CHAPTER III
The first person
to go out of the city upon the opening of the Sheep's Gate next morning was
Amrah, basket on arm. No questions were asked her by the keepers, since the
morning itself had not been more regular in coming than she; they knew her
somebody's faithful servant, and that was enough for them.
Down the eastern
valley she took her way. The side of Olivet, darkly green, was spotted with
white tents recently put up by people attending the feasts; the hour, however,
was too early for the strangers to be abroad; still, had it not been so, no one
would have troubled her. Past Gethsemane; past the tombs at the meeting of the
Bethany roads; past the sepulchral village of Siloam she went. Occasionally the
decrepit little body staggered; once she sat down to get her breath; rising
shortly, she struggled on with renewed haste. The great rocks on either hand,
if they had had ears, might have heard her mutter to herself; could they have
seen, it would have been to observe how frequently she looked up over the
Mount, reproving the dawn for its promptness; if it had been possible for them
to gossip, not improbably they would have said to each other, "Our friend
is in a hurry this morning; the mouths she goes to feed must be very
hungry."
When at last she
reached the King's Garden she slackened her gait; for then the grim city of the
lepers was in view, extending far round the pitted south hill of Hinnom.
As the reader must
by this time have surmised, she was going to her mistress, whose tomb, it will
be remembered, overlooked the well En-Rogel.
Early as it was,
the unhappy woman was up and sitting outside, leaving Tirzah asleep within. The
course of the malady had been terribly swift in the three years. Conscious of
her appearance, with the refined instincts of her nature, she kept her whole
person habitually covered. Seldom as possible she permitted even Tirzah to see
her.
This morning she
was taking the air with bared head, knowing there was no one to be shocked by
the exposure. The light was not full, but enough to show the ravages to which
she had been subject. Her hair was snow-white and unmanageably coarse, falling
over her back and shoulders like so much silver wire. The eyelids, the lips,
the nostrils, the flesh of the cheeks, were either gone or reduced to fetid
rawness. The neck was a mass of ash-colored scales. One hand lay outside the
folds of her habit rigid as that of a skeleton; the nails had been eaten away;
the joints of the fingers, if not bare to the bone, were swollen knots crusted
with red secretion. Head, face, neck, and hand indicated all too plainly the
condition of the whole body. Seeing her thus, it was easy to understand how the
once fair widow of the princely Hur had been able to maintain her incognito so
well through such a period of years.
When the sun
would gild the crest of Olivet and the Mount of Offence with light sharper and
more brilliant in that old land than in the West, she knew Amrah would come,
first to the well, then to a stone midway the well and the foot of the hill on
which she had her abode, and that the good servant would there deposit the food
she carried in the basket, and fill the water-jar afresh for the day. Of her
former plentitude of happiness, that brief visit was all that remained to the
unfortunate. She could then ask about her son, and be told of his welfare, with
such bits of news concerning him as the messenger could glean. Usually the
information was meagre enough, yet comforting; at times she heard he was at
home; then she would issue from her dreary cell at break of day, and sit till
noon, and from noon to set of sun, a motionless figure draped in white,
looking, statue-like, invariably to one point - over the Temple to the spot
under the rounded sky where the old house stood, dear in memory, and dearer
because he was there. Nothing else was left her. Tirzah she counted of the
dead; and as for herself, she simply waited the end, knowing every hour of life
was an hour of dying - happily, of painless dying.
The things of
nature about the hill to keep her sensitive to the world's attractions were
wretchedly scant; beasts and birds avoided the place as if they knew its
history and present use; every green thing perished in its first season; the
winds warred upon the shrubs and venturous grasses, leaving to drought such as
they could not uproot. Look where she would, the view was made depressingly
suggestive by tombs - tombs above her, tombs below, tombs opposite her own tomb
- all now freshly whitened in warning to visiting pilgrims. In the sky - clear,
fair, inviting - one would think she might have found some relief to her ache
of mind; but, alas! in making the beautiful elsewhere the sun served her never
so unfriendly - it did but disclose her growing hideousness. But for the sun
she would not have been the horror she was to herself, nor been waked so
cruelly from dreams of Tirzah as she used to be. The gift of seeing can be
sometimes a dreadful curse.
Does one ask why
she did not make an end to her sufferings?
THE LAW FORBADE
HER!
A Gentile may
smile at the answer; but so will not a son of Israel.
While she sat
there peopling the dusky solitude with thoughts even more cheerless, suddenly a
woman came up the hill staggering and spent with exertion.
The widow arose
hastily, and covering her head, cried, in a voice unnaturally harsh,
"Unclean, unclean!"
In a moment,
heedless of the notice, Amrah was at her feet. All the long-pent love of the
simple creature burst forth: with tears and passionate exclamations she kissed
her mistress's garments, and for a while the latter strove to escape from her;
then, seeing she could not, she waited till the violence of the paroxysm was
over.
"What have
you done, Amrah?" she said. "Is it by such disobedience you prove
your love for us? Wicked woman! You are lost; and he - your master - you can
never, never go back to him."
Amrah grovelled
sobbing in the dust.
"The ban of
the Law is upon you, too; you cannot return to Jerusalem. What will become of
us? Who will bring us bread? O wicked, wicked Amrah! We are all, all undone
alike!"
"Mercy,
mercy!" Amrah answered from the ground.
"You should
have been merciful to yourself, and by so doing been most merciful to us. Now
where can we fly? There is no one to help us. O false servant! The wrath of the
Lord was already too heavy upon us."
Here Tirzah,
awakened by the noise, appeared at the door of the tomb. The pen shrinks from
the picture she presented. In the half-clad apparition, patched with scales,
lividly seamed, nearly blind, its limbs and extremities swollen to grotesque
largeness, familiar eyes however sharpened by love could not have recognized
the creature of childish grace and purity we first beheld her.
"Is it
Amrah, mother?"
The servant tried
to crawl to her also.
"Stay,
Amrah!" the widow cried, imperiously. "I forbid you touching her.
Rise, and get you gone before any at the well see you here. Nay, I forgot - it
is too late! You must remain now and share our doom. Rise, I say!"
Amrah rose to her
knees, and said, brokenly and with clasped hands, "O good mistress! I am
not false - I am not wicked. I bring you good tidings."
"Of
Judah?" and as she spoke, the widow half withdrew the cloth from her head.
"There is a
wonderful man," Amrah continued, "who has power to cure you. He
speaks a word, and the sick are made well, and even the dead come to life. I
have come to take you to him."
"Poor
Amrah!" said Tirzah, compassionately.
"No,"
cried Amrah, detecting the doubt underlying the expression -”no, as the Lord
lives, even the Lord of Israel, my God as well as yours, I speak the truth. Go
with me, I pray, and lose no time. This morning he will pass by on his way to
the city. See! the day is at hand. Take the food here - eat, and let us
go."
The mother
listened eagerly. Not unlikely she had heard of the wonderful man, for by this
time his fame had penetrated every nook in the land.
"Who is
he?" she asked.
"A
Nazarene."
"Who told
you about him?"
"Judah."
"Judah told
you? Is he at home?"
"He came
last night."
The widow, trying
to still the beating of her heart, was silent awhile.
"Did Judah
send you to tell us this?" she next asked.
"No. He
believes you dead."
"There was a
prophet once who cured a leper," the mother said thoughtfully to Tirzah;
"but he had his power from God." Then addressing Amrah, she asked,
"How does my son know this man so possessed?"
"He was
travelling with him, and heard the lepers call, and saw them go away well.
First there was one man; then there were ten; and they were all made
whole."
The elder
listener was silent again. The skeleton hand shook. We may believe she was
struggling to give the story the sanction of faith, which is always an
absolutist in demand, and that it was with her as with the men of the day,
eye-witnesses of what was done by the Christ, as well as the myriads who have
succeeded them. She did not question the performance, for her own son was the
witness testifying through the servant; but she strove to comprehend the power
by which work so astonishing could be done by a man. Well enough to make
inquiry as to the fact; to comprehend the power, on the other hand, it is first
necessary to comprehend God; and he who waits for that will die waiting. With
her, however, the hesitation was brief. To Tirzah she said,
"This must
be the Messiah!"
She spoke not
coldly, like one reasoning a doubt away, but as a woman of Israel familiar with
the promises of God to her race - a woman of understanding, ready to be glad
over the least sign of the realization of the promises.
"There was a
time when Jerusalem and all Judea were filled with a story that he was born. I
remember it. By this time he should be a man. It must be - it is he. Yes,"
she said to Amrah, "we will go with you. Bring the water which you will
find in the tomb in a jar, and set the food for us. We will eat and be
gone."
The breakfast,
partaken under excitement, was soon despatched, and the three women set out on
their extraordinary journey. As Tirzah had caught the confident spirit of the
others, there was but one fear that troubled the party. Bethany, Amrah said,
was the town the man was coming from; now from that to Jerusalem there were
three roads, or rather paths - one over the first summit of Olivet, a second at
its base, a third between the second summit and the Mount of Offence. The three
were not far apart; far enough, however, to make it possible for the
unfortunates to miss the Nazarene if they failed the one he chose to come by.
A little
questioning satisfied the mother that Amrah knew nothing of the country beyond
the Cedron, and even less of the intentions of the man they were going to see,
if they could. She discerned, also, that both Amrah and Tirzah - the one from
confirmed habits of servitude, the other from natural dependency - looked to
her for guidance; and she accepted the charge.
"We will go
first to Bethphage," she said to them. "There, if the Lord favor us,
we may learn what else to do."
They descended
the hill to Tophet and the King's Garden, and paused in the deep trail furrowed
through them by centuries of wayfaring.
"I am afraid
of the road," the matron said. "Better that we keep to the country
among the rocks and trees. This is feast-day, and on the hill-sides yonder I
see signs of a great multitude in attendance. By going across the Mount of
Offence here we may avoid them."
Tirzah had been
walking with great difficulty; upon hearing this her heart began to fail her.
"The mount
is steep, mother; I cannot climb it."
"Remember,
we are going to find health and life. See, my child, how the day brightens
around us! And yonder are women coming
this way to the well. They will stone us if we stay here. Come, be strong this
once."
Thus the mother,
not less tortured herself, sought to inspire the daughter; and Amrah came to
her aid. To this time the latter had not touched the persons of the afflicted,
nor they her; now, in disregard of consequences as well as of command, the
faithful creature went to Tirzah, and put her arm over her shoulder, and
whispered, "Lean on me. I am strong, though I am old; and it is but a
little way off. There - now we can go."
The face of the
hill they essayed to cross was somewhat broken with pits, and ruins of old
structures; but when at last they stood upon the top to rest, and looked at the
spectacle presented them over in the northwest - at the Temple and its courtly
terraces, at Zion, at the enduring towers white beetling into the sky beyond -
the mother was strengthened with a love of life for life's sake.
"Look,
Tirzah," she said -”look at the plates of gold on the Gate Beautiful. How
they give back the flames of the sun, brightness for brightness! Do you
remember we used to go up there? Will it not be pleasant to do so again? And
think - home is but a little way off. I can almost see it over the roof of the
Holy of Holies; and Judah will be there to receive us!"
From the side of
the middle summit garnished green with myrtle and olive trees, they saw, upon
looking that way next, thin columns of smoke rising lightly and straight up
into the pulseless morning, each a warning of restless pilgrims astir, and of
the flight of the pitiless hours, and the need of haste.
Though the good
servant toiled faithfully to lighten the labor in descending the hill-side, not
sparing herself in the least, the girl moaned at every step; sometimes in
extremity of anguish she cried out. Upon reaching the road - that is, the road
between the Mount of Offence and the middle or second summit of Olivet - she
fell down exhausted.
"Go on with
Amrah, mother, and leave me here," she said, faintly.
"No, no,
Tirzah. What would the gain be to me if I were healed and you not? When Judah
asks for you, as he will, what would I have to say to him were I to leave
you?"
"Tell him I
loved him."
The elder leper arose
from bending over the fainting sufferer, and gazed about her with that
sensation of hope perishing which is more nearly like annihilation of the soul
than anything else. The supremest joy of the thought of cure was inseparable
from Tirzah, who was not too old to forget, in the happiness of healthful life
to come, the years of misery by which she had been so reduced in body and
broken in spirit. Even as the brave woman was about leaving the venture they
were engaged in to the determination of God, she saw a man on foot coming
rapidly up the road from the east.
"Courage,
Tirzah! Be of cheer," she said. "Yonder I know is one to tell us of
the Nazarene."
Amrah helped the
girl to a sitting posture, and supported her while the man advanced.
"In your goodness,
mother, you forget what we are. The stranger will go around us; his best gift
to us will be a curse, if not a stone."
"We will
see."
There was no
other answer to be given, since the mother was too well and sadly acquainted
with the treatment outcasts of the class to which she belonged were accustomed
to at the hands of her countrymen.
As has been said,
the road at the edge of which the group was posted was little more than a worn
path or trail, winding crookedly through tumuli of limestone. If the stranger
kept it, he must meet them face to face; and he did so, until near enough to
hear the cry she was bound to give. Then, uncovering her head, a further demand
of the law, she shouted shrilly,
"Unclean,
unclean!"
To her surprise,
the man came steadily on.
"What would
you have?" he asked, stopping opposite them not four yards off.
"Thou seest
us. Have a care," the mother said, with dignity.
"Woman, I am
the courier of him who speaketh but once to such as thou and they are healed. I
am not afraid."
"The
Nazarene?"
"The
Messiah," he said.
"Is it true
that he cometh to the city to-day?"
"He is now
at Bethphage."
"On what
road, master?"
"This
one."
She clasped her
hands, and looked up thankfully.
"For whom
takest thou him?" the man asked, with pity.
"The Son of
God," she replied.
"Stay thou
here then; or, as there is a multitude with him, take thy stand by the rock
yonder, the white one under the tree; and as he goeth by fail not to call to
him; call, and fear not. If thy faith but equal thy knowledge, he will hear
thee though all the heavens thunder. I go to tell Israel, assembled in and
about the city, that he is at hand, and to make ready to receive him. Peace to
thee and thine, woman."
The stranger
moved on.
"Did you
hear, Tirzah? Did you hear? The Nazarene is on the road, on this one, and he
will hear us. Once more, my child - oh, only once! and let us to the rock. It
is but a step."
Thus encouraged
Tirzah took Amrah's hand and arose; but as they were going, Amrah said,
"Stay; the man is returning." And they waited for him.
"I pray your
grace, woman," he said, upon overtaking them. "Remembering that the
sun will be hot before the Nazarene arrives, and that the city is near by to
give me refreshment should I need it, I thought this water would do thee better
than it will me. Take it and be of good cheer. Call to him as he passes."
He followed the
words by offering her a gourd full of water, such as foot-travellers sometimes
carried with them in their journeys across the hills; and instead of placing
the gift on the ground for her to take up when he was at a safe distance, he
gave it into her hand.
"Art thou a
Jew?" she asked, surprised.
"I am that,
and better; I am a disciple of the Christ who teacheth daily by word and
example this thing which I have done unto you. The world hath long known the
word charity without understanding it. Again I say peace and good cheer to thee
and thine."
He went on, and
they went slowly to the rock he had pointed out to them, high as their heads,
and scarcely thirty yards from the road on the right. Standing in front of it,
the mother satisfied herself they could be seen and heard plainly by passers-by
whose notice they desired to attract. There they cast themselves under the tree
in its shade, and drank of the gourd, and rested refreshed. Ere long Tirzah
slept, and fearing to disturb her, the others held their peace.
CHAPTER IV
During the third
hour the road in front of the resting-place of the lepers became gradually more
and more frequented by people going in the direction of Bethphage and Bethany;
now, however, about the commencement of the fourth hour, a great crowd appeared
over the crest of Olivet, and as it defiled down the road thousands in number,
the two watchers noticed with wonder that every one in it carried a palm-branch
freshly cut. As they sat absorbed by the novelty, the noise of another
multitude approaching from the east drew their eyes that way. Then the mother
awoke Tirzah.
"What is the
meaning of it all?" the latter asked.
"He is
coming," answered the mother. "These we see are from the city going
to meet him; those we hear in the east are his friends bearing him company; and
it will not be strange if the processions meet here before us.
"I fear, if
they do, we cannot be heard."
The same thought
was in the elder's mind.
"Amrah,"
she asked, "when Judah spoke of the healing of the ten, in what words did
he say they called to the Nazarene?"
"Either they
said, 'Lord, have mercy upon us,' or 'Master, have mercy.'"
"Only
that?"
"No more
that I heard."
"Yet it was
enough," the mother added, to herself.
"Yes,"
said Amrah, "Judah said he saw them go away well."
Meantime the
people in the east came up slowly. When at length the foremost of them were in
sight, the gaze of the lepers fixed upon a man riding in the midst of what
seemed a chosen company which sang and danced about him in extravagance of joy.
The rider was bareheaded and clad all in white. When he was in distance to be
more clearly observed, these, looking anxiously, saw an olive-hued face shaded
by long chestnut hair slightly sunburned and parted in the middle. He looked
neither to the right nor left. In the noisy abandon of his followers he
appeared to have no part; nor did their favor disturb him in the least, or raise
him out of the profound melancholy into which, as his countenance showed, he
was plunged. The sun beat upon the back of his head, and lighting up the
floating hair gave it a delicate likeness to a golden nimbus. Behind him the
irregular procession, pouring forward with continuous singing and shouting,
extended out of view. There was no need of any one to tell the lepers that this
was he - the wonderful Nazarene!
"He is here,
Tirzah," the mother said; "he is here. Come, my child."
As she spoke she
glided in front of the white rock and fell upon her knees.
Directly the
daughter and servant were by her side. Then at sight of the procession in the
west, the thousands from the city halted, and began to wave their green
branches, shouting, or rather chanting (for it was all in one voice),
"Blessed is
the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the Lord!"
And all the
thousands who were of the rider's company, both those near and those afar,
replied so the air shook with the sound, which was as a great wind threshing
the side of the hill. Amidst the din, the cries of the poor lepers were not
more than the twittering of dazed sparrows.
The moment of the
meeting of the hosts was come, and with it the opportunity the sufferers were
seeking; if not taken, it would be lost forever, and they would be lost as
well.
"Nearer, my
child - let us get nearer. He cannot hear us," said the mother.
She arose, and
staggered forward. Her ghastly hands were up, and she screamed with horrible
shrillness. The people saw her - saw her hideous face, and stopped awe-struck -
an effect for which extreme human misery, visible as in this instance, is as
potent as majesty in purple and gold. Tirzah, behind her a little way, fell
down too faint and frightened to follow farther.
"The lepers!
the lepers!"
"Stone
them!"
"The
accursed of God! Kill them!"
These, with other
yells of like import, broke in upon the hosannas of the part of the multitude
too far removed to see and understand the cause of the interruption. Some there
were, however, near by familiar with the nature of the man to whom the
unfortunates were appealing - some who, by long intercourse with him, had
caught somewhat of his divine compassion: they gazed at him, and were silent
while, in fair view, he rode up and stopped in front of the woman. She also
beheld his face - calm, pitiful, and of exceeding beauty, the large eyes tender
with benignant purpose.
And this was the
colloquy that ensued:
"O Master,
Master! Thou seest our need; thou canst make us clean. Have mercy upon us -
mercy!"
"Believest
thou I am able to do this?" he asked.
"Thou art he
of whom the prophets spake - thou art the Messiah!" she replied.
His eyes grew
radiant, his manner confident.
"Woman,"
he said, "great is thy faith; be it unto thee even as thou wilt."
He lingered an
instant after, apparently unconscious of the presence of the throng - an
instant - then he rode away.
To the heart
divinely original, yet so human in all the better elements of humanity, going
with sure prevision to a death of all the inventions of men the foulest and
most cruel, breathing even then in the forecast shadow of the awful event, and
still as hungry and thirsty for love and faith as in the beginning, how
precious and ineffably soothing the farewell exclamation of the grateful woman:
"To God in
the highest, glory! Blessed, thrice blessed, the Son whom he hath given
us!"
Immediately both
the hosts, that from the city and that from Bethphage, closed around him with
their joyous demonstrations, with hosannas and waving of palms, and so he
passed from the lepers forever. Covering her head, the elder hastened to
Tirzah, and folded her in her arms, crying, "Daughter, look up! I have his
promise; he is indeed the Messiah. We are saved - saved!" And the two
remained kneeling while the procession, slowly going, disappeared over the
mount. When the noise of its singing afar was a sound scarcely heard the
miracle began.
There was first
in the hearts of the lepers a freshening of the blood; then it flowed faster
and stronger, thrilling their wasted bodies with an infinitely sweet sense of
painless healing. Each felt the scourge going from her; their strength revived;
they were returning to be themselves. Directly, as if to make the purification
complete, from body to spirit the quickening ran, exalting them to a very
fervor of ecstasy. The power possessing them to this good end was most nearly
that of a draught of swift and happy effect; yet it was unlike and superior in
that its healing and cleansing were absolute, and not merely a delicious
consciousness while in progress, but the planting, growing, and maturing all at
once of a recollection so singular and so holy that the simple thought of it
should be of itself ever after a formless yet perfect thanksgiving.
To this transformation
- for such it may be called quite as properly as a cure - there was a witness
other than Amrah. The reader will remember the constancy with which Ben-Hur had
followed the Nazarene throughout his wanderings; and now, recalling the
conversation of the night before, there will be little surprise at learning
that the young Jew was present when the leprous woman appeared in the path of
the pilgrims. He heard her prayer, and saw her disfigured face; he heard the
answer also, and was not so accustomed to incidents of the kind, frequent as
they had been, as to have lost interest in them. Had such thing been possible
with him, still the bitter disputation always excited by the simplest display
of the Master's curative gift would have sufficed to keep his curiosity alive.
Besides that, if not above it as an incentive, his hope to satisfy himself upon
the vexed question of the mission of the mysterious man was still upon him
strong as in the beginning; we might indeed say even stronger, because of a
belief that now quickly, before the sun went down, the man himself would make
all known by public proclamation. At the close of the scene, consequently,
Ben-Hur had withdrawn from the procession, and seated himself upon a stone to
wait its passage.
From his place he
nodded recognition to many of the people - Galileans in his league, carrying
short swords under their long abbas. After a little a swarthy Arab came up
leading two horses; at a sign from Ben-Hur he also drew out.
"Stay
here," the young master said, when all were gone by, even the laggards.
"I wish to be at the city early, and Aldebaran must do me service."
He stroked the
broad forehead of the horse, now in his prime of strength and beauty, then
crossed the road towards the two women.
They were to him,
it should be borne in mind, strangers in whom he felt interest only as they
were subjects of a superhuman experiment, the result of which might possibly
help him to solution of the mystery that had so long engaged him. As he
proceeded, he glanced casually at the figure of the little woman over by the
white rock, standing there, her face hidden in her hands.
"As the Lord
liveth, it is Amrah!" he said to himself.
He hurried on,
and passing by the mother and daughter, still without recognizing them, he
stopped before the servant.
"Amrah,"
he said to her, "Amrah, what do you here?"
She rushed
forward, and fell upon her knees before him, blinded by her tears, nigh
speechless with contending joy and fear.
"O master,
master! Thy God and mine, how good he is!"
The knowledge we
gain from much sympathy with others passing through trials is but vaguely
understood; strangely enough, it enables us, among other things, to merge our
identity into theirs often so completely that their sorrows and their delights
become our own. So poor Amrah, aloof and hiding her face, knew the
transformation the lepers were undergoing without a word spoken to her - knew
it, and shared all their feeling to the full. Her countenance, her words, her
whole manner, betrayed her condition; and with swift presentiment he connected
it with the women he had just passed: he felt her presence there at that time
was in some way associated with them, and turned hastily as they arose to their
feet. His heart stood still, he became rooted in his tracks - dumb past outcry
- awe-struck.
The woman he had
seen before the Nazarene was standing with her hands clasped and eyes
streaming, looking towards heaven. The mere transformation would have been a
sufficient surprise; but it was the least of the causes of his emotion. Could
he be mistaken? Never was there in life a stranger so like his mother; and like
her as she was the day the Roman snatched her from him. There was but one
difference to mar the identity - the hair of this person was a little streaked
with gray; yet that was not impossible of reconcilement, since the intelligence
which had directed the miracle might have taken into consideration the natural
effects of the passage of years. And who was it by her side, if not Tirzah? -
fair, beautiful, perfect, more mature, but in all other respects exactly the
same in appearance as when she looked with him over the parapet the morning of
the accident to Gratus. He had given them over as dead, and time had accustomed
him to the bereavement; he had not ceased mourning for them, yet, as something
distinguishable, they had simply dropped out of his plans and dreams. Scarcely
believing his senses, he laid his hand upon the servant's head, and asked,
tremulously,
"Amrah,
Amrah - my mother! Tirzah! tell me if I see aright."
"Speak to
them, O master, speak to them!" she said.
He waited no
longer, but ran, with outstretched arms, crying, "Mother! mother! Tirzah!
Here I am!"
They heard his
call, and with a cry as loving started to meet him. Suddenly the mother stopped,
drew back, and uttered the old alarm,
"Stay,
Judah, my son; come not nearer. Unclean, unclean!"
The utterance was
not from habit, grown since the dread disease struck her, as much as fear; and
the fear was but another form of the ever-thoughtful maternal love. Though they
were healed in person, the taint of the scourge might be in their garments
ready for communication. He had no such thought. They were before him; he had
called them, they had answered. Who or what should keep them from him now? Next
moment the three, so long separated, were mingling their tears in each other's
arms.
The first ecstasy
over, the mother said, "In this happiness, O my children, let us not be
ungrateful. Let us begin life anew by acknowledgment of him to whom we are all
so indebted."
They fell upon
their knees, Amrah with the rest; and the prayer of the elder outspoken was as
a psalm.
Tirzah repeated
it word for word; so did Ben-Hur, but not with the same clear mind and
questionless faith; for when they were risen, he asked,
"In
Nazareth, where the man was born, mother, they call him the son of a carpenter.
What is he?"
Her eyes rested
upon him with all their old tenderness, and she answered as she had answered
the Nazarene himself -
"He is the
Messiah."
"And whence
has he his power?"
"We may know
by the use he makes of it. Can you tell me any ill he has done?"
"No."
"By that
sign then I answer, He has his power from God."
It is not an easy
thing to shake off in a moment the expectations nurtured through years until
they have become essentially a part of us; and though Ben-Hur asked himself
what the vanities of the world were to such a one, his ambition was obdurate
and would not down. He persisted as men do yet every day in measuring the
Christ by himself. How much better if we measured ourselves by the Christ!
Naturally, the
mother was the first to think of the cares of life.
"What shall
we do now, my son? Where shall we go?"
Then Ben-Hur,
recalled to duty, observed how completely every trace of the scourge had
disappeared from his restored people; that each had back her perfection of
person; that, as with Naaman when he came up out of the water, their flesh had
come again like unto the flesh of a little child; and he took off his cloak,
and threw it over Tirzah.
"Take
it," he said, smiling; "the eye of the stranger would have shunned
you before, now it shall not offend you."
The act exposed a
sword belted to his side.
"Is it a
time of war?" asked the mother, anxiously.
"No."
"Why, then,
are you armed?"
"It may be
necessary to defend the Nazarene."
Thus Ben-Hur
evaded the whole truth.
"Has he
enemies? Who are they?"
"Alas,
mother, they are not all Romans!"
"Is he not
of Israel, and a man of peace?"
"There was
never one more so; but in the opinion of the rabbis and teachers he is guilty
of a great crime."
"What
crime?"
"In his eyes
the uncircumcised Gentile is as worthy favor as a Jew of the strictest habit.
He preaches a new dispensation."
The mother was
silent, and they moved to the shade of the tree by the rock. Calming his
impatience to have them home again and hear their story, he showed them the
necessity of obedience to the law governing in cases like theirs, and in
conclusion called the Arab, bidding him take the horses to the gate by Bethesda
and await him there; whereupon they set out by the way of the Mount of Offence.
The return was very different from the coming; they walked rapidly and with
ease, and in good time reached a tomb newly made near that of Absalom,
overlooking the depths of Cedron. Finding it unoccupied, the women took
possession, while he went on hastily to make the preparations required for
their new condition.
