“I’m with the knight, to proclaim thy Rose!”
“A good profession! It will be well if we remember that woman is as essential to religion as religion to women. As for man he needs the one as the interpreter of the other. Therefore, it was that God sent to earth a flower that could talk.”
CHAPTER X.
AFTER EVE, ESTHER OR MARY?
The Israelites, along Jabbock, were all aglow with preparation for celebrating one of their feasts. Sir Charleroy and his comrade journeying along, in the early morning, were apprised of the advent of the festivities by the passing near them of a company of maidens, marching and chanting. The pilgrims drew apart and sequestered themselves behind a clump of nubt trees that they might observe, themselves unobserved, the graceful procession of singers.
“Well, my poet, didst thou conjure up these fairies, or have we come on the musk-born houri?” Sir Charleroy spoke in an absent-minded manner, perhaps, with an affectation of a lack of very much interest. In fact, long privation of the presence of women had somehow rusted from his bearing, in their vicinage, most of the confident courtier. In a word, he was now bashful in their presence. He spoke with a small witticism to subdue, his own embarrassment. His words were unheard, for the Jew was all engaged in contemplating the passing women.
In truth, the latter made a striking picture; garbed as they were, in holiday attire; all young, oriental in beauty, and fresh in face, form and action. They were rural maidens and that says all. It had been a long time since either Ichabod or Sir Charleroy had met such types of womanhood; all free from affectation; all natural and graceful in motion; a band of women, as sisters, bent to one purpose and that a lofty one, the proper observance of a joyous, pious, religious ceremonial.
Presently Ichabod drew a long breath and rapturously exclaimed: “Praise be to the Patriarchs, my people!”
“I’d rather say, Ichabod, praise the Patriarch’s daughters, if these be human!”
“Ha, ha! flesh, indeed! Our Hebrew maidens celebrating the Feast of Esther!”
“Are they praying God for Adams, so that each Esther and Vashti may have one all to herself? If so, we are part answers to their prayers.”
“Hush such jest! These be holy maidens, now honoring our Esther. Thou knowest about her?”
“Certainly; she was my heroine before Our Lady dethroned in my heart all others. I was wont to wish I’d been about in Haman’s time. I’d have aroused that old dotard, Ahasuerus, right quickly. By the sackcloth of Mordecai, if I’d been the king, the hanging would have put the Haman family into mourning long before it did.”
“Oh, how like angels! It’s years since I saw a woman other than as deflowered by harem life. Heavens, what a spoiler man is at his worst!”
“Dost forget Nourahmal? But no matter; I admire, and wonder that some roving band of Arabs, with less piety, or more force than we, does not swoop down upon these innocents for seraglio prizes. Perhaps these have the liveried angels about, that are said ever to guard saintly purity.”
“Doubtless; and besides them, with all the practical providence which belongs to the Jew, thou mayst be sure that the groves, not far away, are full of fathers, brothers, lovers.”
“I wish I were a brother to some of them.”
“Then thou’dst be a Jew.”
“I’d forget that in being a lover to the others.”
“Thou wouldst not change thy faith for a woman?”
“Now, I’d swear I would not. If like most men, and in love, I’d swear I would; and then, having gotten my new priestess, in a little while, backslide and drag her with me, or make her heart weep. My comfort in the last estate being my consistency, if not my constancy. What a mad rout it is when religion and love, born twins, cross purposes?”
“That’s a very true, yet bitter speech. I’ll tell the Hebrew maidens to beware.”
“Better tell me to beware, now. It’s the beginning that makes the trouble. No beginning, then no after folly.”
The procession glided past and the pilgrims followed at a distance.
“We are within an arm of dear old Jabbock,” remarked Ichabod, as they came to a river-bank, later.
“Ah, ha! my chartless pilot, does the current whisper its name to thee, in Hebrew? I’d not wonder if it did, since every thing is clannish in this country.—I hope there is no more swimming for us to do.”
“Its tumbling waters are full of voices to me, blending with echoes of things of the past; but one who spoke a thousand times more tenderly than ever spoke murmuring waters, told me its name, knight.”
“Nourahmal? No! rather some one of those pious beauties we passed not long ago. Oh, roguish Ichabod, I remember thou wert away a long time in the morning after our breakfast of peas and grapes. But, dear Ichabod,” continued Sir Charleroy, feigning rebuke, “didst thou so soon forget thy little convert of Jericho? I wonder if thou lifted up thy voice and wept when thou kissed the maid that told thee the river’s name? Come, confess, and I’ll call thee Isaac.”
“Raillery of prime quality, knight; but raillery and ridicule, though keenly pointed, are generally bad arrows for long range.”
“Well, no matter. I’m glad thou knowest the place, if thou dost know it. Who told thee the name of this water?”
“One with a voice to me sweeter, kinder than that of any betrothed lover’s ever can be.”
“Very, very eloquent thou art. Indeed, if we were in Italy, I’d guess ’twas a syren had communed with thee; in France, a Crusader troubadour; in Rhineland, the water sprite, Lurline; but, being in this wondrous country of revelations, apparitions, prophets, angels and the like, I can only as a catechumen, ask thy dulcet informer’s name?”
“How oddly thou dost talk when thou talkest as a double man; half sneering infidel; half Christian preacher.”
“A truce, Ichabod. That may be a home-thrust well aimed, but it’s enough that one of us be bitter. It’s sometimes natural to me, but not to thee.”
“A bee-sting will redden the high priest’s brow.”
“Well, I’ll not sting thee. Who gave the name of the river?”
“Master, one to me alone of all the world an angel, my mother. I was born near here, and the memories of a youth made happy by one all patient, all loving, rises above and survives all changes.”
“My noble friend, forgive my repartee. I’m glad, truly, that we are so lucky as to have this knowledge.”
“Lucky? Then all is not fate; there is some chance, if no Providence?”
“Pardon more; the bee-sting is still on thy brow. Ichabod, I can not help my feelings, which sometimes make me think that only God can tread the hidden, narrow line between stern fate and happy accident. They say the Sybil wrote her prophetic decrees upon leaves and flung them recklessly to the inconstant winds. Just so we’re in decreed courses, swirled by chance gusts.”
“Yet we two are getting on well together.”
“So do chance and fate; the pity is to the waif that falls between them.”
“I wonder how here, in Holy Land, thou canst think of any control but Providence.”
“Wonder? So do I. I’m a bundle of wonderings.”
“Listen to Jabbock.”
“I do, more attentively than Jabbock to me. What of it?”
“Grander rivers are forgotten; why is it so remembered?”
“We’re forgotten, meaner men remembered.”
“This river sings through the centuries of history the song of a fugitive of pale heart, who in sheer desperation, long, long ago, seized a fleeting hope and became a prince, having power to prevail with God.”
“Ah, Jacob, who worked fourteen years to win a woman. It was, I’m sure, the woman that nerved him to attempt greatness. Such a woman! Had she been like our moderns she would have jilted him, or eloped with him, before the end of one of the fourteen years.”
“I’ll not tilt with thy sarcasms. It were much better to remember that he, a pigmy, the night in his soul, as that about him, black as Erebus, grappled with the mighty, unknown, unseen apparition to find he was holding Deity. The mysteries of crossing fates and chances are as open nut-bur compared to that of all weakness prevailing with Omnipotence, my good master, I think.”
“But ever after that joust, Jacob was a cripple!”
“Oh, but remember, as he halted on his thigh the sun rose over Penuel, ‘the place of seeing God,’ by interpretation. He was stronger for his laming!”
“A very ‘Timor-lame,’ this prince of great chances and mean ways.”
“Time and trial repaired Jacob’s spotted soul.”
“There was much room for the mending, I do vow.”
“His weightings bespeak some charity. Think; a weak mother, one designing wife, and plenty of wealth!”
“Well, ’tis true, these were enough to have undone St. Anthony, if the devil had only thought to have tried them all at once upon him!”
“Sir Charleroy swings back to his old bitterness toward women; did he never love one?”
“No, not as a lover. I was never tried except by designing coquetries that nauseated finally.”
“Perhaps, like most solitary men, thou so revered thyself by habit that there was no room for other person in thy heart.”
“I never met one I deemed perfect and available.”
“Better to have loved some one far from perfect than none. If thy heart-fount had been once touched it would have set thy imaginations to weaving halos about the one touching. Thou wouldst have enthroned her by a love that would have transformed both. She would have become in time what she was in love’s young dream; while thou wouldst have grown by the experience to be twice the man thou hadst been—or art.”
“The sun in thy head is settling down into thy heart, Jew.”
“Is that so, Charleroy?”
“Yes, but not to harm; heart sunsets ripen heart fruits; that’s the reason the autumn suns run low; the low suns ripen. But after all, I’m not so very miserable in heart. I’ve loved some women; mother and my Mary——”
“Filial love, religious love! somewhat akin and blessing him that feels their mellow, exalting influences; but, oh, Sir Charleroy, they do not fill completely the heart’s temple. There are places there for the expression of ruddy, glorious lover’s love. The three make up an all-comprehending trinity, and fill the man as Deity the universe. I see religious love in adoration of God’s Fatherhood, mother love in the tender leading of the Spirit, lover’s love in the priceless self-surrender of our Saviour. That made the angels sing, and in the being of each of our race there is room, aye need, of the melody which only the experiencing of this passion in full can produce. In love-mating is a wondrous thrill which can be but faintly voiced even by those who have experienced it.
“There are other passions which ebb with time, or, being well fed, wax gross; not so with this one. Inspired by the potencies of life, which lie at the very core of being, it wells up in rills, rivers and torrents of pleasurable sensations. Out from the heart it goes to the remotest members, only to double on its courses and dash again through the beating heart, heating its flame by its doubling and hasting, making the beatings wilder by its hastings, and then hasting more because of the wilder beatings. Of all emotions love is the most tireless. It increases by giving, grows stronger by action and proclaims the secret of its heavenly birth, its immortality, by the way in which it deepens and ripens with every movement of its life. Aye, more, it proclaims itself the power of the resurrection by the way it transforms the lives it possesses. A man may be a lout, ever so crude in fiber, but this musical flame passing through his being, burns up his dross, making him all brave, courteous, tender, poetic, religious! Yea, religious! If it do not utterly redeem a sinner possessed by it, it will take him nearer to salvation than any other power known on earth, except the Spirit of Grace. It is as the opening of the eyes of the blind man, for it opens the doors of a new sense to the realizing of a world as new as delightful. As the thrummings on the harp-strings someway leave a lasting sonorousness and tenderness in the supporting woods about the lyre, so leaves this passion, through the beatings of every wave of it, wealth. Its devotee by it is inducted into exhaustless new realms and possessions, unalterably secured to him, and at the same time beyond all computation. He ever gathers treasures, as a prince from incoming fleets, and is made affluent beyond all counting. He surpasses all in wealth-getting, and yet is infinitely apart from the littleness of avarice. It is to him the advent of charity’s full-orbed day. It may be fancy in him, but it’s to him very real; the world about, as if having learned his secret, seems to be dressing for the wedding feast, while all things appear to be coming very confidentially to him to whisper the divine mandate, ‘marry and multiply.’ He is trusted, yet trusts; leads, yet follows. He is proud to display, a little, his conquest, but does so with a sort of alert charming selfishness, which gives notice to the world that he alone is to wear the chosen one upon his heart. He realizes the paradox of giving all and receiving all; the mystery of two lives merged into one by an utter surrender, each to each, which leaves both infinitely richer than the sum of all their ownings could make either if possessed by the one apart from the other. Oh, how almost imperiously each demands that the other shall surrender all and then how great the joy each feels in leading the chosen mate to surprises at the munificence and completeness of the giving up of all by the one who just now demanded all. I do not know the woman’s heart, but can readily believe it far surpasses the man’s in its consecration, enjoyment and aspiring. I know the man’s, but my words are ragged in description. I know that this grand passion makes him wondrously weak and wondrously strong. Sometimes these inner feelings come nigh overwhelming him; sometimes they fall upon his life like the musical ebb-waves on resonant shores. I can not word it all, nor is it strange, since I am speaking of a life of heavenly flights, and best expressed by voiceless signs, embraces. In love’s hour the man realizes, as never before, his lordliness and his pride and ambition are fed by a growing conviction that all the world is small beside himself and his; proud as a conqueror of untold wealth, he yields to the tender ties that unrelentingly bind him and crucifies his native roughness that he may be more like, more worthy her he rules and obeys. He is made finer; she stronger. Has she virtues, he appropriates them; at the same time, by the homage implied by his appropriation, makes them to shine more brightly on the brow and heart of his queen. He touches the fires on the altar she has erected within herself to love alone, and the altar-fires blaze until her whole being is illuminated as a temple on fête days. She puts on his best parts, and then he revels in delight as he beholds his virtues refined and so beautifully framed. There are times when, like a mighty anthem, his passion passes over and through him. Then is he nigh to madness, being in the mood to slay himself, or another doing aught to check the rapture of the mighty swellings of the music that pours over every nerve from head to heart, to limb. Then it is he embraces and kisses and embraces again; as an inspired artist of music, exhausting himself to prolong this joy, almost materialized. Indeed, I saw one who said ‘this is tangible music. I feel it; taste it; see it!’ It seems to thicken the air until I rise unwinged, and yet in a flight that seems to me as free and brilliant as that of the golden oriole’s. If the enchanted enchanter be pure and true, she leads her captive king, made tender and yet more manly by his captivity, surely upward from tumultuous passion’s sway to the ambrosial table-lands of higher affection where both may reign tenderly, bravely, hopefully, forever. I tell thee, knight, the finest spectacle on earth is a man in his prime, creation’s lord at his best, sincerely, completely in love with a queenly woman. Next after getting God into a man’s heart, the greatest blessing is the getting of a woman of genuine parts therein.”
“Oh, child of the sunny palm land, thou hast imbibed wondrous eloquence. But thou sayest truly. Now, for the women that are so to queen us men. No woman that I ever knew of could so intoxicate, transform and translate me.”
“One like Eve, the gift of God?”
“The first woman, like the first man, was pure without virtue, until tried; then she fell. I think of her chiefly as being a splendid animal, yet, as Adam was not left for man’s example, neither was she. I still think Eve passed by in history to be only what she was full proof that love which rises no higher than to give all to and for that which was like the fruit of the tempting tree, good for food and pleasant to the eyes, is not like the love that at last hung on the tree of Calvary. Oh, child of Abraham, I hear the ‘voice of God walking in the garden in the cool of the day,’ saying to a world of flitting, false ideals, and those yearning for pilots and patterns, ‘Where art thou?’ I don’t know, for one, exactly where I am, but I’m going forward and upward someway.”
“Sir Charleroy thou dost dazzle me by thy correspondences and insights, if I do thee by my pictures. We are quits.”
“But we’ll not quit. This pilgrim idleness has value. I never knew what I believed until, thus flung out of life’s hurly burly, I had little company but my thoughts. There was method of reason in God’s taking His prophets to lone places, to fit them for understanding the rapturing visions with which He filled them.”
“’Tis so, true; but what thinks the knight of Esther, the beautiful Queen? She’s the idol and ideal in Israel in all times and places.”
“Wondrous woman! A girl, petted, ill-trained, from poverty suddenly exalted, surrounded by the skilled intriguants of court, a jealous, exacting, conceited, harem-demoralized old king for a spouse, she was then burdened with the salvation of a nation. I’ve so pitied her that I’ve forgotten to admire how well she did in her trying lot.”
“Can the world ever have a finer figure or presentment of all that is womanly? I do not challenge thy Mary, but may I not put the two side by side?”
“Israel has two great women in their way. The one, Esther, exemplifying all sweetness and the mild strength of a suddenly developed woman, doing grandly in one emergency when great peril and great love aroused her from only being an entrancing, petted beauty, to be the heroine of an hour. But she was not tried by the searching test of a lifetime. She never meets the needs of mothers seeking an ideal. Rizpah, your other grand woman, was the mother, even the mother of sorrows, of the Old Testament. It takes these two to make an ideal, and yet the pattern is incomplete. God walks yet in the garden where men live, with only these two before them, and ever and anon they hear the unanswerable, ‘Where art thou?’”
“Why, my mentor, master, thou hast touched our Scriptures with the rod that budded; the whole opens to me as if for the first time. Methinks, if I were permitted to lay hands now upon one of our sacred volumes, I’d be fairly overcome by the light that would break out on me from within it.”
“‘The entrance of the word giveth light,’ Ichabod.”
“I’m moved, master, along lines I can not turn from, to the one woman of all, Mary. She is thy ideal queen of hearts?”
“I’m a pilgrim and follow her, seeing none better.”
“Then thou wouldst be willing to wed such as Mary?”
“Hold! This is sacrilegious! I’ll not think of Mary in any such comparison. Leave my patron saint upon her high pedestal. I save her for my soul’s health, as every man should save some noble woman, for an inner enshrining, to be all that woman may be at her best, his beloved, his inspirer, and yet touching no spring of his life save such as responds to things of moral grandeur.”
“Ah, master, I’ve not yet been enamored fully of this woman. I feel a stranger to her, but I feel the meaning of the finer things thou hast just spoken. I have the need of which thou dost speak, and my life, like a babe, often now goes out crying, ‘Mother, mother.’ As we lay, yesterday night, beneath the quiet firmament, I gazed up and asked a sign of God in prayer. It was a baby cry I know, but I saw one star that staid and staid above me. It seemed to be warmed with reddish tintings, and I thought that its glitterings were proof that it was taking part in some anthem of the morning stars. Then I dreamed that my mother was in the star all luminous, holy, happy, looking down in constant guardianship of her outcast boy! Oh, can a child ever be outcast utterly to mother? Can it be that she, who so loved me and so loved God, can hate me now, loving her and loving God as I do? God knows my heart! Will he not tell her all? Her constant mandate to me was, ‘keep a loyal heart, an undefiled conscience.’ I’ve tried to do both, but then her soul loathed apostacy. Does she loathe me for leaving Israel’s fold? My heart all torn, cries to-day, ‘Mother, mother!’ I’m sure she can not hate me. To-morrow I hope I shall pray at her grave.”
Then the vehement Israelite fell on the ground in an ecstasy, utterly unconscious of his companion, and, kissing the earth as if already he was by that parent’s resting place, wildly called, “Mother! my mamma! oh, I’m so lonely, so unhappy! Let me come! God, God, let me go to mother! Mother, I did it as thou saidst. I’m no leper. I’m not a heretic! I love thee. I love God. I’ve kept pure. I’ve trusted God’s care in all my trouble. Mamma, my mamma, let Ichabod embrace thee!” Exhausted and quivering he there lay. The knight was silent. It was holy ground, and the whole thicket about seemed to be glowing with the fire that burns without consuming.
The travelers were encamped again under the sky, and it was now night. A shooting star sped through the constellation of Orion and fell down toward the Dead Sea.
“An omen, Jew.”
“Explain, brother knight.”
“Life; bright, short, ending in gloom.”
“Look at the fixed stars.”
“They preach fate.”
“Perhaps, but they have the majority. Few fall; I think, too, Someone holds them.”
“Thy hopefulness colors thy faith.”
“Thy murmurings run toward final madness, knight; the Rabbis, good men, so taught me.”
“If one star falls may not all? If Providence hold them, why does one escape?”
“Thou hast heard that the giant Orion having lost his eyes, afterward regained his sight by turning his sockets toward the rising sun; that meteor we saw shot through the constellation Orion. Look up.”
“A happy simile and pungent thrust, Jew.”
“He that sent the lightnings to show us our way out of dread Jericho, most likely now commissioned some angel to swing a meteor across the sky as a torch or beacon for our guidance. The trail of flame teaches me that God is writing His royal signature on some great message.”
“This world is too vast and too thronged with insignificants, such as we, for such especial carings on God’s part. There are too many kings, too many shepherds, too many follies for Him to constantly watch any one or two.”
“Backward, forward; now good, now bad. What a charging, changing knight! Pray God to get thee right and then fix thee.”
Their converse was interrupted by a prolonged trumpet blast, echoing from hill to hill. Sir Charleroy sprang to his feet and clasping his sword hilt, cried eagerly, “We’re ambuscaded!”
“No, by the glory of God, ’twas the temple call! How grand it sounds away in this wilderness!”
“No, no, Jew, I’ve heard that call; this one had six responses.”
“’Twas echo’s magic! Didst thou not notice how the sound spread as it traveled in a sort of sheet of melody? Then it rose and fell from low hill to high. One blast; seven responses. Nature proclaiming against fate and chance; the covenant number.”
“I’m not so confident that it’s a miracle; what if it were some Mamelukes or Druses, planning one of their pious immolations of heretics with us for the victims?”
“Nay, brother, It’s ‘Purim’; that feast is now due, and always begins at early starlight. I know it. Come, I’ll put it to the proof.”
“Hold; poets are more rash than knights in a charge, but not so skillful in retreat! Whither wouldst thou?”
“I’ll spy out the trumpeters and report.”
“Not alone. I’ll go, too. This camp will care for itself if they beyond be friends; if enemies, why then, without consulting us, they will care for all we have. But this,” said the knight, toying with his sword, “was blessed by a priest to preach to infidels.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE FEAST OF PURIM.
Stealthily Ichabod, followed by Sir Charleroy, approached the place from which the trumpet call had sounded. The foliage was dense, the necessary way somewhat winding, and these circumstances, together with the fact that it was expedient to move with great caution, made the progress of the explorers very slow. The last ray of day had faded, sung away by the evening bird and insect chorusers, whose concert strains, like the vanishing notes of æolian harps swept by dying breezes, were now blending, without a line to mark the place of transition, into the lull of the night. Nature’s lullaby to tired, drowsy life. It was a witching hour in the woods, and the scene that lay just beyond the pilgrims in an opening by Jabbock was an enchantment. The river, reflecting the moon rays and the lights of torches borne by many intermingling feasters, flowed silently along like a stream of mingled silver and fire, while tree and shrub along its sides, as green as green could be, bore as fruits lights of many colors. In the opening, surrounded by beacons, banners and the lamp-bearing trees, the beauty as well as the center of all was a magnificent patriarchal tent, made of costly materials. About the pavilion were mounds of earth, elevated upon high tripods, seven in all, in symbols of the seven temple candle-sticks. On each mound there blazed a fire fed by resinous faggots, and the lights of the fires falling upon the folds of the tent, caught up here and there by bands of blue and gold, made the whole glisten like jeweled silk.
“Hallelujah,” with suppressed joy, exclaimed Ichabod, “the tabernacle of God with men!”
“Hush, rash man, and watch!” rebukingly replied Sir Charleroy.
“Watch? Why, my soul is in my eyes. I’m as one famished for years smelling a feast!”
As they looked on the beautiful scene, they perceived that the front of the pavilion was lifted up and stretched forward as a canopy over an altar, richly decorated with twined olive branches and blood-red blossoms. A little way off, and yet partly encircling the altar, were little walnut trees, each tree having on its branches glistening lamps, half hidden by wreaths of hollyhocks and asters.
The moon sank behind the hills; the night darkened, but the fires and lamps burned still more brightly.
“It’s like fairy-land, Jew,” after little, spake Sir Charleroy.
“More beautiful, knight. Wait and see.”
There was a burst of music, instantly followed by the entrance of youths and old men; some singing, others vigorously playing ugabs, reed-flutes, and tambourines. Somewhere near, though unseen by the watchers, were happy women; they recognized their voices in refrains, choruses, and merry peals of laughter.
“Well, this is not warlike, but what is it, Jew?” queried Sir Charleroy.
“Wait a little.”
There came a commanding trumpet blast. Its tones died away in the melody-waves of a score of viols, managed by unperceived musicians. Then silence; presently the huge blue curtain that hung across the tent, just back of the outstretching front canopy, parted, and there emerged an aged man of stately form, wearing an Aaronic mitre and priestly robes; rich as well as ample. He paused before the altar a moment, as if in prayer, and then suddenly the air far and wide quivered with a sound like a cyclone hail. There were also cornet blasts mingling therewith.
“Heavens, Jew, explain!”
“Selah! These the drums and waking clappers; the signal to be given. Now for ‘Purim’ in earnest.”
The groves about seemed to be alive and moving, for from every direction toward the center gathered men and boys, bearing palm branches and torches; these, as they advanced, moved with speeded pace, presently they were in a perfect maze, the music of every kind growing louder and louder, then seeming to die away.
“They’re carrying the edicts of Ahasuerus to the Jews to defend themselves, master.”
“A fine play, Jew!”
Now the blue curtain parted again, and from the pavilion emerged another stately form, in all except that he lacked priestly robing, the very counterpart of the aged man first at the altar.
“Glory to Shaddah! again I see the holy brothers, Harrimai,” cried Ichabod.
The second patriarch motioned silence; all in the assembly bent their heads in breathless attention and the patriarch spoke: “Brethren of Israel, hearken and give God all the glory who this hour permits us, His chosen people, to celebrate in peace, with joy, our glad Purim feast. This day, Jehovah granted me the most wholesome comfort of hearing from a pashaw of our scourge that the last of the armies of the Moslem, beaten by want and internal discord, were melting out of our land like fog banks before the rising sun. He certified to me for a handful of barley (for which he had come to stand in need) that those hated cross-bearing invaders, the knights, were gone, never to return. So God has worked in our behalf as in the days of Esther, setting our enemies to destroying one another and then compassing the slinging out of His holy places, the abominable remnants. So may His thunders, as of old, forever beat on the heads of all who lift themselves against our Israel!”
There was a murmur of applause; first like the buzz of the noonday insects of the groves, then like a careering hurricane. The applause swelled up, drowning all sounds, causing the fires to flicker and flame, making the pavilion’s sides sway and wave as if all were feeling the joy present. The musical instruments quickly now caught up the strain of the cheery voices, and all was in a perfect whirl of excitement with one thought, ‘praise.’ It was free and fluent, because it came from hearts practiced in the ultimate swings from joy to sorrow and then from sorrow to joy. For half an hour nearly, the rhapsody continued, nor did it temperate until sheer exhaustion fell on the revelers.
Presently, after an interval of comparative quiet, there came a flourish of cornets and a roar of the rattling clappers. It was a signal followed by the uplifting of the old priest’s hands as if in benediction. All heads were bowed; some of the congregation knelt, and then he spoke in sonorous, yet soothing voice, words of benediction: “Blessed art thou, Oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hath wrought all miracles for our fathers and also for us, at this time.”
Then the people stood up, and the second patriarch, advancing to the front of the altar, began reading from the holy Kethubim of the Jews, the story of the Purim. At each mention of Esther’s name the congregation murmured “how beautiful is goodness;” at each mention of Haman’s name all in the congregation stamped their feet, also making gurgling noises with their throats, to imitate the false prince’s strangling; the whole being made more hideous by the shriek of discordant cornet notes and the springing of rattles.
The foregoing scene suddenly changed; a procession of maidens, in graceful evolutions, emerging from the surrounding groves, presenting a living picture, really entrancing. They were all richly robed in garments of graceful flow, caught round their waists by flowered girdles. Some wore sashes of jassamine, while others were crowned with lilies or asters or violets. Their arms and ankles were clad only with circlets from which pendant bells gave forth music at every motion. Seven of the foremost maidens bore lamps; behind each of these followed one with a harp; behind each harper two with tambourines and cymbals. Seven times this maiden train, with a step in time, half march, half dance, waltzed around the canopied altar. Then were given seven cornet blasts, the procession leaders waving their lamps with each blast, after which there was perfect silence. Now the old priest moved forward a little toward the procession; the congregation meanwhile gathering in a semi-circle, just outside of all, and he addressed the assembly: “Brethren and children, I would speak to you a little of the ‘Virtuous Woman.’ Daughters of Israel, hearts of homes to be, hopes of the nation looking for a Deliverer and deliverers yet to be born; hear me! Israel knows no queen of all womanly perfections like unto Esther, the beautiful. Evermore take her for your meditation by day and your dreams by night. Then shall you all realize to yourselves, your fathers, brothers, husbands, all that the holy Proverbs of our Kethubim declares of the true woman. Then the priest taking the parchment, solemnly and in mellow tones, read the last chapter of the book, ‘the birth-day chapter,’ a verse prophetic for every day of the longest month, as the Jews believe.”
When the reader ceased, the encampment was dim, many of the lights having been quenched. Then the congregation joined in chanting a soft-aired Jewish hymn.
“The devotions are ended; now for the sports;” so spoke Ichabod; the first words spoken between him and the knight during their observation of the last part of the proceedings before the pavilion. He had scarcely made the announcement when the second patriarch appeared, dressed in somber black, leading by the hand a maiden of wondrous beauty, wearing also black, in heavy trails; on her head a golden crown. As they appeared the applause as at first burst forth, but now blended with distinguishable cries of “Hail Esther!” “Hail Mordecai!”
“It’s the play, knight. Watch that pair.”
“No fear, Jew, such a wondrous beauty! Had I been Haman and she Esther, I never could have crossed her. Heavens, Jew, it is well said the people of promise produce the most beautiful women of earth. That’s why Deity elected one of them, through whom to be incarnate, I think.”
“I think I heard the knight say, awhile ago, that the revolution of all religions was to come when men’s admiration for women rose far above rapture over outward form. Is it not so?”
“Ah, it’s thy remembering and my forgetting that keeps us crossing each other! But no matter; am I looking at an angel or not?”
“That’s the priest’s only daughter; his idol, ay, the idol of every youth in all these parts of Israel. No nation can be dead while it produces such flowers.”
Suddenly the camp blazed with re-illumination, and then began a carnival. Games and dancers were everywhere. Some, evidently men, were dressed as women, and others, evidently women, were garbed as men. For one season, Purim, the command against the interchange of garments between the sexes, was suspended. Each reveler carried a little box. If he asked a favor or a question, the reply was a challenge to try lots. Partners were so chosen, tasks given and predictions made. Laughter was everywhere, and wine was flowing.
“Ichabod, I haven’t tasted wine since Acre! Why dost thou not introduce me yonder?”
“Wait; they will all be mellow, soon. They may be, too, for it’s a law that a Jew is not deemed drunk at ‘Purim’ so long as he can discern between a blessing for Mordecai and a curse for Haman.”
“Heavens! how they do imbibe.”
“It’s natural for doves to twitter after a thunder storm. They remember the past troubles.”
“Ay; but I fear they will consume all the beverage before we are with them. We have had plenty of trouble; now take me in to twitter with those doves.”
Ichabod started, as if to lead the way, and then drew back and moaned, “no, no; it cannot be. I’m forever anathema here, to them! I could bear their hate, not their contempt. They may call me renegade, but never spaniel nor hypocrite! If I appeared among them they would soon know, if they do not already, that Ichabod is changed. Then they’d sneer and tell me that I tried to play double, or thinking my people’s faith not good enough for me, I yet hungered for their feasts. No, no; it must not be! To-morrow, I hope to pray at my mother’s grave. I’d choke then if I had to remember I’d done aught that she, living, would have thought mean.”
“Now, I’ll not persuade thee, Jew, but go alone.”
“That’s reckless! thou mayst regret it. They may become riotous, being half drunk, and beat thee as a Haman. No, stay away.”
“No dissuasion, Jew, but just change garments. It’s the fashion to-night.” The Jew complied, remarking as he did:
“Will the knight wear this leather thong?”
“Heavens! no, nor the brand on thy neck.”
“Christian knights commanded me to wear one, and burned into my flesh the other years ago; they deemed it necessary to mark all Jews for hatred.”
“Dear Ichabod, I never counseled branding any man!”
“I believe it. I have forgotten all bitterness about these marks and have borne them as my cross.
“But, Sir Charleroy, don’t wear thy cross in their sight!”
“For once, I’ll cover it.” So saying he hid the emblem.
The comrades parted, and Sir Charleroy quickly found himself by the maiden who personated Esther. He approached unnoticed until he pleasantly said: “Queen of Shushan, a man out there behind a clump of Sharon roses, played me a game of lots. I lost the game, and he has put it on me to come to the Queen to fix the forfeit I shall pay.” The maiden turned her head haughtily and examined the speaker from head to foot with repelling gaze. It was her way of freezing off the amorous swains who constantly aimed to pay her court. But when her eyes met those of the self-possessed stranger, she gave a little start. Perhaps she caught sight, by some omen, of her fate; perhaps she felt the magnetism of the strong will which for the first time presented itself. In any event, it was the first time she had ever been alone, face to face, with such as he; a stalwart man, all reverential, yet all self-possessed. They were well matched, and they both felt it, intuitively, instantly.
“Who art thou?”
“A child of God.”
“Of Israel?”
“By faith, most holy of Abraham’s seed,” responded Sir Charleroy.
“Thy speech bewrayeth thee as lacking our shibboleth.”
“I’ve been a life long wanderer. Thou wouldst not reject one whom involuntary exile had robbed of tokens?”
“But I can not be free with an uncertified stranger. I’m afraid I err in tarrying here ’till now.”
“Hospitality is the boast of pious Hebrews who obey Him that ‘loveth the stranger in giving him food and raiment.’ Thou hast the Great Father’s law: ‘Love ye therefore the stranger, for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt.’ Some have by hospitality unawares entertained angels, thou knowst.”
“I’d like to entertain an angel; are they ever so human-like as thou?” she smiled.
“Had I known the Esther of to-night long enough to convince her that my freedom was sincere, I’d say that she was a fine example of the union of the angelic in the human.”
The maiden laughed. The incense was agreeable, and the freedom of this feast-time justified her acceptance of this novel, bold flattery. Your proud, daring woman is very vulnerable to such assaults. The world often wonders why such women so often, after all, surrender; but that’s because the world does not appreciate the dexterity in such jousts of such skilled men of the world as Sir Charleroy; or how grateful to self-admiring beauties the admiration of superior intellects is.
“Well, will thou give me thy name?”
“Certainly. For to-night, Ahasuerus?”
“A presumptious jest, sir.”
“No, for I admire and respect Esther, that’s here.”
“And then?”
“I plead for help; gain me admittance to the festivities, and escape from inquiry further, as to my identity.”
“And afterward, be called by my people brazen by thee, a little fool!”
“Art thou driven from right, the claim of hospitality, by fear of a lie?”
“What if thou wert a Bedouin spy, or a hated cross follower?”
“Thou art a noble hearted maiden.”
“Ah, who told thee so?”
“Thy face.”
“What is that to thee, if true?” she blushed a little.
“Could’st thou drive from thy bosom a fleeing kid, there seeking refuge from pursuing lions?”
“I do not know ’till tried. Thou art at any rate no kid; there is no lion. If thou desirest refuge, see the path of departure is the one by which thou cam’st hither.”
“Well, then, farewell.”
The knight made as if he would go, but he knew he would not. The motion gave him excuse for looking sad, and he knew that next to a handsome face a sad one most easily conquers a woman.
“Tarry a moment ’till I think. Can I trust thee?” she was hesitating.
“I’ve trusted thee, and that’s ever the best proof of fidelity.” Women like to think they are especially trusted.
“Well——but, see, my father comes; there’s no time for argument; let me speak!”
As the aged priest drew near, Esther saluted him, and said, “Father, let me take this Galileean stranger to the youths and their games? He claims our hospitality.”
The priest, wont to be on the alert, was disarmed by the magic word hospitality; then, too, for a long time before, having been wifeless, he had been wont to put his daughter forward, according large confidence to her; hence his reply:
“If thou knowest him, Rizpah.”
“I do.”
“Welcome, brother, what is thy name?” said Harrimai.
Rizpah, his daughter, quickly made reply, “Ahasuerus, and I’ve laughed at the coincidence until he has been ashamed to repeat it.”
“’Tis strange, surely, and not like a Jewish one. I must examine the family rolls to-morrow. Peace be unto thee, son,” and the old man turned toward his pavilion. Esther plucked a lily from her crown and handed it to Sir Charleroy saying: “Here, king, a token.”
“Of what?”
“Shushan; in our tongue, the name of the flower signifies ‘surrender.’”
“They say, Esther, that Judith wore a crown of lilies when she assassinated Holophernes. Is there any danger to me impending?”
“Thou hast a lily. It is said to ward off enchantments, too.”
“I am enchanted. I do not want to awaken. In Egypt they call this the lotus, flower of unrestrained pleasure.”
“For now then, we’ll call it lotus.”
“All gods, even Osiris, bless thee, Esther.”
So the twain were charmed comrades, till watch fires were dim and the palm shadows were creeping in, like funeral attendants, to carry away the spirit of the dying revel. Here and there was heard anon the voices commending this one and that to pleasant slumbers. The stars were withdrawing behind dawn’s feathery curtains, and over all, at intervals, was heard the voice of the chanticleer, triumphantly proclaiming the coming day.
Charleroy and Rizpah were left alone with each other at the end of the last game.
The maiden gave a coy, furtive glance and tardily drew away from the knight. The language of the drawing-room of the day, is as old as the centuries, and that maid of the wilderness used it as finely as a queen, to say without words, “it’s time we part; please say so first, nor leave to me, the hostess, the first suggestion of a wish to have thee go——”
Still the knight spake not.
He was delighted and averse to breaking the first pleasure spell of years.
The Jewish maiden, with fine courtesy, renewed the subject: “King, methinks, thou art anxious to exchange the grove for the palace.”
“I can never think of weariness when restful Esther is nigh.”
“But thy life is precious to thy subjects; care for it, and go with freshness to to-morrow’s cares of state.”
“Ah, queen, I too keenly realize that with thy departure my kingdom fades to nothingness.”
“A truce, my liege.”
“Granted, and any thing else, to the half of my kingdom.”
Rizpah startled the birds in the shrubbery to premature morning song, with a merry laugh. It was a finishing charge, that laugh, by which she carried her point, for the knight quickly questioned “Why this?”
“I was only thinking how odd thou wouldst appear if thou didst wear away my pepelum. Thy subjects would think their king mad, if he met them veiled as a woman.”
“Pardon, queen, I’ve been so absorbed, I forgot myself—” So saying, he gracefully transferred from his shoulder to hers the shawl she had permitted him for the night to wear. As the maiden adjusted it, something fell out of its folds, glittering to her feet.
“Findings keepings;” she laughed, and stooped to pick up the object. As she arose she turned it slowly toward the setting moon the better to inspect the find.
The knight was alarmed, but it was too late to prevent her examination now of his Teutonic cross and chain.
At a glance, Rizpah saw it was an emblem, of all others, hated by her people, and with a low, startled cry she made a motion as if to hurl it from her, but she checked herself with a powerful effort; suddenly turning her black, piercing eyes upon her companion she took a step back. She stood there the embodiment of an imperative question.
The knight quietly said: “Be calm, dear maid.”
Over her countenance passed a cloud which to the man all too plainly said: “How darst thou use such terms to me?” and then the face hardened again to imperative interrogation.
“Thou trustedst me four hours ago, under the lotus, try now my sincerity by any sterner test.”
Turning her eyes full on his, with a voice without a quaver, but in deep, measured tones indicative of suppressed emotion, she questioned as she held out toward him his emblem, “What’s this?”
“Concealment from thee, having trusted me as thou hast, would be futile not only, but hateful; thou knowst the meaning of the sign.”
“Who art thou then?”
“A Christian knight!”
“An enemy of my people everywhere; a spy here!” she exclaimed.
“No, never a spy! a true Christian knight never was such! Our warfare is open and equal. I’m degraded by the defense from such an odious charge!”
“Why debate thy methods; ’tis enough for me to know thou art a foe to me and mine.”
“No enemy of thine, but rather the friend of all humanity, woman.”
“Bloody friends I’ve heard!”
“No! Each one of my order is sworn, by awful vow, to protect the traveler, the poor, the weak and woman with our last drop of blood! If we two were all alone here and one of our lives must be forfeited to save the other’s, mine would joy to go first.”
“Words are cheap, and thou can’st use them finely, knight.”
“Thou knowst, maiden, to what that cross alludes.”
“The Nazarene Imposter!”
“His followers revere Him?”
“Like madmen, they follow their phantom!”
“Didst ever hear of one wearing that sign, being untrue to it?”
“No, it’s their dread black-art.”
“Wouldst thou trust me if I swore by it?”
“I might; but I’d fear that devils would flock out of the airy deep to witness thy vowing. Spare me that horror!”
“Maiden, thou’lt craze me by thy distrust and wild words. In God’s name tell me what to do!”
“Swear, but wave back the evil spirits, if thou art wont to have them.”
“That sign is their lasting terror; but the silent palms and the stars alone shall witness, ay, the God of all, as well. Here, make thou the words as thou wilt. Now, I kiss the cross I love, and am ready. He suited the action to the words. The maiden drew near to him, looking down into his eyes searchingly and seemed assured by their serene frankness.”
“Go on, Rizpah, I’ll bind my soul with any words coined, and, remember that I believe that perjury would consign me to misery untold here; eternal woe hereafter!”
“I’ll trust thy solemn asseverations; they say that a superstition on the right side will make even a Philistine bearable. Repeat, ‘I swear never to harm any of Rizpah’s kin or clan, except in self-defense.’”
He complied.
“Again, ‘I swear to depart peacefully at once, and no more seek companionship with the people this night met.’”
He complied, but murmured “cruelty.”
“And how?” she questioned.
“Wilt add a little?”
“Add what?”
“Add this ‘except by permission of the one ordaining my vow.’”
“It is so fixed.”
“I then swear it all.”
“Well, now go,” and she pointed to the hills.
“I obey, but yet plead delay.”
She hesitated and fell from being master to being mastered.
“Why, what benefits delay?”
“Oh, woman, I yearn as only a lonely heart can, to enjoy a little while the fellowship and hospitality of thy people! For years homeless; for months friendless, I’ve come to feel worthless. This is the first bright hour in my life for many a day. Perhaps, maiden of Israel, thou mightst make life worth living to me.”
It was a charge on her sympathy, and he knew it would succeed.
“A Crusader, ‘one of the armies of God,’ boasting a divine call to conquer and convert the world, so talking?”
“Our armed crusades are ended forever; my occupation’s gone.”
She had hesitated, now she pitied the man, and woman-like, again surrendered while she protested.
“I do not think there could come great harm from thy staying until sunrise repast.”
“Bless thee, the nine sun gods bless thee, Esther.”
“Heathen!”
“Well; an Egyptian-Christian-Jew taught me to say this when too cheerful to be solemn, and pious enough not to be frivolous.”
“An Egyptian-Hebrew-Christian! He must have been an Arab. That name means the ‘mixed.’ But go to the men’s tents; to-morrow I’ll have more wisdom. Peace and grace to thee; good night, Christian-Heathen-Hebrew-Arabic-Egyptian!” She laughingly spoke and the unbending made the knight, bold. He addressed her:
“I’d sleep in perfect peace, if Rizpah would give me a token.”
“I? what?” and the maiden drew back, offended. Her innocency remembered no token then, but such solicited by her maiden friends, or given at times to her father, a kiss.
“Place thy hand in mine, Rizpah.” She quickly complied, glad she was mistaken, as to her suspicion and blushing within, as she thought how strangely, easily, her mind had had the thought, “Well, now what, knight?”
“Promise me that while I’m permitted to tarry among thy people, I shall have thy heart’s friendship; as freely, as loyally bestowed as if I were thy brother.”
“Canst trust me, a woman, a girl, almost a stranger?”
“I trust thy woman’s heart as Joshua’s men of old trusted Rahab, a wreck, but still a woman. Thou art infinitely more noble than she.”
“But men think us weak, fitful, garrulous.”
“Responsibility makes the weakest of thy sex heroines and pity is the gateway to their hearts. Thou hast my life and my happiness as thy responsibility; dost pity me?”
“Yes: go now. A Gentile hater of my people shall see of what metals Jewish maidens are.”