XXII
A PRELUDE WITHOUT THE PLAY
The day had been one of intensest excitement in the city of Jerusalem. From earliest morning the population had poured out of the gates, and gathered on the high ground to the north that they might welcome Seron and his host.
It was remembered that on this spot years ago, according to the stories the rabbis told, Alexander the Great had been received by the people of the city. He, too, had ascended from Sharon by the pass of Bethhoron. Now, in the steps of the mightiest of world-conquerors, as Cynthia proudly noted, was to come the great Seron.
The High Priest, Menelaos, had arranged a ceremony copied as nearly as might be from the legends of Alexander's visit. He himself was dressed in full pontifical robes of purple and gold, as were the ancient priests of Israel, except that the name of Jehovah no longer shone on the gold plate of his turban. The supreme pontiff was followed by scores of men, most of them Greeks, dressed for the occasion as common priests in white robes, which glistened as if the bright morning light were itself a part of the pageant. There were musicians with trumpets and cymbals to beat the very atmosphere into melodious salutation, and clacquers to shout and cheer the oration which Menelaos should pronounce as he invoked the blessings of all the gods upon the head of the advancing chieftain.
After this official procession came a double palanquin, bearing the wives of Menelaos and Seron; and upon their persons, if one might judge by the gorgeousness of the display, was much of the movable wealth of their spouses.
The Princess Helena, too, shone radiantly. Her complexion, the triumph of cosmetics, rivalled the white but ruddy skin of the children who ran beside her and gazed at her beauty. Her light hair was star lit with jewels, and wrought into a high coiffure not unlike a miniature sheaf of wheat with a binder of gold. She reclined upon the cushions in graceful lassitude, and nodded her head at each stride of the carriage-bearers with the dignity of one who felt that she had already made her conquest of the world, and would graciously encourage the coming warriors in making theirs.
Yet there was on the face of the Princess a shadow of disappointment as she gave her patronizing recognition to one and another of the élite passing by. She was reserving her graciousness for Glaucon, one of whose ancestral gems shone brilliantly upon her bosom. The announced illness of Berenice left her coquetry this day an open field; for, in spite of her flattery, she had conceived a distrust of the sister of her paramour. There was to her mind a strangely familiar look about Berenice's face, a flitting suggestion of something she had seen and ought to remember, but could not. Helena believed in the transmigration of souls, or sometimes thought she did. Was Berenice's spirit one that had crossed her path in some previous state of existence? She could not determine whether the shadowy reminiscences were real or fanciful; nor, if real, whether they were pleasant or otherwise. She said to herself, "This feeling is foolish," but Berenice's presence always awakened the feeling. So she fell back upon a bit of philosophy she had once heard from a noted rhetorician, "There is an instinctive hostility between some souls, and an instinctive love between other souls, with either of which the intelligent judgment has little to do."
But Glaucon did not join the gay throng. Did his sister's illness so concern him? The Princess felt a flash of jealousy mantle her face, and knowing from the frequent lesson learned at her mirror that it did not make her handsome, she toyed with Glaucon's gem until more pleasing thoughts came.
Toward midday the crowd of watchers on the hill noted a cloud of dust rising above the road from Bethhoron. It swirled like that raised by a whirlwind. It came rapidly nearer and larger. At length the cry broke from the crowd:
"The army comes! Seron! Seron!"
Forth moved the multitude. The company of priests led, the white linen garments of the old régime marred by garlands worn in imitation of the revellers at the Bacchanalian rites. Men bore an altar of the war god Ares, and a jar of wine, with a great goblet of gold from which the oblation should be poured. Behind these marched the city guards, in glistening helm and breastplates and greaves, the least among whom seemed to emulate the war god himself with his pompous tread. Then came the palanquins of the noble women, each a gorgeous display of silken colors, suitable to set off the glory of the occupants. Behind followed, as they could find way, the multitude, whose gay attire rivalled in its variegation the plumage of an aviary of birds caught among the reeds of the Red Sea shore.
The crowd halted when they clearly detected a group of Greek horsemen spurring hard along the road. Why were they riding so hard? As they came near they were seen to be without helmet or spear or heavy sword; dust-covered and bleeding; on jaded beasts whose flecks of sweaty foam interlaced the tatters of their once gorgeous harness. On they sped in blind flight, trampling their way through the crowd.
"Back! Back to the city!" shouted the officers. "The Maccabæans are close upon us!"
"Stop, my lord! Stop, my lord Seron!" cried Cynthia, as the General was hurrying by.
The sight of his wife revived the remnant of this great man's wits, which the panic had sadly dissipated. Making himself the special attendant of her palanquin, he set an example of celerity by heading the scurrying crowd. He commanded Dion with his handful of soldiers to guard the rear.
That officer quite leisurely performed his duty, lingering alone far behind the multitude, and anon riding back as if seeking again to join the battle. This was not because he was enamored of the fight; but as he was climbing Bethhoron Dion had caught sight of a woman in peasant garb bending over a wounded Jew. He had nearly ridden them down. The woman, seeing the danger, rose and with uplifted hand warned him away. A woman's hand only, but the steed would have refused to leap against it had the rider plunged the spurs to their depth. There are some gestures and attitudes that belong to the soul, and express its dominance over all things of flesh and blood. Dion could not catch the woman's face, but that very pose with the uplifted hand had awed him before this. He had seen it at the gateway of the house of Elkiah, and again amid the ruins of the house of Ben Isaac.
But he had no time to connect his thoughts, for at the moment a sling stone struck his helmet, and drove it down upon his neck. When he had adjusted his headpiece his horse had carried him far beyond the spot.
Then he said: "It was only imagination; when one's head rings as mine did with that stone, the thoughts inside are apt to rattle too."
Dion remembered that he had often had visions of that same woman in some form. In all the march down the plain of Sharon he had thought of her as somewhere among those hills. When in the battle he felt the sharp sting of an arrow which grazed his thigh, he found himself asking the question, "Would she care if I fell?" Now, as he looked back toward Bethhoron, he said: "This was only a spectre of my imagination." Yet he would risk his life to see that spectre again. But Dion obeyed his General's orders, and plodded slowly after him. His head dropped upon his breast, and he scarcely noticed a boy with a crutch who struck at his horse's flank and hobbled away.