewelry at his side with disdain. “Take it, Nathan. Let
me never see it more nor speak thou of it to me. Wasted is our work,
ill-spent are our years, blasted are our hopes. It is as a pomegranate
tree which a man planteth in his vineyard and careth for, and lo, when
it might have borne, the frost killeth it.”

He relapsed into bitter musings while his brother took the gold as
he was bidden and, wrapping it carefully in its sheepskin coverings,
put it in his bosom. Eli silently passed him the pearl, but neither
of them looked at it, nor did they observe a figure which approached
stealthily, peered through the partially opened door, and departed a
little distance, remaining near enough, however, to note the comings
and goings from that particular portal.

Eli was speaking again in the same despondent tone: “Peradventure she
will have for us naught but contempt, and brought up in this heathen
splendor she may not even care to remember her home in Israel, nor the
mother who weepeth for her, nor the God of her fathers. Come, let us
return before her words and actions reveal to us this shame. In an hour
we are to see her, so the servant hath said. Let us hasten and depart
lest a greater sorrow be ours.”

Nathan pressed him back into the seat from which he had risen. “Thou
art beside thyself with grief and disappointment. Nay, but we will see
the maid. We will tell her wherefore we are come. If she hath forgotten
aught she should remember, we will teach her gently and patiently as a
mother teacheth her babe, and we will plead for that mother whose heart
will break if we return with ill news. Nay, but we will quit ourselves
like men, and if there be blame, it shall be upon the maid and not upon
us. Do thou remain here while I step into the courtyard and see if the
servant cometh who is to conduct us to the apartments of her mistress.
Wait, I say, until my return.”

And Eli waited. As Nathan crossed the threshold no servant was in
sight, and, attempting to shake off the gloom which weighed upon him in
spite of attempted cheerfulness, he walked slowly down the courtyard,
turned into an adjoining one and crossed to yet another before he
realized, with a start, that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. Lost
in thought, he had not noticed that he was followed. Now, halting in
confusion and seeking to recall how he had come, he was confronted
by a figure oddly familiar. There was neither formal salutation nor
friendly greeting, but only a look of insolent amusement.

“So thou hast changed thy mind,” said the newcomer. “Once thou didst
refuse to remain in the company which would have brought thee straight
to this house. Five years later thou hast come of thine own free will.
Peradventure reflection hath brought wisdom, yet thou shouldst have
known it was dangerous.”

Nathan was startled. The speaker continued.

“Isaac knew thee not yesterday, but thou couldst not so deceive me.
Thou art the lad who once escaped out of his hand.”

Nathan considered it prudent to appear fearless. “Thou art Lemuel,” he
said, slowly, “the soldier who captured Miriam and me in Israel.”

“Thou hast guessed rightly,” went on the other. “I am Lemuel, who
forgetteth neither friend nor foe. One word from me to my master,
Naaman, and thou wouldst indeed serve as bond-servant, not willingly
but by right, for wert thou not fairly taken in war?”

Nathan determined upon escape, but the watchful Lemuel laid a detaining
hand upon his shoulder. “Yet I may not speak that word, or, speaking
it, may soften the tone with a gift. Thou canst procure thine own
ransom more easily than the maiden’s. The same gold intrusted to me for
my master--” he paused to give the better effect to his words.

Nathan was distressed.

“Or the pearl,” went on Lemuel, “and it may require all. Thy fate is in
thine own hands. Come, what sayest thou? Which shall it be, thy freedom
or thy gold? Thou hast not long to debate the matter. Thinkest thou I
know not that the treasure is even now in thy bosom?”

Nathan gave the speaker a quick glance of anxiety. How could he know
that?

“Come,” continued his tormentor, “what is the word that I shall speak?”

Before the now thoroughly frightened lad could frame a reply, Isaac
stood before them. Frowningly he addressed himself to Lemuel.

“I will carry the word to our master, the word that a guest in his
house hath been intimidated and an attempt made to rob him of his
possessions. I will not soften it, neither will he.”

Lemuel held up a deprecating hand. “Thou art too harsh. Thou dost not
remember that the lad was a prisoner, taken in open warfare. Should he
not purchase his ransom?”

Isaac replied by a look, one long look of scorn and indignation, and
Lemuel departed, failing miserably to maintain his old-time swagger.
Isaac watched him, his lip curling. At last he turned to Nathan.

“Hadst thou intrusted thy treasure to him, never wouldst thou have
seen it again, nor would my master have known of the matter. Guard it
and thyself as well.”

Nathan stammered his thanks, wondering the while if he had not been
delivered from one peril but to fall into another. He braced himself
for the ordeal.

“The man hath spoken the truth,” he confessed, bravely. “Five years
hath made a change in my appearance, but look thou steadily upon my
countenance and thou wilt see that I am the lad who escaped out of
thine hand. Behold, it is revealed. What owe I thee?”

The soldier regarded him with the same frank admiration as had Naaman
on the day previous. “Thy courage is equal to thy resourcefulness
and independence of spirit. What a soldier thou wouldst make! Not at
first did I know thee, but soon did thy brother’s words bring thee to
remembrance. Naught owest thou, for didst thou not guard and guide the
maiden, Rachel, who was very dear to a friend of mine, a man to whom I
owe my very life? Nor have I any claim upon thee after this lapse of
time and we at peace with Israel and grateful because of the healing of
my master by thy great prophet. Nay, fear not, but go in peace.”

Nathan would have gone instantly and with joy had he known the way,
and so it came about that once more was he indebted to the soldier
against whom he had cherished resentment for five long years. In
the guest-chamber Eli had awaited his brother’s return in profound
melancholy. The servant came to conduct them to the apartments of
Miriam’s mistress just as Nathan and Isaac reached the threshold, but
Eli sat still.

“Why go?” he asked, mournfully, in reply to Nathan’s sharp
remonstrance. “If we find, as seemeth likely, that the maid hath chosen
to forget all she should remember: Israel the land of her birth, her
mother and her home, and more important than all else, Jehovah her God,
how could we carry the tidings which would be sharper than a sword to
the heart of her mother?”

Isaac regarded the speaker with surprise. “Hadst thou dwelt long
in Damascus,” he said, “thou wouldst have heard that so far from
forgetting Israel and Jehovah, the maid hath remembered with profit to
the House of Naaman. The wonder of it is on every tongue.”

He recounted his master’s cure at the hands of the prophet, ascribing
the suggestion to Miriam and praising her persistency. “In gratitude
for this healing,” he went on, “Naaman and his whole house have since
worshiped only Jehovah, the God of Israel, at which the maid greatly
rejoiceth.”

Eli’s face glowed. “Sayest thou so? Upon coming to Damascus we first
sought Ezekiel to obtain news of Rachel and to see if she knew of
Miriam. Finding him long since dead and Rachel married and somewhere
out on the hills with Benjamin, her husband, who is a shepherd, we then
sought thee, fearing to mention Miriam’s name or to betray our errand
lest obstacles be put in our way or our treasure stolen. From Amos,
seller of perfumes, did we learn that one, Isaac, wast in the service
of Naaman at this house. From thee we hoped to learn of the maiden’s
whereabouts. Later we heard that an Israelitish maid, Miriam by name,
was also here, so we sought to speak to the master.”

He paused, gazing at Isaac with a strange mixture of diffidence and
resolution. “We came,” he went on, “thinking of thee as an enemy to be
approached with cautious dread. We find thee a friend to whom we are
much indebted.”

Nathan nodded, telling briefly his experience just past and joining
his thanks to Eli’s, but Isaac waved aside the praise and, dismissing
the servant, himself conducted them to the apartments where they were
expected. Miriam was nowhere in sight. Adah listened languidly while
Eli earnestly pleaded his cause, Nathan, as usual, in admiring silence.
Isaac paced the courtyard without.

“And so because her master, thy husband, refuseth to accept a ransom,”
Eli supplicated, “even though we have offered to become servants in her
stead, I have determined to ask of thee a gift--the gift of the maid to
her mother, who yearneth for her.”

Restless under those burning eyes, jealous for the reputation of her
own household, she addressed him haughtily: “The same request hath
already been preferred by Isaac, and although the maid is dear unto us,
yet to-day hath she been told that she is not bound to the House of
Naaman save by the cords of affection. When the rainy season is over,
she is to go with her brother and his family, together with his flocks
and herds, back to the Land of Israel, in the care of a captain and
horsemen. Behold, before thou camest thou hadst thy desire.”

Cutting short Eli’s bewildered expressions of gratitude, she dispatched
a servant in search of Miriam. To the waiting ones, it seemed hours
before she came, although in reality it was but a few minutes. It was
her fifteenth birthday and she was glowing with happiness, smiling
radiantly upon the little world inside the walls of Naaman’s house.

Adah claimed her attention: “Another gift, little maid, an unexpected
one: tidings from thy home in Israel brought by these two young men.
Dost thou know them?”

Miriam turned, scanning their faces eagerly. Nathan smiled and Eli
began to speak, but she interrupted with a joyous cry: “Eli! Nathan!
How tall thou art grown! And how didst thou ever find me? But how glad
I am, how very glad! Tell me, my mother and my father--”

It was the same Miriam Eli had last seen in Israel. Out in the
courtyard Isaac heard the joyful greeting and through the partly opened
door his eyes encountered Adah’s, looking past the young people. She
beckoned him to her side for a whispered word.

“I fear the little maid will no longer be _our_ little maid.”

The words were spoken in so low a tone he scarcely caught them, but
they might have been shouted and Miriam and her visitors would not have
heard. Isaac watched for a moment the little group so absorbed each in
the other and sighed.

“Yea,” he admitted, sadly, “we have lost our little maid and thou and I
will sorrow most.”




CHAPTER XXIII

ISRAEL


Once more it was spring. Once more were the rains over and the air
balmy and the water courses quiet so that sheep might pass them and
not be afraid. Once more were faint paths made across the sands of the
wilderness and the stony hillsides by caravans large and small, abroad
on errands of business or pleasure, and once more did the House of
Naaman pass a restless night, for on the morrow Miriam was to depart
for her beloved Land of Israel.

Roused from happy dreams, she could not understand for a moment the
medley of confused but pleasurable sensations which surged over her;
then she remembered clearly. Eli had come long months ago to take her
back to things as they used to be, back to her mother and father--nay,
with a rush of tears, not her father. Never again would she see that
fond expression in his eyes, never again hear his kind voice, never
again look upon his dear face. And her mother, old and broken, she was
told. She could not realize it. Yet soon would she clasp that mother
in her arms; soon see her and know for herself. To-morrow Isaac’s band
would give the captives in Syria safe conduct, Rachel and the babe
riding in the chariot beside her, and Benjamin leading his sheep before
them. And all through this time of waiting Eli had been here: Eli, who
had suffered with and for her, who had toiled and sacrificed and then
found it had been in vain. Oh, Eli was so wonderful!

In another part of the House of Naaman he of whom she thought was also
awake, a little smile on his lips, a little thrill in his heart. To
have found her unchanged and unspoiled in the midst of all this heathen
luxury! To have found her beautiful and true and sweet! To have thought
that he toiled for the sake of the mothers, not knowing it was for
Miriam, not understanding that there was just one maiden--only one!

But nights have a way of ending, and dawn came as radiant as Miriam’s
countenance when the household thronged around the altar which had
been erected in one of the more private courtyards immediately after
Naaman’s return from Israel. In appearance it was merely a raised mound
made of ordinary Syrian soil upon which had been spread the “two mules’
burden of earth” he had begged from the Man of God. Thus hallowed
by the sacred earth from the locality in which Jehovah was supposed
to especially delight, it was considered a fitting place for the
burnt-offering which Naaman himself piously sacrificed each morning.

This accomplished, the worshipers kneeling in petitions more or less
heartfelt, they rose and the service closed with a psalm of David,
painstakingly taught by Miriam to the household singers. To-day the
hymn concerned itself with the wonders of nature, not in and for
themselves as did the psalms of the sun-worshipers, but extolling
Jehovah as Lord over nature.

Miriam’s voice led:

  “The heavens declare the glory of God,
  And the firmament showeth his handiwork.”

The chorus responded:

  “Day unto day uttereth speech,
  And night unto night revealeth knowledge;
  There is no speech, there are no words,
  Neither is their voice heard.
  Yet is their line gone out through all the earth,
  And their words to the end of the world.”

Miriam’s voice again:

  “In them hath Jehovah set a tent for the sun,”

And the chorus once more:

  “Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,
  And rejoiceth as a strong man to run his course.
  His going forth is from the end of the heaven,
  And his circuit unto the ends of it:
  And there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.”

At the close of the service Eli had speech with Miriam for a moment.
“They go now,” she told him, “to the House of Rimmon, where the old
King Ben-hadad leaneth for support upon the hand of his well-beloved
servant, Naaman, my master. Isaac attendeth upon him. Thou wilt wish to
go to see for thyself this sun-worship while I wait upon my mistress
ere we depart.”

“Always thou hast refused to go,” Isaac reminded, seconding the
invitation, and Eli, after a little hesitancy, consented.

Lemuel, with a smile meant to be friendly, joined the group as Miriam
hastened away. “Once more hath Rimmon, our sun-god, vanquished the
darkness and started his victorious journey across the face of the sky,
but whether it be Rimmon, god of Syria, or Baal, god of Phœnicia, or
Jehovah, God of Israel, let each worship according to the custom of the
land, say I.” He lowered his voice. “But didst thou think that Naaman
would risk the favor of the king by importing a different God for
worship at his private altar?”

Isaac sprang to his master’s defense. “It proveth the generous kindness
of the king, and is but what might be expected in gratitude for healing
at the hands of Jehovah’s prophet. Did not Naaman speak to Elisha, who
refused to condemn his faithfulness to his old master, the king?”

Half an hour later they were all in the large and splendid Temple of
Rimmon, the pride of Damascus architecture and decorating. It was
beautiful with flowers, the air heavy with incense. Eli noted the
service, burdened with ceremony, the reverence during the sacrifice
of the burnt-offering, the earnestness of the murmured prayers, the
spreading out of the hands in formal attitudes of supplication, the
general singing of hymns of praise. Even the lewd dancing of the sun
virgins filled him with pity rather than horror.

He spoke his mind to Miriam as he rode beside the chariot that
afternoon on the way to Israel. “To be so sincere yet so mistaken; to
go from the altar of Jehovah to the Temple of Rimmon; to turn from the
true God to the false; to have none to show them a better way! Nay,
thou couldst not be reconciled to dwell in this heathen land.”

For some reason Miriam resented his half-pitying, half-complacent
tone. The quiet which had possessed her since the tearful farewells at
Naaman’s gate suddenly forsook her. “The daybreak, Eli, how cometh it,
suddenly and with the noise of a trumpet or silently and by degrees,
one faint radiance succeeding another until all is light?”

It was a moment before he caught her meaning. “Yea, I see,” he said,
glowing with admiration, “and _thou_ hast led this household to its
first, faint gleam--the gleam which shineth more and more unto the
perfect daybreak.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the most splendid house of the “city” of Hannathon, the house with
the courtyard which Judith had so coveted, Abner addressed her, a
little frown on his forehead:

“One field after another have I added to what I already had. Anxious
enough were our neighbors to sell and remove hence when the Syrian raid
left them hungry and desolate and afraid. For almost nothing did many
part with their possessions. And now the best vineyard of them all,
that held by Sarah, widow of Caleb, I cannot buy because thou dost
withhold the pearl which I might offer as surety for payment in full
when the grapes be gathered in the fall. So obstinate is a woman! Long
hath Sarah held the land and offer after offer hath she refused, saying
the vineyard be all of her living save a few olive trees. Now, with Eli
gone, a price hath been agreed upon, but she demanded of me a pledge.
Come, give me the pearl.”

Judith’s eyes besought him piteously. “I cannot,” she faltered.

He smiled unpleasantly, quite misunderstanding the reason for her
hesitancy. “Because it is Sarah, who hath shared her home with thee?
Because she is old before her time and sick? Because thou thinkest I
offer her too little? Five years ago thou wert ready to leave her roof
for mine. Hath she treated thee better than I?”

Again Judith’s eyes spoke, this time with a flash of indignation.
“Never hath she treated me well. Grudgingly always did she offer me a
home. Daughter that I have been to her for the past five years since
Miriam was taken away, never doth she look _at_ me but always _through_
me. My services are acceptable but not myself. Never doth she let me
forget that I am of strange people. It was Caleb, husband of Sarah and
brother to my father, who was ever my friend.” Her voice broke, but in
a moment she went on more steadily: “What I do for her is in memory of
him and of the little maid who loved me.”

“I see,” he declared, his eyebrows drawn together until they made one
line: “So it is because I refused help to that visionary, Eli, who
desired a gift toward the maid’s ransom, that thou dost revenge thyself
upon me by withholding the pearl. As if he would find trace of her! As
if he would want to find what he would find! Thinkest thou a little
maid would be safe in the midst of a rough soldiery? Thinkest thou
the cruel Syrians would deal gently with a child? Nay, but when Eli
returneth with a tale too pitiful to tell a sorrowing mother--”

Judith interrupted, her words coming chokingly: “When Eli failed to
secure thy help, I besought thine aid for Miriam, adding my tears to
his, thinking thou wouldst understand and sympathize, thou, a sorrowing
father, who had himself lost a little maid, a maid so tiny and so
sweet, stolen by Death, not by the Syrians--”

She turned her head and a sob escaped her. There was absolute silence
in the apartment. Abner cleared his throat.

“Thou dost evade the question. Come, acknowledge the truth. Thou dost
revenge thyself upon me by withholding the pearl.”

“Nay,” returned Judith, “I would scorn to avenge myself upon thee.
I--I--have lost the pearl.”

He looked at her in amazement.

“And I feared to tell thee lest thou be angry,” she added, not looking
at him.

He strode across the room and took her face between his hands, striving
to read her expression. Something he saw there dictated his next words:

“Unless it had been stolen from thee, small chance hast thou had to
lose it. Nay, but thou dost deceive me. Speak without fear. What hast
thou done with the jewel?”

She hesitated. “I lost it,” she reiterated.

Storm clouds gathered on his face and the tempest broke in fury upon
her: “Thinkest thou to deal doubly with me and yet find confidence and
affection? Nay, but truth will I have from thee, else this home is no
longer thine. Speak! What hast thou done with the pearl?”

Judith meditated. To confess while he was in that mood was to find
neither understanding nor approval. She would wait until his heart was
more tender toward her.

“I have lost it,” she repeated, sullenly, and cowered as he came toward
her.

Laying a rough hand on her shoulder he pointed to the door: “Go thou
and enter not again until truth be thy companion.”

Shaking off his hand she faced him. Not a word did she utter, but the
look he never forgot. In a moment she had passed out of the door into
the sun-kissed air, divorced by the one word which an Oriental husband
may speak at any time to the wife of whom he has tired, and which even
a Jew occasionally spoke in defiance of Mosaic law.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the top of the hill which crowned the Valley of Jiptha-el, a woman
bent and worn sat patiently on the coarse green grass under the shade
of a wild fig tree. As Judith appeared she addressed her without
salutation and without taking her eyes from the path.

“Day after day, from sunrise to sunset, have I stayed here, waiting for
Eli to bring them back to me. Yet if they were coming, would they not
have been here a month ago? Early were the rains over and long hath
travelers been passing the mouth of the valley, but they for whom I
wait come not.”

Her voice had in it that note of calm endurance which belongs to those
who have suffered. Judith, observing her in the strong sunlight,
thought she had never looked so frail.

“To-day and to-morrow and the day after will I wait,” went on Sarah,
“and then--” she put her hand over her heart--“then if they come not, I
will know he hath not found them and I think I cannot wait longer.”

Judith was startled out of her own sad musings. “It is the first time I
have heard thee hint at surrender,” she said, reproachfully. “Nay, but
be of good courage. What if they should come later?”

“If they come after I am gone,” was the answer, the worn hand still
over the tired heart, “tell them I waited as long as I could, as long
as the pain would let me. Tell Eli that I say his faithfulness hath
never let me feel the lack of a son, and tell Miriam that no one could
take her place, but that thou, like a dear, elder daughter, hath filled
a corner in my heart all thine own.”

Judith stared incredulously. “Thou canst not mean--” she began, but
Sarah went on, unheeding the interruption:

“Strange that the maiden I could not welcome should have been my stay
and comfort these five years and more! And tell Benjamin, my beloved--”

Judith brushed away the tears: “Oh but thou dost not know the wrong--”

Sarah was shading her eyes with her hand: “What meaneth that cloud of
dust in the valley?”

“Sheep,” declared Judith with a careless glance. “Why, if I had ever
known that thou hast even thought of me kindly--and thou couldst not
if thou knewest--”

“A flock of sheep larger, yea, twice as large as Benjamin tended,”
commented Sarah. “See, the shepherd turneth them aside into the old
sheepfold which hath not seen the like since the Syrians swooped down
upon us so long ago. And a band of horsemen and a chariot! Thinkest
thou the king’s messengers come this way? But why the flock escorted by
soldiers?”

She turned a wondering face toward Judith, but her question was
answered when a tall youth and a maiden, the first of the party to
reach the top of the hill, paused to take breath after the steep climb.
With true Eastern hospitality Sarah rose and tottered feebly toward
them. A moment more and Eli’s voice sounded in her ears and Miriam’s
arms were around her. Another moment and Benjamin was bending over her.
She looked in bewildered fashion from one to the other as if scarce
comprehending. At last she smiled upon them.

“Judith,” she called, “Judith, come thou. My children must be all
together,” and closed her eyes with a little sigh of contentment.

“Then Rachel must be here also,” said Benjamin, drawing her toward him
as she held the babe.

“And Nathan too,” put in Eli, taking his brother by the arm.

Among them all they carried Sarah to her old home and, without one
backward glance, the happy, chattering group entered, leaving a lone
figure upon the hilltop.

It was a strange sight to be seen in Israel, that soldier in splendid
Syrian dress, lingering there. He noted the village straggling up
the unpaved street, the tender green of growing things in the valley
beneath, the low cloud of dust hovering over the sheepfold. Memory was
likewise busy. He recalled Miriam’s joy in Eli’s coming to Damascus,
her unwonted gayety since they had started for the Land of Israel, her
present absorption in her mother. Yet could aught else be expected?
Reasoning with himself, excusing her, striving to stifle the pain of
her thoughtlessness, he descended the hill to the encampment of the
soldiers.

“Yea,” he said mournfully to himself, “we have lost our little maid,”
and then, again, with heart-sick despair, “_I_ have lost _my_ little
maid.”




CHAPTER XXIV

WAITING


In the House of Abner the usual household scenes mocked the sorrowing
man who beheld them. “Empty, empty, empty!” he moaned. “My Rose of
Sharon have I plucked from its stem and cast aside. Ah, woe is my
portion!”

Striding down the village street long before the morning mists had
faded, he paused in front of Sarah’s house, thereby startling a
beautiful girl in foreign raiment who had just stepped over the
threshold and surprising himself scarcely less. Then he recalled the
conversation of his excited servants the day before, tidings which had
been unheeded in his own grief. This must be Miriam!

“Nay,” she replied to his question, “my mother and I are quite alone.
Very early this morning did Benjamin take Rachel and their little son
to the house of her parents, whom she saw but briefly yesterday. Eli
and Nathan soon afterward took the path down the hill to the camp of
the soldiers, and Judith departed likewise. Nay, I know not where.”

He was hastening away when she ran and prostrated herself in his path.
“My lord hath been good to his servant. I thank thee for the pearl
which thou didst send to Syria by the hand of Eli for my ransom.”

Abner listened dully. “A pearl, thou sayest?” And then the significance
of her speech dawned upon him. “Rise thou,” he commanded, suavely, “it
was but a small gift. Happy am I that it hath helped to purchase thy
freedom.”

A tenderly reminiscent smile played around Miriam’s mouth. “Nay,” she
said, “I have returned to Israel because of a jewel more precious than
any found in earth or sea: the love of my master and mistress. Naught
would they accept but gave me freedom and sent me to my mother with a
gift in mine hand.”

“But the pearl,” inquired Abner, eagerly. “What hath become of the
jewel?”

“Eli hath already given it back to Judith, from whom he received it,”
she answered, and with cool adieux turned and left him.

He passed a hand over his brow, made as if to turn back, hesitated and
then went on, groping his way down the hill and through the fields,
wet with the night dews. The camp of the soldiers, so busy a scene at
sunset, was now deserted, and huddled over the still warm ashes of what
had recently been a fire was the figure he sought.

“I--arrived--too--late. They--were--already--gone,” she said, slowly,
in response to his excited inquiry.

Abner laid a shaking hand upon her shoulder. A crimson flush crept into
the pale cheek. Rising suddenly she wrenched herself from his grasp and
thrust something into his hand. “Take it,” she cried. “I should have
known thou wouldst have followed me even to Damascus to get it back.
Lo, thou hast that which thou seekest,” and turning, she fled.

He glanced hastily at the object she had given him. It was the pearl.
With sudden passion he threw it into the unsearchable depths of the
canyon and swiftly followed Judith, but a loose stone ended the
pursuit. With a cry of pain she stumbled and fell, and when he bent
over the prostrate figure a moment later her eyes were closed. It was
Eli who answered Abner’s hail and helped him carry his burden up the
hill. Stopping for a moment’s rest they met Miriam on her way to the
spring.

With anxious questions and practical sympathy the girl knelt beside
her cousin, slipping off the sandal and examining the rapidly swelling
ankle. “Straight to my mother’s house,” she suggested. “It is so near,”
but Abner objected.

“To her own home,” he commanded, sharply, preparing to resume his load.

Judith’s eyes flew open. “Nay,” she protested feebly. “Thou shouldst
know that truth is not my companion nor hath ever been. I stole the
pearl. It is that for which Caleb, brother to my father, was slain, and
which Sarah, who hath been a mother to me, cast away in her despair. I
found it and used it to serve my own ends. Then, when it had long been
a coal of fire in my bosom I gave it to Eli to help with the little
maid’s ransom. Yet sin reapeth sorrow as surely as harvest followeth
the time of sowing. Because of the pearl my husband hath divorced me,
and lest my disgrace be known to those to whom it would bring grief,
I determined to use the jewel to purchase my way to Damascus with the
soldiers.”

Miriam’s amazed look encountered Eli’s stern one. “I knew not,” he
began, but Miriam was stroking Judith’s forehead and speaking tenderly.
“Always hast thou been unhappy in Hannathon, for wast not thy sadness
mine? Yea, but come thou. Behold, our home is thine also.”

“Nay,” said Abner with decision, “we take thee to thine own house,
thine and mine. As for the pearl, I knew not it belonged to Sarah. I
hated it for the trouble it hath caused thee and me and just now I
flung it into the gorge.”

Eli gasped. “But thou wilt pay,” he insisted. “Its value shalt thou
redeem, that the widow and the orphan be not robbed.”

Miriam was quite as decided. “Nay, it hath ever been an evil thing,
and with the gift sent by Naaman my master, my mother will not miss
the pearl. Rather would she wish it counted dead now that it hath been
buried. Her anxiety will be for Judith. Take her to our house, I pray
thee.”

But he would not and the little procession resumed its slow march to
his abode.

An hour later Miriam remembered the abandoned water jar, and bidding
her cousin an affectionate farewell, hastened to reclaim her forgotten
property. The sun had finally conquered the fog and sweet-scented
breezes played with her hair, but the sight of Eli, dolorously gazing
into the distance, hushed the song in her heart.

He broke the news without preamble. “Nathan hath returned to Damascus
with the soldiers.”

The water jar came near crashing to the earth in Miriam’s consternation.

“Oft have we talked of our future plans now that thou art provided
for,” went on Eli, sure of understanding, “but only this morning, when
we visited the camp, did he tell me of his resolve. Then I could not
say him nay, knowing that here he must work for Abner, whom we like
not, and I was the more persuaded when Isaac, chief of the band which
brought us on our way, promised to be surety for the lad.”

Miriam was staring wild-eyed into the valley at their feet. “Gone, thou
sayest? The soldiers gone? And Isaac came not to my mother’s house,
came not to tell me that he goeth--”

Eli nodded impatiently. “Thinkest thou he would have said more to thee
than to me? A likable young man and one in whom remorse hath kindled
the fires of penitence which alone purifieth. He hath restored thee to
the home from which thou wert stolen, and he saith that when the rains
are over and the roads passable once more he will return to see if thou
dost wish to go back to Damascus. As if thou wouldst again be bound by
the cords of bondage!”

But Miriam was half-way down the hill, sobbing bitterly, leaving Eli to
gaze after her in great and growing bewilderment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The same sun which had kissed into bloom the wild flowers of Israel
shone with dazzling brightness upon the white walls of Damascus,
warming youth into gayety and age into contentment, but its rays were
futile to coax into cheerfulness the great House of Naaman. There
was an inexplicable sense of loss. The maid servants grumbled among
themselves at the uncertainty of Milcah’s temper and longed for Miriam,
their ever-sympathetic mediator. The men servants hoped they would see
her bright face again.

“Not that she ever had much to say,” explained the old gatekeeper, “and
few were the smiles she had for the young men, as most maids have, but
the lowest servant and the grandest visitor were alike to her. Well do
I remember--” and the garrulous tongue would run on as long as it had
an audience.

Nor were the servants the only ones who missed Miriam. With light
fingers Adah smoothed the creases from between her brows. “The maid
servants drive me frantic,” she moaned. “‘Do I want this?’ and ‘how
will I have that?’ The little maid would have known without asking and
seen that it was done without confusion. My heart yearneth over the
maiden.”

The soldier standing respectfully on the other side of the room nodded.
“The young man Eli, to whom I talked long, saith that the mother
faileth fast. Peradventure Miriam will be free to return to Syria if
she so desire.”

Adah’s irritation increased. “The young man Eli! Admire him I must,
but like him I cannot, for would he not rob thy master and me of the
sunbeam which hath gladdened our hearts--the little maid we have come
to love as a daughter? Nay, but not for always. One year, Isaac, shalt
thou remain in Syria, then shalt thou return to Israel with a gift in
thine hand, bringing Miriam and her mother gently and by slow degrees
if the woman be feeble. Here shall the household delight to do her
honor. One year, Isaac, from the time our little maid went away shall
she come back to us!”

With this decree of its mistress, the House of Naaman entered, with
what patience it could, upon its period of waiting.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Miriam did _not_ return at the end of a year. The wild flowers
faded in Israel; the figs ripened and were gone; the hills grew bare
and yellow under the sun’s persistent glare; the grapes turned dusky
and filled with liquid sweetness; the olive trees blossomed and bore
and were denuded; the rains came and went; barley and wheat were sowed
and matured and were harvested and wild flowers bloomed a second time
in Israel. It was another spring, the time Isaac had said he would
come, but though Miriam strained her eyes day after day gazing afar, no
foreign horsemen, no chariot, no Syrian camels bestirred the dust of
the Valley of Jiptha-el.

Rachel touched her lightly on the shoulder as she stood in the doorway.
There was yearning tenderness in the older woman’s tones: “Still
waitest thou, little maid? Peradventure they think thy mother hath need
of thee, knowing not that she sleepeth long months in the sepulcher of
thy people. Ample time hath there been since the rains ceased to take
even the long journey from Damascus.”

Miriam turned a musing countenance. “But when Isaac talked last with
Eli he said he would return when the rains were over to see how it
fareth with me and to bring me tidings of my home.”

Rachel sighed and drew the girl close. “Is not thy mother’s dwelling
‘home’? And behold how Benjamin and little Caleb and I have loved thee.
Are we not dearer than any in the House of Naaman?”

Miriam smiled and returned the caress. “The love light in thine eyes
is beautiful and it filleth me with delight when it shineth upon me,
but mostly doth it shine for thy husband and babe and for joy in thy
home, not for thy sister.”

“It is the way with a woman,” was the answer, “as some day thou wilt
know for thyself, for I have seen a look in eyes that followed thee,
such a look as a man giveth to but one maid, though peradventure thou
knowest--”

She paused, but as there was no reply and Miriam’s face was turned
away, she hurried on: “And so thou wilt soon have a home of thine own
if that is what thou desirest.”

Miriam at last found voice: “‘Home’ is where thou art needed, Rachel,
where thou hast a place no other can fill. Here in Israel, now that my
mother hath left me--” there was a choking pause--“I am not necessary
as I am to the household in Syria. Milcah groweth feeble in body and
impatient in mind. The maid servants resent her sharpness, and my
mistress is distressed when things go not well. But most of all do
they need help to walk in the way of Jehovah, for him only do they
serve since the healing of my master at his word. So do I wait until
my mistress sendeth. Nay,” as Rachel affectionately protested, “nay, I
shall not be disappointed, for did not Isaac say he would come?”

And so she waited. Again the wild flowers faded and the figs ripened
and the hills grew sere and brown. It was midsummer. This time a
pilgrim approached Hannathon, but he was alone and on foot, taking the
steep hills and fertile vales with an easy, swinging stride as none but
a Highlander, born and bred, could have taken them. From the flat roof
where she was spreading linen to dry, Miriam saw him while yet a great
way off and called to Rachel exultantly:

“Eli cometh.”

She did not go to meet him. Instead, she hastily descended the stairs
and retreated within the house, excitement in her manner and an
unwonted color in her cheeks. When he entered, though they spoke only
commonplaces, neither of them observed that Rachel took the child and
slipped quietly out of the house with a smiling glance backward. Quite
absorbed in each other, they sat on one of the low benches which lined
three sides of the room.

“Two years hath it been, Miriam, since I joined myself to the young
men, the Sons of the Prophet. Two full years have I hung upon the words
of our great master, Elisha, learning much concerning our Law and its
interpretation, and things of lesser importance such as music and
sacred poetry. Thinkest thou not my mother would be pleased to know
that I am of this company, even as was my father?”

The girl’s face was glowing with enthusiasm. “It is as thou and I have
dreamed from childhood, Eli.”

“A little while shall I spend with thee and with Benjamin, for I have
a mind to learn the care of a flock. Then, with the treasure not needed
for thy ransom will I purchase sheep and goats, which will supply my
living while I preach the word of Jehovah to this froward people.
Beyond that thou knowest--thou must know--my heart’s desire.”

He took her hand in his and although it trembled slightly it was not
withdrawn.

“I think there will be no objection from thy brother, for long hath
he known me, so I shall speak to him in due time without dread, but
concerned am I to know if thou wouldst be satisfied so to spend thy
life.”

Her face paled under his anxious scrutiny, “Nay, I could not,” she
faltered.

He was silent a long moment, and when he spoke his voice betrayed
profound sorrow. “It is even as I feared. In Damascus, where thy
impressionable years were spent, thou hast learned the luxury which
belongeth alone to kings’ courts. Thou wouldst not be willing to toil
as do the women of Israel, where there is neither man servant nor maid
servant. Have I not been in Syria and do I not know how different are
the ways there and here?”

She disengaged her hand and faced him earnestly: “Not because of its
riches, Eli, must I return to the House of Naaman, but because of its
poverty. Except through me they know not Jehovah.”

“And except we of prophetic vision teach him in Israel, the people are
altogether turned unto idols,” he answered, in his eyes the fanatical
gleam of the zealot.

“Yea, but there be many Sons of the Prophet in Israel. There be none
in Syria. Save as tidings of the healing of my master hath been
scattered abroad and praise given to the God by whose hand it was
performed, none knoweth Jehovah. He is merely the God of Israel, their
sometimes-enemies in the south, and Rimmon and Baal and a host of
others are more real to them. Come thou with me to Damascus, where
thou art needed, and instead of a shepherd, thou shalt be a scribe,
and being diligent in the business of Naaman, thou shalt also instruct
the household and preach the word of the Lord to those who know it not
otherwise. Say thou wilt come,” she pleaded, but he only gazed at her
pityingly.

“I pray thee, Miriam, deceive not thyself. For more than a year hast
thou waited for a messenger from Syria and grown pale and thin with
disappointment. Rachel hath told me, and have I not seen for myself
when I came to visit thee? Nay, for if one were coming, there hath been
time and to spare.” His brow clouded. “Yet had I hoped to hear from
Nathan through that same messenger. Both thou and I didst trust the
soldier, and thou more than I.”

The color sprang again to Miriam’s cheek. “My trust will not be in
vain,” she declared, quietly. “Something of ill hath happened in
Damascus, else my mistress would have sent, but Isaac will yet come.”

The conversation was interrupted by Rachel’s entrance, and Miriam,
making an excuse of the linen on the roof, ran quickly up the stairs to
a task which consumed a vast amount of time even in the leisurely East,
where time counted for little.




CHAPTER XXV

ANTICIPATION


Once again Isaac stood before Adah, mistress of the House of Naaman. He
bowed low. “Everything is in readiness for our departure to Israel. The
caravan waiteth without the gate and the maid servants thou art sending
to attend upon Miriam are at hand, but lest thou shouldst have some
last instructions for thy servant--”

Adah briefly acknowledged the courtesy and the courtier. She was
thinner than of old, there was more of gray in her hair and the lines
were deeper between her eyes. Now she rested her head upon her hand in
the languor so becoming and so habitual.

“Only that thou shouldst bring the maid and her mother,” she answered,
“with any others she may not care to leave behind. If she will but
come, for she is free to choose, as thou knowest! Thou takest a present
in thine hand. Bring the maid safely, but in haste, for she is dear
unto me.”

The messenger bowed his understanding of his orders, but the lady was
not through with the conference. She continued, musingly: “Two years
since she left us, Isaac, and one since we had confidently planned for
her return. It hath been a long, long year, full of alarm and anxiety
for us and of waiting for her. _If_ she hath waited! Miriam is now
at an age when maidens dream romantic, vagrant dreams of mating. Oft
in the night seasons have I lain awake wondering if, in despair of a
Syrian messenger, she hath betrothed herself or possibly married”--the
speaker shuddered--“some Israelitish youth who would not be at home in
Damascus or the House of Naaman. As thou knowest, Syrian ways are more
gentle and their speech less rough than those of Israel.” She paused,
evidently expecting some comforting assurance that her fears were not,
could not, be true.

“But the tones of love are as soft in one tongue as in another, and
when interpreted to a maiden’s willing heart they are softer still,” he
said, gently.

She was exasperated at his answer, not knowing what it had cost him.

“Miriam gave promise of beauty,” she continued, “and Syrian lovers will
she have in plenty, especially when it is known that the favor of the
House of Naaman goeth with her. Already one, hoping to be the first,
hath asked her of me in marriage.”

The start which Isaac gave was not lost upon Adah, but she affected
blindness.

“Thou knowest him well. It is thy friend, Lemuel.”

The young soldier was visibly agitated. He prostrated himself before
Adah, entreating her attention: “And if thy servant hath found favor
in thy sight grant that this sacrifice shall not be. Always hath the
maid feared and hated the man and with good cause, as we who know him
can testify.”

He hesitated before making a second request: “No man liveth who is good
enough for her, but almost am I persuaded that she would rather be
given into my care.”

Adah repressed a smile. “I shall give Miriam to someone more to my
liking and to hers than is Lemuel, but I had not supposed thou wouldst
have taken advantage of the maid’s childish expressions of fondness for
thee to weave into them meanings she could not then understand.”

Isaac’s cheek flushed under his soldier tan. “I have not, my mistress,
and I would not. A thousand times hath she innocently told me that
which I long to hear her say with full knowledge of its import.”

His manner changed to sadness. “Yet do I know that always she hath
carried in her heart the image of Eli, and that she was greatly touched
by his desire to ransom her from what he supposed was cruel slavery. He
hath the soul of a saint and the mind of a seer, while thy servant is
naught but a soldier. I fear that when I reach Hannathon it will be to
find her choice hath already been made and needeth but thine approval.”

Adah frowned. “Thy master’s plans cannot be lightly changed. This is
a childless home and its treasure is great. We are not unmindful of
the two through whose loving devotion much of its happiness hath come.
Already hath thy master divided between thee and Miriam the present
which the prophet of Israel refused, and seeing thy tender affection
each for the other, we have determined that when the maid is old
enough she shall be given thee in marriage. Thus shall the joy and
contentment of both be assured, and thou shalt be unto us in our age
and helplessness as the pillars are to the temple.”

The maid servant who was fanning her mistress gasped audibly, for
which indecorum the sorely displeased Adah sent her hastily and in
disgrace from the room, but the punishment rested lightly. Once outside
the angle of vision of those within, feet and tongue were nimble in
disseminating this surprising bit of news. Only Milcah, exacting and
irritable, did the excited servants fear to approach. The tidings
spread, however, not only within the gate but without, and provided a
choice bit of gossip for the caravan, impatiently awaiting its leader.
Two of the company failed to receive the message with the laughing
approval of the others: over the sensitive face of a boy passed a look
of surprise, and the man next to him smiled an evil smile.

Meanwhile Isaac had stammered his thanks and had again become a
suppliant: “But if it please not the maid, my mistress, I pray thee to
entreat thy husband that he transfer his favor to the young man Eli.
I think there can be no other in Miriam’s thoughts. Thou wilt find him
worthy, and in the maiden’s joy thou shalt have thy reward.”

Adah was frankly amused. “Thou dost plead well to be released.
Peradventure some other maiden--” but the look on his face checked the
suggestion.

“Not for admiration of Eli do I speak, but for love of Miriam,” he
declared. “The circumstances in which I would have brought another
maiden to the House of Naaman could not be justified in the pure eyes
of my little maid.”

“Then am I sure that thy master’s confidence hath not been misplaced,”
she answered, softly, “and a maiden’s unruly heart is not always wise.
Nevertheless, do thou bring the young man if it seemeth right unto
thee. I trust to thy discretion, and when I have had time to talk to
Miriam and to observe for myself, I shall be better able to judge what
is best. Only go thou quickly and delay not.”

Left alone, Adah laughed quietly to herself. “If Miriam had the eyes of
experience, she would prefer the good-looking young soldier who loveth
her unselfishly to the gifted young fanatic who loveth an ideal more
than any maid. I shall not compel her choice, but her master will like
not the idea of sharing the treasure of the House of Naaman with a
stranger.”

Quite unexpectedly Milcah bent over her, having entered the apartment
unobserved while her mistress mused. “Didst thou wish something? I
thought I heard thee speak. That worthless maid I sent in here an hour
ago hath not wit to do aught save curl her hair and make eyes at the
men servants.” The woman wiped away a tear and continued, speaking
unsteadily: “The caravan hath just started. Many a time have I seen my
brother ride to war and cared less, but to-day it seemeth so joyful it
is almost solemn.”

All at once the peace-loving Adah felt a vague uneasiness, dreading
the unpleasantness of Milcah’s disapproval. Clearly she had a duty of
preparation.

“But if Isaac should ever think of marrying--” she began, but only to
be promptly and tearfully interrupted:

“Say not so, for I should hate his wife. Never a maid have I seen save
our little Miriam that I could regard with sisterly affection, and he
would never think of the child _that_ way.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Up the Valley of Jiptha-el in the heat of midsummer dashed a lone
horseman. No anxious watcher from the roof heralded his approach,
but every echo sought to imitate his wild shouts. The village was
surprised, alarmed, but comforted when the horseman was discovered to
be Nathan--reckless, jubilant, noisy, the veteran of one war and a
braggart. In a single breath he poured out greetings, exclamations,
comments and all the gossip of Damascus.

Isaac was coming, but just this side of the Jordan he had been obliged
to make camp with a sick soldier, Lemuel by name, so he (Nathan),
unable to wait, had pushed on alone. Danger there was (his manner
became very self-important), but what of that to one who had faced the
hordes of the desert? Last year when the fruit trees first blossomed
around Damascus, its peace and prosperity had been threatened by the
half-wild tribes who roamed the desert to the east; beautiful, rich,
lonely Damascus, whose stoutest walls were her walls of living men, her
soldiery! But it had held, thanks to Naaman, Captain of the Host, who
was respected and adored as no other man in the city.

It was the younger men who had showed most valor. Once he (Nathan) had
been surrounded by five dark-skinned, savage enemies. Making ready his
sling he was taking aim and would have slain them all had not Isaac and
his servant interfered. He bore them no malice, but when Isaac realized
that they had not been needed he had given him a horse all his own.
Fine horse it was with dainty feet and fiery spirit, Isaac’s share of
the spoils of battle, but he would probably never miss it. Everybody
knew he stood high in favor with the House of Naaman. He might in time
be chief steward and rich.

This spring not a desert chieftain had dared even to gaze upon
Damascus, but there were rumors that the Assyrian hosts came nearer
and nearer. Not a soldier was allowed to leave the city. Day and
night a watch had been maintained and every fighting man stood ready,
but the Assyrians tarried. Pity, too! It would have been glorious to
engage in battle with the finest army in the world. But no enemies
having appeared by midsummer and scouting parties reporting the danger
past for a time at least, Isaac had been allowed to take a small band
into Israel to render the journey to Syria safe for Miriam. No doubt
he would wish to hurry back, for was he not going to be married? The
tidings had been scattered abroad the morning they had started. Nay, he
knew nothing more.

All at once Nathan realized that his speech had been undiplomatic, and
hastily turned his attention to Hannathon. Eli was taller and thinner
than ever. He ought to be a soldier and properly fed. A good fighter he
would make too. Miriam had become amazingly pretty. If she found there
was no one to marry her, he would be willing. She looked something like
Rachel did before she faded out so. How was Benjamin? He would ride
out to find him after a while, for would he not want to see the horse?
And how the little boy had grown! Who would have supposed that such a
sturdy, bright-looking youngster could have developed from that ugly,
stupid baby? The village was just the same; very unexciting after
Damascus. The only new thing was the house. So the old was not good
enough, and they had built one like those in Syria! Well, they were
more comfortable. How sad that Sarah had not liked it! She might have
lived longer if she had not been obliged to change her ways to suit
those who had learned better.

But Eli must come and look at the horse he had left at the foot of the
hill. He knew his master and he had a trick-- Still talking, Nathan
descended the path with Eli while Rachel and Miriam returned to their
grinding at the mill, Rachel smiling and chatting, but Miriam strangely
unresponsive. And once again a shadow darkened the doorway. With
respectful salutations Lemuel stood upon the threshold, seeming not to
be affected by the frigid greeting he received. He had merely pushed on
ahead of the party, he said, desiring earnestly to see the maid whom he
had missed sadly. Her mistress would explain why he felt he had a right
to do this. (Miriam shrank from his bold gaze.)

Isaac came more slowly, seeming, in fact, to be in no haste to arrive.
When he _did_ come he would have news. Rumor said he was soon to be
married, but since he refused to talk on the subject it was taken to
mean that the matter had been arranged by his master’s decree rather
than his own preference. Not even the name of the maid was known,
which was further evidence that he was not proud of her. It was
not unlikely that his choice centered elsewhere, but that might all
be gossip. Certainly, it was beneath a man’s honor to bear tales of
his friend, and he and Isaac had long been comrades. Well, Isaac was
handsome and in favor with the rich and powerful House of Naaman, so
maids there were in plenty who would be glad to unite their fortunes
with his.

The speaker may have felt the chill with which his tidings were
received or his errand may have been finished. At all events he took
his departure. Rachel watched him from the door, shivering the while.

“Let us sweep the house,” she suggested. “I feel as if a serpent had
uncoiled itself in our midst,” but Miriam said nothing at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

Screened from observation by the bushes down in the gorge, Lemuel
examined a wounded foot. “Cursed be those thorns,” he grumbled, “but
it is worth it even though I had to leave my horse. Lucky that I
remembered the cross-cuts of our scouting days in Israel! It hath
helped me to repay Isaac for many long-cherished grudges.”

He glanced at the sun and uttered an exclamation. “I had better be on
my way to Damascus by the time he findeth that I have tricked him.”

Near at hand an animal whinnied and Lemuel’s eyes brightened. A few
moments later, where the path led into the valley road, a horse and
its rider dodged quickly behind a clump of trees to avoid being seen by
a caravan at the head of which rode Isaac, and that afternoon Nathan
searched sorrowfully but in vain for his steed of the desert.




CHAPTER XXVI

CERTAINTY


A trifle shyly Miriam stood in the doorway awaiting Isaac, who was
coming alone up the hill. One look into his face as he came nearer,
with eyes only for her, and both her hands were outstretched, but Eli
pushed past her, speaking low:

“I pray thee, Miriam, let us greet the man with becoming dignity.
Behold, have I not been as a son in thy mother’s household and in
Benjamin’s absence is it not my place to welcome its guests?”

The girl laughed happily. “Why, it is only Isaac. He would think it
strange if I delayed to meet him and I am so glad, so very glad, he
hath come.”

“But he may misunderstand thy eagerness, Miriam.” Eli’s tones were
somewhat stern. “Remember, thou art no longer a child.”

Miriam stopped short, reddening painfully. “Isaac hath never
misunderstood,” she retorted.

Nevertheless, when he took both her hands in his she was for the
first time unable to meet his gaze frankly. He found it very charming
and in some circumstances it might have been encouraging, but he had
seen, if he had not heard, and now put his own construction upon the
degree of understanding between herself and Eli. With a heavy heart
he noticed that Eli acted as host, a right not only undisputed but
apparently expected by both Rachel and Miriam. From this he drew
further disquieting conclusions, which were not contradicted by the
conversation he was allowed with Miriam herself.

She asked innumerable questions about the household at Damascus, but
there was not half time to answer fully. She told him a great deal
about her mother’s last days and very little about herself. Far too
little to satisfy him. She called his attention to the new abode,
built on the site of the old with the gift she had brought from the
House of Naaman. Her mother had never found the dwelling comfortable.
It had seemed too luxurious to have those low and wide benches on
three sides of the room for sitting and sleeping, and she was uneasy
about the animals, banished to quarters in the courtyard. She had
felt more secure to have them at night on the unfloored portion of
the same apartment. But the new house was much prized by Benjamin and
Rachel, and since they preferred to remain in Israel to be the stay and
consolation of Rachel’s parents, Miriam was glad they would have the
comfort of a home like those in Syria.

The gift Isaac had just brought--such a generous present from her
beloved master and mistress--should be used to purchase a larger flock
for Benjamin and thus secure a greater income. Then she spoke of her
plans for Eli (she and Isaac were alone for a few minutes), plans
which he heartily approved because it would please her. She talked with
a pretty hesitancy and with such an evident gratitude and admiration
for Eli that Isaac’s worst fears were confirmed, yet he could not bring
himself to ask a question direct. He would wait a few days and observe
for himself, and he was comforted to an extent by the fact that she
desired to return to Damascus. He had hardly expected such willingness.

Finally, Isaac and Eli and Rachel and Miriam together decided that
the journey to Syria should not be undertaken for a week. Isaac
particularly wished to see Benjamin, and a week would give Miriam time
to say her farewells without haste. Also the soldiers would be grateful
for a rest in the shade of the mountains. The midsummer heat of the
roads they must travel was anything but pleasant, but circumstances
had granted them no choice. As Miriam watched him depart, the virus of
Lemuel’s remarks began to be active in her brain. Isaac was evidently
not in any hurry to return to Damascus!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the morning of Miriam’s departure and she and Rachel, from the
doorway, were watching the sun rise.

“Thou art so pale, Miriam. Thou dost not have to go. Hast not thy
generous master freed thee? I shall miss thee every day.”

“And every day will I think of thee, Rachel, and of Benjamin and
little Caleb, and wish we could all be in the same country rather than
separated.”

“But I am better satisfied to know that Isaac is going to be married,”
went on the older woman. “His wife will be like a sister, taking my
place to thee.”

There was no answer.

“Why--why--Miriam,” with a bewildered little laugh, “wouldst thou have
me think--why, art thou not glad, too?”

“Nay,” answered the girl, “I like not to dwell upon the thought. Have
I not always been first to him, next after his duty to his master? And
now how greatly is he changed! A week hath passed and he hath never
mentioned the maiden’s name nor even told me he is to be married. If it
be thus now--”

Rachel was aghast. Her tones were pityingly severe: “Thou hast no
mother, Miriam, and I must speak plainly for thine own good. Isaac took
thee into captivity out of no malice. Thou wert one of the spoils of
war. Afterward, when he knew thou wert sister to Benjamin, the man who
had befriended him, he was sorry and tried to be kind, but remorse is
not love. Thou must not expect it of him.”

The girl turned a face as pink as the sky. “I go to the sepulcher,” she
said, and slipped hastily out of the door--to confront Eli.

It was a pale and scandalized Eli, but he spoke quietly: “I will go
with thee, for doth not my mother lie there also?”

Halfway down the hill they met Isaac and Benjamin in earnest
conversation. Isaac intercepted the pair: “The caravan is ready. The
start awaiteth thy pleasure.”

“In an hour,” Eli returned, briefly, but Miriam answered not at all,
nor even raised her eyes.

As they plodded on, Isaac turned sadly to Benjamin: “I fear my question
is already answered.”

Benjamin put a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. “Then for many
reasons would I be sorry,” he declared, “yet peradventure the maiden’s
mistress will not let her make such a mistake.”

Not until they neared their destination did Eli speak to Miriam, then
he burst forth with a vehemence which awed her: “Could _he_ come with
thee to this sacred place? Canst thou share thy holiest memories with
him? Nay, for well thou knowest that our two mothers lie here because
of the wounds he inflicted.”

“Say rather ‘the wounds of war,’ Eli. Isaac hath repented of his part
and hath made such restitution as he could. Should we count it as
naught? I think our mothers would forgive, and doth not our Law require
it?”

Eli continued as if he had not heard: “Tidings did I hear in the camp
that thy mistress was to give thee to him in marriage, but because
thou hast filled my heart did I believe I was in thine. I did not know
thou wouldst prefer the servant of the rich man, who hath manners which
belong to a king’s court, who is clothed in fine linen and fareth
sumptuously every day. I thought not thou wouldst despise the preacher
of Jehovah, whose lot will be a far country and coarse apparel and
scanty food and the contempt and ridicule of the multitude. Thou didst
tell me that it was duty which called thee to Damascus. I have just
learned that it was the voice of thy beloved. Nor would I have believed
had I not heard from thine own lips through the open door.”

Miriam lifted her head a trifle defiantly. “What thou sayest is as if
it were in an unknown tongue. The tidings thou hast heard have not
reached mine ears, nor can it be true when well I know that it would
not be to his liking.” Her tones were bitter. The poison of Lemuel’s
remarks was still at work.

She went on more calmly: “Never have I thought of Isaac as thou hast
described him but only as the friend in whom I could safely trust,
who was never amused like my mistress nor impatient like Milcah nor
indifferent like everyone else.”

“But friendship is not love, Miriam. Thou must not think it.”

Suddenly he took her in his arms. “Thou art mine,” he cried, fiercely.
“Long ago thy mother gave thee to me. Neither Isaac nor any man shall
take thee from me.”

He drew a long, sobbing breath, gazing at her with a face so full of
tragic sorrow she was appalled.

“I owe thee so much--so much, Eli,” she whispered, contritely.

“He shall not _take_ thee,” repeated the young man, “but I shall go
with thee to Damascus to preach the word of Jehovah as we have said,
and when the time cometh I will _give_ thee to him if it pleaseth thee.”

Releasing her not urgently he strode away. She stood still for a
moment, then she called after him, her voice sweetly compassionate. She
begged him to tarry, but he seemed not to hear, and after a little she
followed him to the sleeping place of the dead.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not a cheerful party which started that day to Syria. Farewell
tears were thinly veiled under encouraging smiles. Miriam was so
obviously considerate for Eli that Isaac was plunged into the depths
of despondency. Eli himself seemed lost in painful reverie. Nathan,
obliged to ride the horse Lemuel had not had opportunity to take,
loudly bewailed his own better steed, while the soldier-escort, under
its breath, cursed the merciless rays of the sun.

Hour after hour they journeyed. Through dim eyes Miriam beheld a
fleeting picture of the hilltop villages and scattered groves of
her beloved Israel. Here and there they passed other travelers and
infrequent beggars. Once, the chariot in which Miriam and her two maid
servants were riding came to a sudden halt. Apparently there was some
obstruction in the road ahead. A leper, hurrying away, was yet near
enough for her to look upon his repulsive countenance. Shuddering, she
turned to see if Eli or Nathan had noticed, but they were busy helping
the soldiers conceal a loathsome something with a light covering of
earth. The leper was Gehazi!

Isaac rode up with an explanatory word. He pointed to the mound: “It is
the deserter, Lemuel. Some wild beast hath met him at night while he
slept and where there was none to help. The body is gnawed and broken,
but there can be no mistake.”

Nathan called excitedly and Isaac responded at once. A little
later they returned with Nathan’s own horse, which had broken his
halter--doubtless through fright--and roamed at will until reclaimed
by his master. For half an hour Miriam listened indulgently to the
boy’s enthusiastic recital of the capture and the steed’s wonders, then
Nathan took a place in the rear. They descended the hot gorge in which
roared the Jordan, crossed its foaming waters, emerged into the freer
air of the uplands and so to the main-traveled roads leading north.
Nathan was again beside Miriam.

“I have been watching the party for hours,” he declared with a
boisterous laugh. “Funny how it rides. The soldiers plod along
silently, sometimes jesting or quarreling. Obeying is their business.
Never once hath Eli turned his head. Already he seeth himself a prophet
of the Lord in the strange land toward which he goeth. But ever Isaac
watcheth thee, and always thine eyes are turned toward Eli.”

As they resumed their journey after the noon-time rest it was Isaac who
rode beside the chariot. He put into her hands a piece of sheepskin,
folded protectingly over something evidently very precious.

“Once,” he explained, “when thou wert but a little maid and knewest not
the meaning of such things, I bound these damson blossoms upon my heart
in token of loving devotion to thee. They have withered, but that for
which they stood has never died. I cannot suppose”--with an involuntary
glance at Eli--“that thou wilt treasure them as I have, but it is thy
right to know.”

Without waiting for an answer he dropped back to his old position. A
long time Miriam stared at the blossoms, then, with tenderest care she
folded them in their sheepskin covering and put them in her bosom. He
was at her side instantly.

“Thou dost not count them as naught, Miriam?”

“Love is not friendship, Isaac.”

The thrill he had experienced suddenly died. It was a moment before
he could answer in the old, matter-of-fact way. “Then it were only
selfishness, Miriam. If it be not friendship, then it is not love
either, for love is friendship intensified, glorified.”

She was silent. After some hesitancy he spoke again, this time with
quiet determination and in the speech of Israel, which they had used
before so that the maid servants might not understand.

“The hour hath come, Miriam, when I must tell thee what thy mistress
hath said and ask thee for the truth.” He told her briefly the plans
Adah had outlined to him.

She made no comment.

“But because thou wert free in Israel and but a servant in Syria I have
wondered if thou art sacrificing thyself to give advantages to Eli.”

The answer was very faint. “Nay, Isaac.”

“Thy sense of duty is strong, Miriam, and thou art necessary to the
happiness of the household in Damascus, yet because thou hast cherished
the token which hath meant so much to me I almost thought--peradventure
because I so wished it might be--”

She did not speak for so long that he peered under the awning,
beholding a face that crimsoned as it looked into his and in the eyes a
something which lit his own with rapturous hope.

“I could not be content to be free when thou wert still in bondage,
Isaac.” The tones were very low, very sweet, very hesitant.

“Miriam,” he gasped, “thou canst not mean--thou dost not--”

But evidently she did, for the two maid servants exchanged smiles and
meaning glances, and he continued to ride beside the chariot while they
drew near to Damascus and the glad welcome of the House of Naaman.




FOOTNOTES:

[1] “A short sword buckled to the belt or girdle.”

[2] A _timbrel_ was an instrument similar to our modern tambourine.
A _tabret_ was the progenitor of our modern drum, though smaller.
_Cymbals_ were the same to which we are accustomed.

[3] It is impossible to translate into modern terms the exact value
of the treasure Naaman took into Israel, the figures of different
authorities varying greatly, but none estimate it at less than $60,000,
and some vary much more. At all events, it was considered a worthy and
even a generous gift.

[4] Some authorities claim that at this period Syrian arms were
renowned because she had repelled even mighty Assyria.

[5] In this age, deities were supposed to favor localities or peoples;
there was no conception of a God other than one who was local or
national.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.