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RELIGIOUS TALES
THE CHILDREN OF THE KINGDOM
SYMPHORIAN
CÆDMON
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THE CHILDREN OF THE KINGDOM
I. THE TEACHER
“And in the world to come, life everlasting.”
THERE was a sunset of red flame far away behind the sloping hills, and the air was very calm with the calm of coming night.
For the hum and stir of labour in the low-lying village were over, and the daily toil was done, and the peasants thronged together on the open heights to hear the strange Teacher, who was come among them preaching of a Life to be Hereafter.
He stood by the breaking of the cliff, in the full halo of rosy light, grand and tall and kingly; and the people listened earnestly all round Him while He taught them the wisdom and beautiful love of the God whom He called H is Father.
Very new and wonderful was the philosophy of this strange Preacher. There were none in all the crowds which pressed upon Him daily, who had ever heard tell of such a bold speech as His. Dimly in the Jewish scriptures of prophets and sacred singers, and in the mythologies of Greece and Persia, people had caught hints and glimpses rare and far between, of some vague life to come, and longingly perhaps and curiously, they speculated on what such hints should mean. Here and there one or other snatched at mysterious words and promises which seemed to savour of the world to be, and anon perchance some sorrowful souls, to whom the earth brought forth only briars and thorns, were wont to draw consolation from the thought that there were unfading flowers in store for them else where.
But over all rang the unmusical burden of the Preacher-King’s wisdom: “One thing befalleth the man and the beast, as one dieth so dieth the other; all go to one place, all alike are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.”
And the fervour of the ancient religions grew feeble, and the shrines of the old-world gods were deserted for the academies and groves of the philosophers, and men ran wild after new theories and new teachers; but, after all, none of these could venture beyond speculation.
So Plato and Epicurus, and Zeno and Aristotle, and Pyrrho, and a hundred more, reasoned and prated of beauty and truth and eternity, and drew away each his five thousand disciples,
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and died at last in hope, perhaps, of good to come, but no-thing more.
And as for the Jews, the one great boast and glory of their religion was gone; their peculiar freedom was lost; their prophets were dead; their Jehovah fought no more for them, and they were servants and tribute-payers to a conquering lord. What was pious faith to a fallen nation like this, whose God had been a “man of war,” and whose religion had been a sys-tem of conquest and sway?
But now here was One who taught a new philosophy and a new faith, One to whose gentle greatness of soul the whole conception of a Jehovah-King was a barbarous phantasy, and the traditions of his priests immoral and absurd; One who spoke instead of an all-Father ruling the world in the calm grandeur of majesty and wisdom, presiding everywhere, and loving all alike; making His sun to rise upon the evil and the good, and sending rain upon the just and the unjust.
Wonderingly the people followed Him from place to place, an ever-growing multitude; wonderingly they gathered about Him, and listened while He talked of a God whom He carried within Himself; of a universal law of love, and of an eternal life that was to Him no matter of doubtful desire, but of certainty. And with startled ears and open eyes they heard how He put aside each item in their old code of ethics with His calmly royal “But say unto you.” For this strange Preacher taught as One having authority, and not as mortal man.
So from all the cities and villages through which He passed, rich and poor and young and old followed Him in multitudes; some hungry after His doctrine, some in admiration of the winning grace and poetry of His speech, and some for curiosity and wonder at so strange a man and so novel a morality.
And now He stood on the hill and spoke to His audience as it was His wont to speak, of the two great themes which most He loved to dwell upon – the kingdom of God, and the life to come hereafter.
At His feet, half-hidden in a cleft of the rock, sat a young peasant-girl, with soft brown eyes fixed intently upon the face of the teacher. Her hands rested on an earthen pitcher which she had been filling at the well on the hill-side, and a mellow ray of sunset shone over the thick glossy waves of her chestnut hair, and on the white folds of her dress.
Anywhere and at any time this young girl would have seemed beautiful; but now as she sat at the feet of Christ, with her sweet face and tender eyes glowing with earnestness and devotion, she looked almost an angel.
And the Teacher spread out His hands towards the western
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sky, all ablaze with the golden and opal splendour of sunset, and His clear eyes kindled as He spoke of the inconceivable glory that was in store for the children of the heavenly Father, when death and sorrow and sin should be passed away for ever, with all the vanities of earth, and its wealth, and its loves, and its pride.
“For whosoever shall forsake houses or lands or kindred for My sake, and for the kingdom of God, shall receive abundantly more in this present world, and in the world to come life everlasting.”
The Teacher folded His arms upon His breast, and stood silent awhile, watching the crimson sun as it dipped behind the ridge of grey evening clouds into darkness; then He looked again towards the waiting peasantry, and dismissed them with a grave, kingly gesture of farewell, and a word of warning that the hour was late. And one by one and thoughtfully they obeyed, and streamed down the pathway of the hill into the village below, until He was left on the heights with twelve only.
The peasant-girl with the brown eyes was among the last to go. Slowly and silently she raised her pitcher from the ground, slung the hempen cord across her shoulder, and went on her way alone, musing.
Homeward along the cliff behind her came a young man, singing to himself snatches of quaint old ditties, and his frank, bright face was the face of one who found the world very flowery and pleasant, and was well contented with its sweetness, nor had a thought of care beyond it.
Suddenly he espied the peasant-girl in front of him toiling down the hill with her burden. “Mona! Mona!” he shouted, “stop for me, I’ll carry your pitcher!” and presently he was beside her and had loosened the cord from her shoulder and slung it upon his.
“I’ve been supping with my Uncle Caius, Mona,” he said, “and he’s coming over tomorrow to see us. How is Nurse Esther tonight? no worse, I hope, dear?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “Who is He, sister?” and he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the heights behind them.
“Jesus the Nazarene, the Teacher of Galilee,” she said.
“What does He teach?” asked the boy, lightly.
“The kingdom of God,” answered she.
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II. DEATH
A LITTLE room darkened and still, a sweet aroma of flowers, and an open white-draped couch, whereon lay one quiet and pale and patient, waiting for the Angel of Death.
And a young girl with brown eyes sitting beside the dying with a roll of the Scriptures upon her knee, and a sweet voice that read from them a hymn of the old Psalmist King’s, softly and low, like a maid who reads to her lover.
“O Lord God of my salvation, I have cried day and night before Thee.
“Let my prayer come unto Thee, incline Thine ear to my cry.
“For my soul is full of trouble, and my life draweth nigh unto the grave.
“I am numbered with them that go down into the dust, I am become as one that hath no strength.
“Free in the freedom of death, like the dead that lie in the grave, whom Thou rememberest no more, for they are cut off from Thine hand.
“Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness and in the deeps.
“Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and Thou hast made me fearful with all Thy storms.
“Thou hast put away my beloved from me, Thou hast made me an abhorrence unto them; I am shut up and cannot come forth.
“Mine eyes mourn by reason of sorrow; Lord, I have called daily upon Thee, I have spread out my hands unto Thee.
“Wilt Thou shew wonders to the dead? shall the dead arise and praise Thee?
“Shall Thy loving kindness be declared in the grave, or Thy faithfulness in destruction?
“Shall Thy power be known in the dark, and Thy righteousness in the land of forgetfulness?”
Then Mona’s heart failed her at those dreary words, and she bowed her fair head over the scroll and wept sore. And at the sound of her tears the dying woman stirred upon her pillow, and said brokenly in a whisper: – “Hush, darling, not for me, not for me; say to thyself, ‘God gave and God will take away; ‘we all come to it in time, it is no new thing to die, I am going to the land of forgetfulness, where there is peace. Forget, forget, my darling!”
But Mona turned her heifers eyes upon the white face, and made answer gently, –” Mother, the Teacher says that the children of God have everlasting life.”
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Then there was silence between them, and the vine upon the outer: wall of the room beat the closed lattice with its swaying tendrils, like a death-watch tapping through the stillness. And presently a voice at the doorway said, “Mona, Mona, may I come in?”
“Yes, Azriel, come; I think drying.”
And again they, were together, the frank-faced. Boy and his peasant sister, standing: hand-in-hand beside the dying, sad and silent, for they were: both her children, though she had not given birth ‘to both. For Azriel’s mother; had died when he was born, more than twenty-years back, and this woman Esther had taken her place them and kept, it ever since, and Esther’s child’ was to him a twin sister, for they grew, up together and were companions and playmates from the first, and Azriel had no other sister than she.
But his father, Ephraim, had married again, and the new wife was a Roman and an infidel, tall and proud and gloriously beautiful, and the peasant-nurse and her daughter found no favour in the ungracious eyes of Hyperia. Neither cared she greatly for Azriel, because her love was bent only upon her husband and her little son; but Azriel took nothing of that to heart, for the love of his foster-sister made up to him for all else, and he was young and careless.
But now sorrow was come over his life, the first he had known, and it was very heavy and unmusical to him.
So they stood there, he and Mona; in the quiet, darkened room, watching, and all through the silence the vine knocked at the casement, and to Azriel’s straining fancy it sounded like the approaching footsteps of the black-robed Sammaël. But in Mona’s heart there ran a single thought, “In the world to come, life everlasting.”
But she said no word.
Then, while they stood looking, Esther stretched out her hand feebly and uncertainly, as though it were night, and her white, dry lips unclosed.
“Mona.”
And the girl stole softly to her side.
“Mother. I am here,” she said.
The thin hand groped its way towards her across the couch, and Mona took it gently and laid it in hers, and clasped it there lovingly.
“It is dark, dark, so dark,” said the dying woman. “Mona, where is the light?”
Azriel opened a side of the lattice softly, and the mellow rays of the sunset fell full upon the white drapery of the bed, and on the wan face, in a flood of golden glory.
“There is light, mother,” said Mona, bending over her, and speaking tenderly.
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But Esther answered nothing.
Then Azriel, watching her always with sorrowful eyes, turned them now upon Mona, and his voice sounded hard and strange, like the voice that speaks to one in fever dreams.
“Sister, it is over. She is dead.”
O me! how well we all know this picture! You know it, reader, you have seen it somewhere at some time or other of your life: – that quiet darkened chamber, those sweet-scented roses in the vase by the bedside, that motionless waxen-like face upon the white pillows. And you have heard some one say those words in a whisper through the aching stillness, words that dropped one by one upon your heart as though each were spoken hours after each, words that seemed to repeat themselves in louder echoes again and again after they were said, while you sat still by that bedside, and looked with dry eyes, that you could not move, upon the wondrously still form lying there.
And if you have not yet seen that picture, nor heard those words, you will some day, for they come to all in turn and in time. And when they come, remember that in the world to come the children of the kingdom have everlasting life.
Then Mona put out her hand, and drew her brother closer to herself, and looked into his face.
“Azriel,” she said, “did you hear what the Teacher of Galilee told us last night?”
“No, sister,” he answered dreamily, “I was not there to hear.”
“He said,” she went on, slowly and steadily, with her brown eyes fixed upon his, “that the children of God’s kingdom have eternal life.”
“It may be, Mona; but who are the children of the kingdom?”
“I cannot tell, Azriel.”
III. A CONVERSATION
“SON, son, why do you sit there dreaming so long? You are a man, Azriel, and must not let a first sorrow master you. For Mona, it is natural enough; but you have another mother, and a father too, but she is an orphan. Up, my son, up and get the better of this excessive grief. Go out into the garden and walk with your Uncle Caius for a while; ‘I see him under the plane-trees speaking with Mona.”
And Ephraim laid his hand for a minute on the boy’s head, but Azriel looked up into his father’s face, and said, “Father, have you heard of Jesus of Nazareth?”
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“The Galilean Prophet?” answered Ephraim, more thought-fully; “yes, Azriel; what of Him?”
“He says that the children of God’s kingdom have eternal life. Father, who are the children of the kingdom. Think you?”
“The sons of Abraham, I suppose, Azriel,” he said.
“And what of eternal life, father?”
Ephraim passed his hand over his eyes. “I do not know, ‘my son. There are many who like to believe in a world to come; it is a beautiful hope, and I hold it a wholesome one withal; but there is nothing certain. Say you the new Prophet speaks of it?”
“Mona told me, sir, – she has listened to His speech, and is greatly taken with it, for His words are very grave and sweet.”
Ephraim stood still, and looked earnestly at his son’s face.
“Azriel,” he said, “is it Esther’s death that has changed you thus, and set you thinking of these things?”
“I thought nothing of them before, father; but then the Prophet was not here.”
“Then Ephraim sighed very deeply, and said: – “Child, when I was a younger man, I loved to believe in the life to be, the hereafter, that this Jesus preaches, – for the poetry and the dignity of the thought that I was immortal, was pleasant to my youth and sweet to my pride. But I am a Sadducee now, Azriel, or almost one, for I have seen too much of death to believe longer in its powerlessness. Your mother Hyperia laughs all this to scorn, my boy, for you know she holds no creed nor faith of any sort, and, indeed, methinks sometimes she is in the right of it. But if you list to believe in more than we can see, Azriel, it may make you happy for a time, as it made me, until I put away my boyhood, and grew into the reason and judgment of a man. And it is good to be happy even if the spring of one’s happiness be a myth and a vague phantasy.”
“If it be,” said Azriel, “but what, father, if it should be real?”
“Then so much the better for us, my son; we shall know it in due time, and the glory of the new day will be all the greater when we wake, for that we lay down to sleep not expecting it.”
“But there is a condition, father, – the Preacher says, The children of the kingdom have everlasting life; and what I f we, just because we lay down expecting no coming day, should awake in the darkness, and so lie with open eyes through the night for ever? That would be worse than not waking at all.”
“I know what you mean, Azriel; but I believe in your
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hell less even than in your heaven. Think for yourself, and decide in the matter according to the measure of your reason, which, after all, is the best guide, and the safest, for every man. Only remember, it is the sounder philosophy to doubt until there is reason to believe, than to believe until there is reason to doubt.”
“But who are the children of the kingdom, father, – not the sons of Abraham only? For have you not said that God is just, and if He be just, shall not all the world share in His gifts?”
“We are His peculiar choice, Azriel, they say; but this is a question that has to do with the life to come, of which we have been speaking. But all our work, my son, is to keep God’s commandments and walk in His ways; this is our duty, and with more than this we have not to do. I f there be more, He has not told us of it yet, but it shall be given, doubtless, to those who obey Him for fear of Him only, and in the hope of no reward. For, after all, it is a base thing to do well for the sake of gain in the end, and a coward’s part to avoid sin for terror of punishment. I am a philosopher as well as a son of Abraham, my boy, and I hold that present happiness, which is the result of virtue, is the highest good of men; and that to be happy here because we do well is all we can desire or strive after. Without virtue there is no happiness, so that the one is not the reward of the other, but its natural element and sequence. And were it otherwise, then should we choose virtue with pain, rather than vice with greed, for to seek a reward is mean, and dishonourable to our manhood. But for any after life, Azriel, we know nothing of it – we walk in very great darkness, and though the light would be pleasant to our eyes, yet, if we have it not, it is our wisdom to content our-selves in the night.”
“But,” said Azriel, earnestly, with his eyes full turned upon his father’s face, “if One come to us with light, why should we not walk in the light rather than remain groping in the darkness?”
“Many such have come to us with their lanterns, my son, but they have burnt out after a while, and then the night is all the deeper and the darker, for the light that was and is quenched.”
“Father, the Teacher carries no lantern. Mona says He is Himself the Light of the world. If, then, He be the Light, there is no longer danger of it burning out.”
“But how long will He remain with us?” said Ephraim, with pity in his eyes and scorn in his tone.
“Mona told me, sir, that He would be with us always, even unto the end of the world.”
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“That,” said Ephraim, “cannot be, unless He were very God Himself. Your Prophet blasphemes, methinks, Azriel. Have a care, my son, for we must not listen to nor have to do with those who handle holy things like toys.”
Azriel lifted his eyebrows.
“I never heard you speak on this fashion before, father,” he said; “but if that be indeed your thought, why did you–––”
He paused, and his face crimsoned.
Then a cloud came over the man’s brows, and he spoke uneasily, and almost like one who is humbled.
“Why did I marry your stepmother? you mean, I suppose, child. Because I loved her, Azriel, and because I was sad and lonely, and she brought joy into my Life with her beauty and her love for me. And, besides, Azriel, she is no follower of the gods of Rome, as is her brother Caius; you well know she contemns that superstition as greatly as our faith. She has done no one harm with her strange thoughts, my son, and she has made the world pleasant to me, which else had been very barren and bitter.”
Then Azriel was silent; but his father’s words sounded to him more like a defence than an explanation. It was one thing, he perceived, for a philosopher to theorise, and another for him to act after his theories. And, somehow, certain words of the Preacher, which Mona had repeated to him, came into his mind.
“For whosoever loveth wife or kindred, or the things of this present world, more than Me, is not worthy of Me.”
But Ephraim passed by, and Azriel rose and went out into the garden.
IV. ANOTHER CONVERSATION
MONA was gathering white roses, to weave of them a garland for her mother’s grave, and Caius came upon her at her pious work.
This Caius was Hyperia’s younger brother, an officer in the imperial legions at Jerusalem, and he was come down to Lebonah for a while to visit his sister and her husband.
And at their house he found the brown-eyed peasant, and her sweetness and her beauty won and tempted his heart as nothing before had ever done. For ten years’ work in Caesar’s service had made the man hard and careless of all tender and gentle things, and the grossness of the religious faith he held, had wrought him worse harm still.
So from the day he found Mona, he laid snares for her in his dark soul, and spent many a sweet look and honey
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word to catch the fatherless girl. And when Esther died and left her an orphan and alone, Caius thought himself sure: of his prize, for now who was there to withstand him? Not his, sister, for she never, dropped her eyes so low as Mona; nor Ephraim, for the girl would be too shy to ask; counsel of whim in a love; matter, and Caius had, besides, a ready tongue and a fair smile.
So he came today upon Mona, as she gathered her flowers in the garden, and he said –
“Sweet one, what do you? and what is this wreath you make?”
“Sir,” she answered, without raising her eyes, “t is for my mother’s grave.”
“You are all alone now, Mona,” he said, after a minute.
“I have Azriel,” she answered him again.
The brow of Caius grew black at this.
“Do you love him very dearly?” he asked.
“Yes,” said she, simply.
“More than you loved your mother, Mona?”
“No, sir. My mother was dearest of all to me; but she is dead.”
And there were tears in the brown eyes, and a sob in the sweet voice.
“Do not weep, pretty one. There is better love than even a mother’s,” he whispered, watching her fair face like a snake; “and it may be yours, if you will have it so.”
She looked up surprised, for she thought of the love of God and knew that Caius was a pagan. Was it possible that he, too, had heard the Teacher, and believed Him? She wondered. But the man went on – “You marvel, sweet Mona, at my words; but by the gods they are true, for it is of myself that I speak. I love you, Mona, and though I cannot make you wife of mine, that matters not, for l am rich and great, and you poor and lowly, and alone and sorrowful besides. Come, my beautiful Mona, leave sadness and tears for eyes less bright than yours, and forget your loss in my love.”
Then the white garland of roses fell in the dust at Mona’s feet, and the small quivering fingers that had held it went up to hide her face, and there was silence.
Caius wondered. Was he defeated, or was this merely a maiden’s trick of bashfulness, the natural result of his words?
He looked down at the roses lying bruised and soiled in the pathway, and then again at the statue-like figure before him, standing motionless, with its fair head bowed upon its hands. Then he found his wily tongue once more, and said –
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“Come, Mona, sweet, what ails you? You are but a peasant, remember, and it were no shame to you thus to link your love with mine, who am a, Roman, and noble withal. I’ll make you happy, sweet, I swear, and stand between you and poverty and loneliness; for you are alone now, Mona, bethink you.”
But no answer came from her nor did she look up.
Somehow the man grew awed. He could easily have pulled aside the little white hands, and have unveiled the face beneath; but his fingers were shy of the work, and he did not dare touch her.
So he kicked the stones at his; feet, and; as silent too.
Footsteps came along the pathway towards them, nearer and nearer, and Caius looked up and saw Azriel. A minute or two before he would have cursed the boy for his coming; now it was something like a relief to him, and he felt almost thankful for it.
“Why, Mona sister Mona I what has come to you? Dost weep, sweetheart?”
Caius stepped forward to meet him with a smile that was meant to be innocent, but which was perhaps rather more hyæna-like than he suspected.
“It is a little outbreak of weeping because of Esther, methinks, nephew,” he said, in a whisper. “For, look you, she has been weaving a garland for the dead, and musing doubtless the while of the things gone by. I have said what I could to console her, but in vain, Azriel. Perhaps it were well to leave her alone for a time. Grief like hers is best undisturbed.”
And he laid his arm upon his nephew’s, and made shift to draw him aside into a byway among the shade of the tall plane-trees.
But, with all Azriel’s respect for Mona’s supposed sorrow, the longing within him to comfort her was stronger still.
So he left Caius standing beneath the planes, and went and touched Mona softly on the shoulder, and said he, “Sister.”
Then Mona dropped her hands from her white face, and looked into his; but there were no tears in them, nor any sign of weeping.
And Azriel sat down wondering upon a basil bank, and drew her gently beside him, with her head hidden on his neck. So for a while they sat, and neither spoke, but Caius watched them from beneath the plane-trees.
Then said Azriel: – “Sister mine, why do you tremble so, and what did ail you when I came upon you but now, and saw you stand so strangely and still? You must not be sick of heart, Mona, for remember I am left, and the time is now
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come that you and I should be dearer than ever. Let us sit here and talk together for a while, little sister, for I have many things to say to you, and the evening air is soft, and pleasant with flowers.”
So Mona lifted her head from Azriel’s shoulder, and laid her hand in his, and they sat there upon the bank of sweet basil and talked, and Caius watched them always, like a snake that watches his prey; but never a word he heard of all they said, for their voices were low, and he far off beneath the rusting planes.
And Azriel told the peasant-girl all the things his father Ephraim had spoken that evening, and how he had warned him against the Prophet of Nazareth, saying that He blasphemed God in His teaching. And Azriel said: – “What think you, Mona, did the Teacher mean when He spoke of being with us until the end of the world?”
Then Mona pondered for a while, and answered him doubtfully, – “I do not know, brother; but I think that, too, had somewhat to do with the kingdom of God.”
“How?” asked he. “Is not the kingdom of God yet to come?”
“No, I think not,” said Mona. “It is something, Azriel, that must begin here, something that we must make for our-selves, – I know not how or where; but the Teacher bade men to leave all and follow Him. And if one would be wiser or better than others, He says always this same thing, – ‘Leave all and follow Me.’ And. He said, moreover, that only they who so follow shall have eternal life.”
“Then, Mona, the children of the kingdom are they who follow the Teacher?”
But Mona looked sad and doubtful, for she thought of her dead mother.
So Azriel lifted her fair face to his, and kissed her, and spoke words of comfort and love to her, and the two rose and went together into the house.
But never a word Mona told Azriel of all that Caius had said that day.
Then came Caius from beneath the plane-trees, and there was an evil look upon his dark brow, and an evil thought in his dark heart, for he said to himself, “She has told him of all I have spoken, and he has consoled her and kissed her, and given her counsel, and promised her no doubt many a fine thing. But I -will have my will yet with the foolish girl, and Azriel shall not trouble me long.”
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V. OF PHILOSOPHY
THAT same evening Azriel stood alone in the doorway of the house, and all the wide landscape before him was golden with light, and the tall cliff’s of the Samaritan hills shewed white and sharp in the clear glow of sunset.
And Azriel understood all the beauty and the music of the land, and his soul looked out of his eyes in silence, adoring the silence around. Then presently Ephraim came where he stood, and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Azriel,” said he, “it is near sunset. Go out and find me your mother and Caius; they are yonder somewhere on the hills; and bid them come in, child, as quickly as may be, for supper is ready.”
So Azriel went out on his errand up the pathway of the cliff, and his eyes were fastened on the ground as he went, and he was grave at heart and dreamy, for the thought of the Nazarene prophet, and for the thought of his father and Mona.
Two figures came down the heights towards him, walking together like the two sins of self-conceit and self-love; the one tall and beautiful in her thirty-eight years’ glory of womanhood, with broad swelling bosom, and eyes like living sapphires, and luxuriant orange hair, all frothed and wreathed about her veiled head like a flame. And he who walked beside her was her brother, the evil-eyed Caius, younger than she by some five years, with cunning brows, and quick lithe smile that came and went continually. And he, seeing Azriel coming, looked up and cried –
“Why, here, I protest, sister, is the hope of the household! Whither now, nephew mine?”
Then Hyperia lowered her steep level brows and frowned at those words, for she had a little son of her own, and hated that another woman’s child should be preferred before him; but the evil heart of Caius beat faster as he watched her.
So Azriel lifted his head in the same grave mood, and told them his fathers message and the lateness of the hour, and never another word, for his mind was full of busy thoughts. And Hyperia made answer lightly, and her red lips curled with contempt as she spoke; but the frown was gone from her brow, for she pitied Azriel’s sorrowful humour.
“We had been earlier, Azriel, but for our strange entertainment on the slopes yonder. Didst ever hear, child, in all thine old nurse’s baby-lore, of a kingdom of God and everlasting life?”
And the sapphire eyes were full of disdain, and the broad
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bosom shook with low derisive laughter. But Azriel woke like one out of sleep, and looking earnestly in her fair scorn-full face: – “The kingdom of God, mother,” he said; “who told you of that? whence come you?”
“From hearing I know not what of mad talk,” she answered; “for there is One in the meadows over the hill, whom I take to be either wholly distraught or partly a fool; or maybe He is some poet whom rapture of the golden vision hath driven frantic, so that He must needs go out and babble of it to the unlearned and the curious, who stand all round Him with mouths agape, and eyes like the moon.”
“It is the Prophet of Nazareth,” said Azriel, reverently; “you have heard Him then, and are not holden by His language?”
Hyperia’s laugh rang like golden coins.
“Prophet!” she sneered. “Are you but just out of your swaddling-bands, Azriel, not to have yet outgrown such dotard’s stories as these? That old-world title hath lost its meaning in these days, for those at least who hold wisdom and fact to be of any worth! What is this strange phantasy of the blood that consumes men so, in spite of reason itself? Why, here is my brother Caius, whom years and observation should have made wise, but he still sticks like a thirsty leech to those old gods of his which long since philosophy hath knocked over and destroyed!”
And she turned her glorious eyes upon the man beside her and laughed again.
Caius put his hand on her arm deprecatingly, and spoke in a tone of horror.
“Sister! sister! why will you talk in this strain? For less blasphemy than yours, believe me, the divine gods have been pleased to drop death from heaven as a punishment.”
“Wherefore,” she returned with scorn, “you wonder greatly, O credulous Caius, that I do not wither and shrink into parched nothingness before your eyes, or f all down maybe under one of Jove’s redoubtable thunderbolts, a just warning to all infidels and misbelievers!”
But Caius had put his fingers in his ears, and turned his head away, so greatly was he shocked at her light words.
For it was this man’s policy to ape the ways and opinions of religionists; it gave him a certain standing and credit of position in Cæsar’s service, which more liberal thinkers did not possess. Moreover, he was neither strong-minded nor intellectual enough to adopt Hyperia’s doctrine; religion he found a much more easy garment than philosophy, and one too that could be more loosely worn, and met with greater approval in the eyes of others. And though he did not much trouble himself to believe all he professed, yet his religion
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was a comfort and a screen to him in its way, for if sometimes his deeds caused him any uneasiness of conscience, it was soon set to rights by the simple reflection that all the gods had done the like in their several careers. But blasphemy he could not tolerate, for had ever any god denied himself?
As for Hyperia, she was too proud to conform to any religious creed, when she saw no reason to believe it; and rather than encumber her scornful soul in a dress which did not fit it, she put aside every sort of faith from her, and stood up boldly in her own nakedness before all the world, unashamed, and utterly careless of opinion. There was a certain nobleness and grandeur about this woman’s character, which even Azriel owned and admired, while he shrank from her fearless talk. Many in those days thought as she did, but not many were so indifferent to popular prejudice as to spit their thoughts in its very face. But Hyperia cared not a straw what conformists said of her; she believed nothing, and openly denied everything, dethroning all the gods that ever were or should be, to set up in their room what she called the only law-giver and guide of humanity – reason.
And Hyperia was tolerably happy in her philosophy – tolerably happy, for she had not yet found the highest good; but she was better off than Caius, with his superstition, and the craft and licence which fitted into it so well, – better off than Ephraim, with his Sadducean dogmas, and his reason-able religion and unhopeful faith; for she threw all these things off, and crushed them down under her scornful feet and stood above them, grand in her weakness and proud in her own unwisdom; yet stronger and wiser than either the pagan or the Jew.” So she curled her lips at Caius, and turned upon Azriel.
“You are curious, child, I see,” she said, “to know what folly this Man doth teach. Well, well, it will do you no harm, for one can never expect to be prepared against such vain talk unless one has heard it. No bird can out fly another before he has come up with him. Tomorrow, Azriel, you can go and amuse yourself by hearing this outrageous Prophet, as the people call Him.”
But Caius caught the last words, as he dropped his fingers from his ears, and put in his oar eagerly:
“Nay, nephew, if you have a mind to hear Him, go now, for it is not so very late after all, and He may be gone tomorrow; for I heard say He is on His way up to Jerusalem.”
Both Hyperia and Azriel wondered. What! this bigot, who so shrank from blasphemers of his gods, recommending to his nephew the Teacher of a new faith!
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But the next moment the man saw his mistake in their faces, and went on as though he had not seen it: –
“You are pale and in ill sort, Azriel, and the evening breeze will do you much of good. And as for the Man Himself, why He is at least silent of the gods, and not so your mother. We will take care to let them know at home whither you are gone, and keep your share of the supper untouched. And look you, boy,” he added, as though a sudden thought had taken him, “come and meet me upon the hill on your way back, for I love a stroll by moonlight.”
So Azriel nodded consent gladly, and turned to go on his road, and Caius laid his hand, cold and damp like a lizard, on his, and hissed like a lizard in his ear, – “Remember, Azriel, the footpath along the cliff.” For he thought, “It will be dark presently, and the cliff is high and steep; and while we walk together, I will take care to have him nearest the edge of it. What then? I remember Mona, ‘and he who stands between us, her counsellor against me; – no need of force, a little push of the arm; – I am alone upon the cliff; – the girl is mine; and where are the witnesses? No, no, the boy’s foot slipped, and he fell before I could put out my hands to save him. There is weeping and dole, and I go about softly. Such things have been, and will be again; do we not read them in the histories of the divine gods?” Then they parted; and as he went,
“Good-bye, mother!” cried Azriel.
“Ay, good-bye,” said Caius, under his breath.
VI. AZRIEL IS CALLED
THE Preacher had finished His daily task, and His hearers, save only a chosen number, had left Him and gone to their homes before Azriel came where He was.
He was standing on the brow of the hill, in the midst of that grave, saintly little group, and Azriel leaned against the stem of a shadowing sycamore, and watched them reverently.
Long time he stood there, gazing and listening, all enamoured of the Preacher’s gracious presence and hungry - His speech, yet not daring to draw near to Him lest; such boldness might be rebuked; but now and then a lift in the wind, or a turn of the Preacher’s head, brought a few words to his ears, and from these he could gather that the Galilean Teacher was speaking still of the kingdom of God. And h e saw that the faces of those who stood about Him
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glowed with something akin to adoration as they listened, drinking in His speech with thirsty silence; or, if sometimes one would ask Him somewhat, addressing Him as “Lord,” even as though He were divine.
Strange thoughts rose in Azriel’s heart while lie stood under the sycamore-tree and heard these things: – strange thoughts about the kingdom of God, and about eternal life, and about the Preacher Himself. Who was He, he wondered, that these men had so great awe of His presence, and took so great care to call Him by that reverential name?
Then while he wondered, the darkness fell softly about the hill; and through the darkness the lights began to quiver in the village below; and He whom Azriel watched drew His mantle around Him, and came on towards the sycamore-tree, and His disciples followed.
Something rose in Azriel’s soul as that wondrous One drew near – something that he had never felt before; something that made him long to rush out of his hiding-place and fall before His feet, entreating to be always with Him to see His face and hear His words; something, too, it was that made the boy’s eyes droop and his head bend worshipfully as the Preacher came closer to him, even as though he had been in the very presence of God. And another moment, he thought, and the Preacher would have gone by, and he perhaps might never see Him again. Oh what should he do, – he asked himself almost wildly, – what should he do to become one of those children of God of whom the Preacher said that they had eternal life? Like an answer to his thought came two words almost in his ear, stern and sweet, like a command, –
“Follow Me!”
Azriel looked up surprised, and saw the Prophet standing before him. Then in a moment he remembered what Mona had said about those who left all to follow Him, and that they only were counted the children of the kingdom; and there was hope, and longing, and gladness in his eyes, for he thought of the gloomy-hearted Ephraim; and how he would go home and tell him he had found the Light of the world and the kingdom of God. And how his father should rejoice with him, and bless him, before he went; and how perhaps he might fetch Mona also, that she might go with him.
So he answered readily, and mindful of the title the disciples gave their Master: – “Lord, I will follow Thee, but suffer me first to go and bid them farewell which are at home at my father’s house.”
But He of the clear eyes looked steadfastly and sternly in Azriel’s face, and said, – “No man, having put his
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hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.”
And with that He passed on across the hills southward, away from the village, as though He heeded not Azriel any longer; and His disciples followed Him. So the boy stood alone under the sycamore, and looked wistfully after them, with a very heavy weight suddenly fallen upon his heart, and a growing mist before his eyes.
Then he was aware of a presence, and looking round, saw before him one whom he had noticed a few minutes ago among the. Prophet’s disciples, a Venerable old man with a white beard, and a staff I n his hand. And he looked very lovingly upon Azriel, and said, – “Child, why followest thou not?”
“Oh, sir,” answered Azriel, thickly, for his fears and his longing stood in his throat, “I have a father and a mother at home, and a sister whom I love very, very clearly, and my uncle even now waits for me yonder on the cliff. Would it be dutiful and right in me, think you, to leave all these without one word of farewell, to follow this Stranger?”
“Son,” said the old man, looking earnestly upon Azriel, “He whom thou callest a Stranger is surely our Lord and Master. So that thou mayest safely follow, knowing this, that there is nothing hid from Him, nor would He have thee forego thy farewells without due reason. For those who would be of the kingdom of God must wholly love their King; nor cares He for their allegiance, who have other loves beside. But yesterday, the Lord called another to follow Him, whose father even then was carried forth for burial. And he, willing as thou art to obey the call, but loving still the thought of that other love, made answer, ‘Lord, let me first bury my father.’ But the Master said to him, Let the dead bury the dead, but go thou and preach the kingdom of God.’ what then, my son? – he Left those drowsy mourners and their bier, and went after Him who called, as thou also must, if thou wouldst inherit eternal life.”
Then Azriel mused a moment, and looked u p, and took the old man’s hand reverently, and went with him across the hill after the Prophet, all in silence, for he could trust himself to speak no word.
So the lights burned on in the alley, and the darkness fell softly about the land, and Caius waited in the darkness by the cliff side; but Azriel had left all to follow Jesus of Nazareth.
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VII. DARKNESS
SOME time had gone by since that last scene upon the Samaritan hill; time that had taught Azriel greatly; time that had shewn. him the glorious love of the all-Father; time that had put a new and beautiful light into his heart and his eyes – the light of knowledge, and the symbol of sonship in the kingdom of God.
But oh! it was a short, short time for all the strange and sorrowful things that had held their part in it! For since that night a horrible darkness and dread had fallen upon the children of the kingdom, and they were scattered and dismayed, and their league of universal peace seemed suddenly to have found an end, for the Prophet-King Himself, the Teacher of Galilee, had died, and the death He had died had been very significant and terrible.
Not the death of a philosopher, though the world had seen philosophers die, and make noble deeds of their deaths that should be written in letters of gold upon the purple pages of story.
But Jesus of Nazareth, hanging upon His cross, was not at all like Socrates drinking his hemlock poison. For the teaching of Socrates had been more than his death, and his death had only illustrated his teaching; but with the Christ of Galilee, it seemed that His death was more than His teaching, for His teaching was consummated in His death.
Therefore the Grecian philosopher died an example of patience, but this One died a sacrifice of love.
And Azriel stood on the hill of Calvary, and beheld the terrible scene that seers and psalmists had sung about all through the long dim ages of the old world, and that since poets and preachers have made their grandest theme in these days of the new.
He saw the Cross of the Christ stand up against the black sky and defy it, and above the quaking earth and resist it, because it was greater than heaven or earth.
Then three sorrowful days went by, and the dead, silent body was laid in the darkness among the spices of the grave, like any other in the brotherhood of death; and the disciples went sad at heart away, and the women wept, – and where was the kingdom of God and eternal life?
And now it was the first day of the week after all these strange, terrible things had happened, and Azriel sat alone in an upper room, meanly furnished and poor enough, in a lodging-house at Jerusalem. Sat alone, with his arms laid upon the little bare table, and his head bowed down upon
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them, motionless and heavy, as though it had been stricken there.
And upon a wooden bench by the window were his cloak and hat, lying as he had tossed them off when he came in the evening before from gleaning the same sorrowful tidings that all the world was telling and hearing then.
And all the weary night through Azriel had prayed and struggled, and thought, and paced the long bare chamber up and down, and watched the dreary evening f all into the night, and the night grow into the dreary morning. Then he saw the red sunrise break up the eastern sky, and glow and glare upon the balconied root’s of the houses and upon the pinnacles of the Temple, until the whole city seemed a city of flame.
And now the sun was half-way up in the blinding blue, but Azriel was wearied with thought, and watching, and prayer, and he sat dreamily down before the table and dropt his head upon his arms, and almost slept. Almost slept, for his mind was busy still. And in the visions that came to him in that troublous sleep, the boy read over again the story of his Master’s Passion; saw the swaying crowd, and the flashes of fasces and firebrands; saw the cross on Calvary and Him who hung upon it, and the earth that trembled beneath the mysterious burden, and the darkened sun that fled from the sight of it. And again he heard the yelling, and the cursing, and the wailing, and the Babel of tongues around the dying King, and felt again the sickness of horror, and the death-longing, and all the utter loneliness of soul.
And anon lie fancied himself back upon the Samaritan hill, and Mona with him, searching everywhere for his Master and never finding Him, until suddenly there came a voice as from a great height, calling, “Azriel! Azriel!”
And the sound of the voice was so clear that it awoke the boy from his sorrowful sleep, and he looked up and saw standing opposite to him in the full blaze of the sunlight – whom but Caius!
But oh! he was changed, this cunning Caius! The self that had eaten him up and disfigured his face was not there, the snake that had looked out of his grey eyes was not there, the wily smile that came and went continually was not there. For, in the stead of all these, there was that something else that had come upon Azriel, softening and making melody in his heart and in his face, even the knowledge of the kingdom of God.
So Azriel rose up surprised when he saw his uncle, and gave him welcome as gladly as he could, wondering the while what tidings he brought, and whether Ephraim had sent to find him out and bring him back to his home.
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“But maybe,” he thought, “my father holds me no more a son, for that I left him taking no farewell.” So he waited in silence with his eyes cast down. And Caius stood before him and said, – “Azriel, I have something to tell you.”
So strange were the words, and so strange the voice that spoke them, and so strange the man himself, that Azriel thought, “My father is surely dead.” But he said only, “Tell me, uncle.”
And Caius, never moving from his place, but watching Azriel always with sorrowful, eyes, told him from beginning to end all that had passed, at Lebonah before Azriel went away, and of Mona, and of his own evil designs towards her, and of his lying-in-wait upon the cliff side. And how he went home that night disappointed, to his own house, and found there a message calling him to Jerusalem. And how he had gone thither the next day in haste, bidding none farewell nor seeing Mona again, but leaving only a letter for Hyperia. And how he had stood by at the Passion of Jesus, and had seen the black sky and the quaking earth, and the veil of the Temple that was rent, and had heard one beside him cry out that this was indeed the Son of God; and seeing, had himself believed.
So Caius told him all, from beginning to end. And when it was told, Azriel hid his face in his robe and sat down again silent, for he thought only of Mona and of the words of the white-haired disciple upon the Samaritan hill.
And what of Caius?
He came round where Azriel sat, amazed at him, and knelt before him there, mild and gentle like a woman, and caught the boy’s hand in his, and said, “Azriel, Azriel, I am come to be forgiven.”
But Azriel’s face was buried in his robe, and he said no word, nor moved to lift him up.
So Caius went on, – “I saw you first, on that last day of the Crucifixion, Azriel, among the crowd on the hill-side, for I knew not that you were in Jerusalem before, though your father sent to ask me tidings of you. So I heard how you were here, and came to see if I could find you, to tell you all these things; and the people of the house brought me to your room, and coming in I found you asleep, but I woke you, Azriel, for I am come to be forgiven.”
But Azriel’s face was hidden away from him in his robe, and he said no word, nor moved to lift him up.
So Caius went on still, – “I am come to be forgiven, Azriel, for that I also have left all to follow the Lord Jesus.”
Then Azriel looked at him and answered, – “He is dead.”
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VIII. LlGHT
IT was full day when Caius and Azriel went out together beyond the city, towards the sepulchre wherein the Lord lay.
Scarce a word they said to each other as they went, for Caius was perplexed and humbled, and Azriel sick at heart for weariness and sorrowing and amaze.
But before they came to the garden-doors they saw many women who had been disciples of Jesus standing there and talking among themselves.
Some of them carried vases of spice and ointments for the anointing of the dead, and some, bundles of sweet herbs and flowers, and some had nothing; but all looked earnest, and glad, and astonished.
So Caius and Azriel drew nearer, and at the sound of their footsteps one of the younger women, who stood outside the group with a garland of white roses in her hand, turned her head about to see who they were that came. And the sweet face that turned upon them, and the eyes that looked into theirs, were the face and the eyes of Mona.
Then Azriel cried out for wonder and joy, and ran to meet her, and she ran to meet her, and they fell upon each other’s necks and kissed, and could not speak for gladness. As for: ‘Caius, he hung back, for he saw the garland of white roses, and he was ashamed and sad at the sight of it and of that sweet presence.
But Azriel, after he had kissed Mona, turned towards him and took him by the hand, and said, – “Sister, here is my uncle Caius, who has told me all that passed between you both before I left my father’s house; and he is come to be forgiven, Mona, for that he also learned sometime to love the Lord Who is dead.”
Very sadly and falteringly these last words were spoken, and Azriel’s voice went over them again more sadly still, as though they were a terrible lie that he would fain have some one hear and unsay: “The Lord Who is dead.”
But Mona, without a blush upon her innocent face, gave a joyful hand to each, and answered, – “all is forgiveness, and peace, and love this day among the children of the kingdom, for this day, Azriel, the Lord is surely risen again from the dead!”
Then the women all thronged about them, weeping for gladness, and told them that wondrous story that we all know so well, – how Mary Magdalen, coming early to the empty tomb, had been the first to learn the glorious news; how she had carried it to other disciples of Jesus, and how after that they all came together to see the sight, and the
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great white angel that sat upon the sepulchre stone, with a countenance like lightning for brightness and beauty.
And when they had made an end of their story, and had shewn Caius and Azriel the place where the Christ had lain, and the stone that the angel had rolled away, and were all silent for greatness of amazement and joy and wonder, Mona drew Azriel aside from the rest, and said, – “I have a message to you, my brother.”
Then she put her hand into the bosom of her dress, and took out of it a sealed letter, and, giving it to him, “Azriel,” she said, “soon after you left your home, and your father and I were very sad-hearted and anxious to know what had become of you, the lady Hyperia began to persuade him that you where certainly dead by some evil mischance. And so did she assure and advise him, that your father, who you well know loves her greatly, yielded his mind to hers, and left Lebonah to go with her and their little son to Rome.”
“To Rome, Mona!” cried Azriel, with much wonder and not a little sadness; but Mona went on still, – “ ‘For said the lady Hyperia to your father, ‘it were better surely for your peace to leave this lonely place, where day by day and year by year you will be reminded of the son you have lost. Rather go hence to the glorious city of the seven hills – so she spoke, brother, – ‘and learn among stranger scenes and wiser philosophy to forget your new sorrow.’ And more than this, Azriel, for I think your stepmother wearied of the village, and the silence and the country life, and had a mind for her own land again. So they went, Azriel, but I would not go, for I could not leave the country of God and the people whom I love and among who in I was born, for a city of strangers and infidels; nor, I think, did the lady Hyperia care to have me; ‘and besides, ‘said I, ‘what am I now to them, since my mother is dead and Azriel lost?’ Neither, I think, does Caius, whom now I hold a brother in the kingdom of God, know of all these things, for he went away suddenly on the self-same night with you, and left only a letter, saying he was gone to Jerusalem. So your father sent a messenger to him there, asking tidings of you, for we thought you might be with him; but he had no news to give, nor knew anything of you. And because the lady Hyperia spoke much of her brother’s coming himself to Rome this next month by order of the Emperor, having business there, your father did not care to send again to him to tell him of their departure, since they should meet so soon in Rome, but bade me give him warning when I should be come hither. But I dared not go to him then, Azriel, – though I could not tell your father why, – not knowing Caius was become a disciple
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of the Lord. And so they went, but I stayed behind with a cousin of mine, who would have me to go and live with her, for she is a widow, and was alone. And on the day I parted from your father, he gave me this packet for you, that if ever I should meet with you I should put it in your hands. ‘For,’ said he, ‘my son may yet be alive, and if he be, God will send him back to me in peace.’ Then they sailed, Azriel, and I came with my cousin to live here at Jerusalem, where I have seen all the wonderful things that have come to pass concerning the Lord Jesus, Who is gloriously risen this day from the dead!’ ”
Then Azriel opened the packet that Mona had given him, and read all that Ephraim had written, and how lie was reluctant indeed and unwilling to leave Lebonah, but that Hyperia would have it so, and longed for her own city and her country people. And how he desired Azriel, if he yet loved his father, to follow him to Rome with Caius, who would be recalled thither in a little while; or if Caius were already gone before Mona could find her brother, that he should sail alone as soon as might be. And then came a farewell and a blessing, and “God of Israel keep thee, my dear son!” and that was all.
Then Azriel kissed the letter and put it in his bosom, and his eyes glistened as he looked again at Mona, and said, – “Come homo with me, sister mine, and stay till the evening, and we will call my uncle and talk over these things together.”
So Mona ran back to her cousin; ‘who stood talking among the holy women and told her that she had found her brother, and was going home to his house until the evening; and they called Caius again, and the three went on their way homeward.
And as they went, the boy told his uncle the news of Ephraim’s departure, and how he had said that Caius would presently be in Rome, and that he should bring Azriel thither with him. And his heart leaped in his throat for the thought of seeing his father again, and bringing him the tidings of the kingdom of God, and of Him Who was risen from the dead. But Mona was something sorry because she should part from Azriel.
Then Caius said, – “It is quite true, my dear boy, that I sail so soon for Rome; and we will surely go together if the King hath no need of us here: for remember, Azriel, how He said, ‘Leave all, and follow Me.’ ”
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IX. AND THE LAST
IN that same upper chamber, some fifty days after, Azriel and Mona sat talking very earnestly and gravely; and their talk was all of their King, and of His rising from the dead, and of His glorious ascension into heaven; and their faces kindled as they spoke together of all the things they had seen and believed.
And better than all else Azriel loved to tell over and over again, like something always new and sweet, and still Mona n ever wearied of hearing, one beautiful and wondrous story, – stranger than which, the world from age to age has never heard. For not many days since, there had been an assembly of the brethren, five hundred in all, and Azriel had been among them. And while they held converse together of their Lord’s Passion and Resurrection, and of all the marvels of the Cross, and some were silent, and some prayerful, and some doubting, there came in the midst a glorious Presence, gathering itself out of the air, and growing like a mist of golden flame, with radiant eyes and stern sweet face – even the presence of the Lord Jesus Himself.
And Azriel told how the Lord had spoken, and they had all heard His voice like the voice of God, breathing His peace upon the children of His kingdom; and how He bade them go forth into all lands and preach to all men of His Name and His wondrous works, and the gift of eternal life that was given to the world through Him.
“And now,” said Azriel, “He is gone to sit at the right hand of the all-father, waiting and watchful, until the last great day shall break up the world-wide skies, and all vainer schools and philosophies are swept away like shadows before the eastern sun.”
“And until then,” said Mona, “the children of the kingdom, like faithful subjects whose King is absent for a while, must keep His laws and love His Name, and watch for His coming day by day, for none do know when His coining may be.
“But then shall they all have fulness of joy in His presence, sitting at His feet and drinking in His love, and looking for evermore upon His face that shall be as the sun in his strength and beauty; for the kingdom of God is this, even to dwell in perfect peace.”
And her bosom heaved beneath its white robes, and her sweet eyes dilated while she spoke as though already she beheld the golden Jerusalem of the Hereafter, and the great white throne of the glorious King. So they sat together
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silent and still for a time, and Azriel turned his head towards the open casement, and looked upon the city lying stretched below him, far out and around, all in the blaze of the mellow noontide; and upward at the blue level heavens, where continually the light clouds came and went like the white-robed armies of the King.
And Mona sat at his feet with her hand clasped in his, and the gaze of her brown eyes at rest upon his face, and one prayer in the thoughts of both, – that prayer of the Church through every year of her waiting love: – “Even so, come, Lord Jesus!”
So they sat until there was a third presence in the long bare room, and Caius came and touched his nephew softly upon the arm, who turned and met in the grey eyes such a look of earnest pity, that it stopped the word of welcome on his lips.
But Mona saw it not, for she had risen quickly from her place on the floor to make room for Caius, that he might come and sit beside her brother. Then Azriel, seeing he had something to tell, sat silently with his eyes east down, expecting, until his uncle spoke.
“Azriel.”
Then a pause again, as though the message he had to give would not come. And he drew his nephew’s head down on his own neck, as though he had been a little child, and laid his hand upon the fair curly hair, and Mona saw that the hand trembled as it lay there.
“Azriel,” he said again presently; “I go to Joppa tomorrow to join my ship, and you, I think, had prepared to sail with me. Was it not so?”
“Yes, with you, uncle,” answered Azriel, lifting tip his head in some surprise. “Why not? it is my father’s bidding.”
Then Caius took him by both hands, and looking him full in the face, – “‘You will have to leave Mona, Azriel,” he said. “I know it, uncle; but Mona will stay with her cousin, and I shall go to tell my father of the kingdom of God and everlasting life, even as the Master bade us that we, who have followed Him, should go to all lands and preach the tidings of peace.”
But Mona, standing behind her brother, and watching Caius as these words were spoken, saw a strange look upon his face that made her heart beat fast and her eyes droop, for she knew that somehow there was ill news to be told.
And Caius answered, very slowly, “But now, Azriel, I think you had better stay with your sister, for you are still but a boy, and where would you go, and what would you do in that great city of foreigners? For I could not be with you,
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having mine own business to do, and you would be alone from day to day, all alone, Azriel.”
Then the brown eyes drooped lower, and Mona’s hand found Azriel’s and laid itself upon it, lovingly and firm, as though it said, “Now we will never part, my brother.”
And Caius went on slowly, and every word was like the stroke of a bell.
“For, Azriel, farewells are spoken, and friends part, and ships sink at sea sometimes, and dear ones are lost; but the Master is with us always, even unto the end of the world.”
Faster still and tighter the small hand held Azriel’s, and Caius pressed his own together and sighed, – half a sigh it was and half a groan, for the man had a sorrow too at heart, having hoped to win his sister Hyperia to the faith of Christ, when he should meet her in Rome.
“Then, uncle, the ship in which my father sailed, went down at sea?”
Azriel spoke very steadily, and his eyes were wide and dry.
“Went down at sea, my boy,” said Caius.
“And all were lost?”
Still the voice was steady, and still the eyes were wide and dry.
“And all were lost, Azriel, save those men only who came hither yesterday to bring the news.”
“Sister,” said Azriel, turning to the sweet face beside him, ‘‘henceforth we will live together.”
Then he bowed his head upon her bosom and wept bitterly and long.
And after that they parted. Caius. went to Rome, one of the first who carried thither the glorious story of the Cross; and Azriel and Mona abode still in Jerusalem, until the promise of the Lord came, and the Holy Ghost fell on them that believed.
So these three lived, and laboured, and died, as many since have done for the Masters sake, and are gone hence to the rest of the saints until the day break and the shadows flee away, and the Christ return to reign among the children of His kingdom.
(p. 328)
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