BOOK VI.

SAUL AND RACHEL.

To Saul, wrapt in his gloomy contemplations, Rachel unobtrusively presents herself. Conversation ensues between them, and Saul confides to his sister his own most secret purposes and hopes, dashed now so cruelly. The fact, however, at length comes out that Rachel was herself converted to Christianity as a result of Stephen's reply to Saul. Saul instantly hereon experiences a violent revulsion of feeling. He breaks away from Rachel, spurning her, and breathing out threatening and slaughter against the Christian church.

SAUL AND RACHEL.

Saul thus forlorn, a voice smote on his ear,
 Voice other than of Shimei, clear and sweet;
 The very sound was balsam to his pain.
 Rachel's the voice was, who, with deep distaste,
 As jealous for her brother, had perceived
 The entering in to Saul of his late guest
 Ill-favored, and through all his stay had still,
 Impatiently awaiting, wished him sped.
 He now some moments gone, she issued forth
 From out her curtained chamber glimpsing gay
 Behind her, through the hangings, as she passed,
 With color—stuff of scarlet, linen fine
 Embroidered, weft of purple tapestry,
 Her handiwork—and sending after her
 Sweet scent of herb and flower, her husbandry—
 Forth issued, and across the inner court
 Open to heaven—small close of paradise,
 A tall palm by a fountain, bloomy shrubs,
 And vines that clad with green the enclosing walls—
 Stepped lightly to Saul's side. Saul sat beneath
 A tent-cloth canopy outspread, his own
 Tent-making skill—the high noon of the sun
 To fend, if place perchance one then might wish
 In which free air to breathe safe from the heat—
 There sat relapsed, deep brooding gloomy thoughts,
 When now his sister pausing stood by him.
 A lovely vision! Moving, or at rest,
 Ever a rapture Rachel seemed of grace
 Which but that moment that felicity
 Of posture or of gesture had attained,
 By accident, yet kept it, through all change,
 Inalienably hers, by right divine
 Of inward rhythm that swayed her heart in tune.
The sister had, with love's observance, watched
 Some days the phases of her brother's mood,
 Biding her time to speak; and now she spoke.
 "Brother," she murmured softly, "thou art sad.
 Thy brow is written over like a scroll
 With lines of trouble that I try to read.
 Unbind thy heart, I pray, to me, who grieve
 To see thee grieve, and fain at least would share
 Such brother's sorrow as I may not soothe."
This suave appeal of sister's sympathy
 Won upon Saul to wean him from himself—
 A moment, and that moment he partook
 Comfort of love, nepenthe to his pain,
 While thus he answered Rachel:
 "Nay, but thou,
 My sister, thou thyself art to me rest
 And solace. Sit thee down, I pray, beside
 Thy brother. But to have thee nigh as now
 Refreshes like the dew. I bathe my heart
 In thee as in a fountain. Ask me not
 To ease its aching otherwise than so.
 Pillow me on thy love and let me rest
 In silence from the sound of my own voice.
 I hate myself, Rachel."
 "But I love thee,
 My own dear, noble brother," Rachel said;
 "I love thee, and I will not let thee hate
 Thyself. Brother and sister should be one
 In love and hate. Hate what I hate, and what
 I love, love thou—that is true brotherhood."
"Safe law of brotherhood indeed for me,
 With thee for sister, Rachel," Saul replied,
 With fondness and self-pity, as he kissed
 The pure young brow upturned toward him; "but me,
 Thou dost not know me as I know myself."
"O nay, but better, brother," Rachel said;
 "Right hate is good, as good as love. So, hate,
 But not thyself, Saul. Shall I tell thee one
 To hate? I hate him, and I counsel thee,
 Hate, Saul, that evil man I saw but now
 Steal from his too long privilege at thine ear."
"Him, Rachel," Saul replied, "I cannot hate;
 Hatred is made impossible by scorn."
"Thou scornest him," she said, "but not too much
 To have been disturbed by him. The cloudy brow,
 So unlike my brother—I have brought it back,
 I see, dear Saul, by only mentioning him.
 Hate him well, Saul, and be at peace again.
 To hate is safer, better, than to scorn.
 We scorn with pride, we must with conscience hate,
 Such hating as I mean. Thou art too proud, Saul."
Saul answered, "For my pride I hate myself."
But she: "Were it not wiselier done to hate
 One's pride, than for one's pride to hate one's self?
 Whoever hates himself for his own pride
 Still keeps the pride for which he hates himself.
 Hate and abjure thy pride, and love thyself."
"Easy to say, O Rachel, hard to do,"
 Sighed Saul,—"at least for such as I, who am
 Too proud, too proud! Thou seest that after all
 Thou and myself know Saul alike, too proud,
 Albeit the too proud man we treat unlike,
 Thou loving and I hating him."
"O Saul,"
 Thus spoke she, gazing steadfastly at him,
 But sudden-starting tears swam in her eyes,
 "O Saul, Saul, Saul, my brother, whence is this?
 Thou wert not wont to talk thus. Changed art thou
 Since when I heard thee speak in that dispute
 With Stephen—"
"Thou heard'st me?" asked Saul.
"Yea, Saul,"
 Rachel replied, "I heard both thee and him."
 (Saul proudly hid an answering hurt of pride.)
 "I heard thee, brother, and was proud for thee;
 I never knew more masterful high speech
 Fall from thy lips. My heart leaped up for joy
 To listen. When those men of Israel
 Shouted, I shouted with them, silently,
 Louder than all. God heard the secret noise,
 Like thunder, of the beating of my heart
 In sister's pride for brother's victory.
 I crowned thee, I anointed thee my king,
 So glorious wast thou in thy conquering might!
 And that effulgent pride upon thy brow!"
"But when," said Saul, forestalling ruefully
 The expected and the dreaded change and fall
 From such a chanted pæan to his praise—
 "But when"—
"But when, O Saul," she said, "when he,
 Stephen, stood forth to answer thee, there was—
 Didst thou not feel it?—"
"Sister, yea, I felt,
 More than my sister even could feel, that I
 Was baffled, put to shame."
"Nay, nay," she said;
 "Not that, O Saul, dear Saul, it was not that."
"What, then? For I felt nothing else," said Saul;
 "That feeling filled me, as sometimes the sound
 And stir of whirlwind fill the firmament.
 My mind was one mad vortex swallowing up
 All other thought than this, 'Saul, thou art shamed!'"
"Why, Saul," cried she, "what canst thou mean? Thou shamed?
 How shamed?"
"Rachel, I lost, and Stephen won."
"What didst thou lose?" said Rachel, wonderingly;
 "And what did Stephen win, that also thou
 Won'st not? I cannot understand thee, Saul."
Such crystal clearness of simplicity
 Became a mirror, wherein gazing, Saul
 Beheld himself a double-minded man.
 How should he deal with questioner like this?
"Why, Rachel, canst thou then not understand,"
 He said, "how I should wish to conquer?"
"Yea,"
 Said she, "for truth's sake, Saul. And still, if truth
 Conquered, though not by thee, thou wouldst be glad,
 Wouldst thou not, Saul? Here sad I see thee now,
 As if truth's cause were fallen—which could not be,
 Since truth is God's—and yet thou sayest not that,
 But, 'Saul is shamed!' and, 'Saul has lost!' Not truth,
 But Saul. I cannot understand. Thou hadst
 Perhaps, unknown to me, some other end
 Than only truth, which also thou wouldst gain?"
It was his sister's single-heartedness
 That helped her see so true and aim so fair.
 Saul was too noble not to meet her trust
 In him with trust in her as absolute.
"Rachel," he said, his reverence almost awe,
 "Never did burnished metal give me back
 Myself more truly, outer face and form,
 Than the pure tranquil mirror of thy soul
 Shows me the image of my inner self.
 The truth I see by thee is justly thine,
 And thou likewise shalt see it all in all.
"The law of God was ever my delight,
 As thou knowest, sister, who hast seen me pore
 Daily from boyhood on the sacred scroll
 Of Scripture, eager to transfer it whole
 Unto the living tablets of my heart.
 And I have sought, how earnestly thou knowest
 To make my life a copy of the law.
 No jot or tittle of it was too small
 For me to heed with scruple and obey.
 With all my heart was I a Pharisee,
 Born such, bred such, and such by deep belief.
"But more, my sister. Musing on the world,
 I saw one nation among nations, one
 Alone, no fellow, worshipper of God,
 The True, the Only, and by Him elect
 To be His people and receive His law;
 That nation was my nation. My heart burned,
 Beholding in the visions of my head,
 The glory that should be, and was not, ours.
 Think of it, sister, God Himself our King,
 And bondmen we of the uncircumcised!
 I brooded on the shame and mystery
 With anguish in the silences of night.
 I saw the image of a mighty state
 Loom possible before me. Her august
 And beautiful proportions, builded tall
 And noble, rested on foundation-stones
 Of sapphire, and in colors fair they rose;
 Her pinnacles were rubies, and her gates
 Carbuncles—I beheld Jerusalem,
 The city of Isaiah's prophecy;
 Her borders round about were pleasant stones.
 She sat the queen and empress of the earth;
 The tributary nations, of their store,
 Poured wealth into her lap, and vassal kings
 Hasted in long procession to her feet.
 The throne and majesty of God in her
 Held capital seat, or his vicegerent Christ
 Reigned with reflected splendor scarce less bright.
 Such, sister, was the dream in which I lived,
 Dream call it, but it is the will of God,
 More solid than the pillared firmament.
"Was it a fault of foolish pride in me,
 Did I aspire audaciously, to hope
 That I, by doing and by daring much,
 Beyond my equals, might beyond them share
 Fulfilments such as these? I heard a voice
 Saying, 'Prepare the Lord His way.' I thought
 The Lord was near, and what I could, I would
 Do to make wide and smooth and straight His way
 Before Him, ere He came. I trusted Him
 That, when He came, He in His hands would bring
 Large recompense for servants faithful found,
 And not forget even Saul, should haply Saul
 Not utterly in vain prove to have striven,
 Removing from the path of His approach
 The stone of stumbling.
 "Sister, these are thoughts
 Such as men have, but cherish secretly,
 Even from themselves, and never speak aloud
 To any; I have now not spoken these
 To thee; thou hast but heard a few heart-beats
 Rendered articulate breath by grace of right
 Thine own to know the truth, who hast the truth
 Revealed to me.
 "O other conscience mine,
 Wherein have I gone wrong? I felt the power,
 Asleep within me, stirring half awake,
 To take possession of the minds of men
 And sway their wills; the world was not too wide
 To be the empire I could rule aright,
 As chiefest minister, were such His will,
 Of God's Messiah. Some one needs must sit
 At His right hand to hear and execute
 His pleasure—why not Saul? Who worthier?
 But now, alas! less worthy who, or who
 Less likely? I am fallen, am shamed—past hope,
 Past hope! I who aspired to greatest things
 Am to least things by proof unequal found!
 How shall I not hate Stephen, who has wrought
 On me this great despite—besides what he
 Wrought on the suffering cause of truth divine?"
Rachel's heart heaved, but in what words to speak
 She did not find. Saul into his dark mood
 Retired, and sat in silence for a while.
 Returning, then, for torture of himself,
 To that which Rachel brokenly began
 To say, and left unsaid, Saul asked of her:
 "What was it, sister, thou beganst to tell,
 When, not thy brother, but thy brother's spleen,
 Broke thy words off with interruption rude?
 Something it seemed of how, at Stephen's words,
 A change fell on thee, from thy first applause
 Of me—"
"O Saul! A chasm of difference,"
 So to her brother, Rachel sad burst forth,
 "Yawns betwixt thee and me this day, how wide,
 How wide! I feel the bond of sisterhood,
 Stretching across, not strained to break—for that
 Shall never, never be, in any world,
 O brother, truest, noblest, best beloved!—
 But strained to draw thee to me where I am
 From where thou art, far off, albeit so near!"
"A tragic riddle which I fail to read,
 Rachel," said Saul, perplexed; "solve thou it me."
"Brother, I fear I cannot," Rachel said;
 "But loyally I will try. When Stephen stood
 To answer thee that day, a power not he
 Oppressed my spirit with a sense of weight,
 Gentle but insupportable, which grew
 Instantly greater and greater, until it seemed
 Ready to crush, unless I yielded; Saul,
 I yielded, and that weight became as might
 Which passed to underneath me and upbore."
"Rachel, be simpler," Saul severely said;
 "My soul refuses to be teased with words.
 Meanest thou this, that Stephen mastered thee?"
"Nay, Saul, my brother," meekly Rachel said,
 Meekly and firmly; "Stephen not, but God.
 No man could master me away from Saul.
 Proudly I was thy vassal sister, Saul,
 Until God summoned me with voice that I
 Might not resist; God's vassal am I now,
 But sister still to thee, and loyal, Saul,
 Beyond all measure of that loyalty
 I held before, which made me proud of thee,
 And glad of thee, and spurred me on to praise
 My brother as the paragon of men.
 O Saul—"
"Nay, Rachel," Saul said, with a tone
 Repressive more than the repressive words,
 "I will not hear thee further in this vein.
 Thou art a woman, and I must not blame
 Thy weakness; sister too to me thou art,
 And I will not misdoubt thy love; but thou
 Hast added the last drop of bitterness
 To the crowned cup of grief and shame poured out
 For me to drink. Go, Rachel, muse on this:
 A brother leaned an aching, aching heart
 Upon a sister's bosom to be eased,
 And that one pillow out of all the world
 To me, that trusted downy softness, hid
 The cruelest subtle unsuspected thorn.
 Saul's sister a disciple and a dupe
 Of those that preach the son of Joseph, Christ!
 And this, forsooth, the fruit that was to be
 Of Saul's aspiring trust to strike the stroke
 That in one day should crush the wretched creed!
 Rachel, methinks thou mightst have spared me this!
 But nay, my sister, better is it so.
 Haply no barb less keen had stung me back
 To my old self and made me Saul again—
 The weakling that I was, to pule and weep,
 As if the cause were lost and all were lost!
 I thank thee, sister, thou hast done me good,
 Like medicine—like bitter medicine!
 Tell me true, Rachel, thou didst feign me this,
 To rouse me from my late unmanly swoon.
 That is past now; I rise refreshed and strong,
 I see my path before me, stretching straight,
 I enter it to tread it to the end.
 Doubt not but I shall feel the wholesome hurt
 Of the shrewd spur my sister, with wise heart
 Of hardness, plunged full deep into my side
 Betimes, when I was drooping nigh to sink.
 Peace to thee, sister, cheer thee with this thought,
 'I saved my brother from the last disgrace
 By a disgrace next to the last—it was
 A hard way, but the only, and it sped!'"
Such cruel irony from her brother cut
 The tender heart of Rachel like a knife.
 But more for Saul she grieved than for herself;
 She knew that naught but anguish of chagrin
 The sharpest could have tortured out from him,
 So noble and so gentle, any taunt.
 From sheer compassion of his misery,
 She wept, and said:
"O Saul, Saul, Saul—"
But he:
 "Rachel, no more; already deep enough,
 I judge, for present use, the iron has gone;
 I shall not falter; thou mayst safely spare
 To drive it deeper now—it rankles home.
 And surely, if hereafter I should feel,
 At some weak woman's moment, any touch
 Of foolish tenderness to make me pause
 Relaxing and relenting from my course—
 A sad course, Rachel, traced in blood and tears!—
 Should ever such a softness steal on me,
 Surely I should but need remember thee,
 Thou younger playmate of my boyhood! thee,
 Mirror, that was, of saintly sisterhood!
 Loveliest among the daughters of thy race
 Once, to thy brother! fountain flowing free
 Of gladness, never sadness, unto him!—
 Never of sadness until now, but now—
 O Rachel, Rachel, sister, changed this day
 From all thou wert to what I will not name—
 Surely I shall but need bring back this hour,
 And let the image of my sister pass—
 O broken image of all loveliness,
 Distained and broken!—pass before my eyes,
 As here I see her, separate from me
 Forever, and outcast from God—that thought,
 That image, shall make brass the heart of Saul,
 And his nerve iron, to smite and smite again,
 Until no wily Stephen shall remain
 For any silly Rachel to obey!"
Fierce so outbreathing threat and slaughter, Saul
 In bitterness of spirit broke away.

BOOK VII.

STEPHEN AND RUTH.

Rachel in dismay soliloquizes. She at length resolves on conveying to Stephen, through Ruth, his wife, a warning of his danger. Ruth, not a Christian, expostulates with her husband, attempting to dissuade him from his course—a course certain, she says, to end fatally for him. After a gentle, long, anguished effort on his part to bring Ruth to sympathy with himself in his Christian faith, Stephen parts from her with presentiment that it is never to return. Under the power of the Holy Spirit, he takes his way from Bethany, where his home is, to Jerusalem. His friends. Martha and Mary, with their brother Lazarus, see him going, and follow.

STEPHEN AND RUTH.

Rudely thus parted from his sister, Saul
 Straightway sought certain of his synagogue—
 The synagogue of the Cilicians—men
 Less alien from himself than Shimei was
 In spirit, while compatriot too by birth
 As was not Shimei, an Asian he—
 And these made privy to his changed resolve.
 They, glad of such adhesion, opened free
 Their counsel to him, telling, with grimace
 Added, and shrug of shoulder, to attest
 Their scorn of Shimei, Shimei's scheme, which they
 Sourly, as from compulsion, now took up.
 Saul, swallowing a great throe of innermost
 Revolt that well-nigh mastered him, subscribed
 Himself, by silence, partner of their deed.
Rachel, spurned from him by her brother, sat
 Moveless a while, the image of dismay,
 Her two ears caves of roaring sound, her mind
 A whirling void of sheer astonishment.
 When presently the storm a little calmed
 Within her, and she knew herself once more,
 She cleared her thought by settling it in words—
 Words which through fluent mood and mood changed swift
 From passionate soliloquy to prayer,
 And from prayer back to soft soliloquy:
 "My brother shall not excommunicate
 His sister! While I love him he is mine,
 And I shall not be 'separate' from him
 'Forever'—let him hate me as he will,
 Who hates himself, and otherwise amiss
 Hates liberally. Why did I let him go?
 I should have held him, should have told him I
 Am of one blood with him, as high as he
 In spirit; though a 'woman,' not to be
 Put down; he gave me right, with speech like that,
 To equal him in stinging word for word.
 I could have done it. Woman am I? Yea,
 And Deborah was a woman, Miriam too.
 I feel my blood a-tingle in my veins
 With lust to have him back, and make him know
 The lion with the lamb lies down in me
 Together; and I showed him but the lamb!
 The lion rouses late, occasion gone!
 Did he cow me? So tamely I endured
 His contumely! Anger none till now,
 Nor shame not to be angry at such speech
 From him; but now—anger with burning shame
 Turns inward and incenses me like fire.
 I scorn myself for that, reed-like, my head
 I bowed before the tempest of his scorn,
 When blast for blast I should have blown him back
 His tempest."
Rachel's indignation so
 Like a sea wrought and was tempestuous.
 But the recoil of her own violent speech
 First gave her pause, then pierced her with remorse.
 Daily, from when she, hearing Stephen speak,
 Heard God through Stephen speaking, and obeyed,
 Rachel, first having in baptism testified
 Her death to sin, her birth to righteousness—
 Never her absent brother dreaming it—
 Gladsome had broken bread of fellowship
 With the disciples of the Lord, and learned,
 Both from their lips and from their lives beheld,
 Deep lessons in the lore of Jesus, apt
 By the tuition of the Holy Ghost.
 The better spirit, for a moment lost,
 So lately made her own, came back to her.
 Sadly she mused, recalling her hot words
 Of passion:
 "'Tempest'? Tempest sure just now
 Hummed in me. 'Scorn myself'? What word was that?
 Rachel forsooth forbade Saul saying, 'I hate
 Myself'—and scorn herself does she, yea, here
 Sit impotently brooding scorn for scorn
 To rival him? Surely I missed my way.
 'Scorn,' 'hate,' one spirit both these speak, such scorn
 Such hate, in him, in me. One spirit both,
 And that the spirit of this world, not His,
 Not Christ's, no spirit of Thine, O Crucified,
 Thou meek and lowly holy Lamb of God!
 Forgive, forgive me, from Thy cross of shame
 And passion, O Thou suffering Son of God!
 Once prayedst Thou thence for those that murdered Thee,
 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what
 They do.' I knew not what I did when so
 I crucified Thee afresh through shameful pride.
 My heart breaks with my sorrow for my sin,
 A broken and a contrite heart, O Lord,
 Thou never wilt despise.
 "And now yet more
 My heart breaks with forgiveness poured on me.
 O sweet and blessed flood, pour on me still!
 Deliciously I tremble and rejoice.
 To be thus broken is bliss more to me
 Than to be whole. I love to lie dissolved,
 Dissolving, under this soft fall of peace
 Distilled like dew from out Thy bleeding heart!
 Lo, here I wholly, wholly, wholly yield
 To Thee, O Christ, am fluid utterly,
 To take whatever shape Thee best may please.
 Remake me after Thine own image, Lord!
"I pray Thee for my brother. Suffer not
 That he act out his purposed madness. Save,
 O save him from that dreadful sin he means
 Against Thee and against Thy holy cause.
 I cannot bear it, that my brother rage
 Against Thee like the heathen. Thou art strong,
 O Christ! I pray Thee—Thee I pray, O Christ,
 Thee only, for none other can—meet Thou
 And master Saul! His sister pleads with Thee;
 I plead for his sake, he being dear to me,
 But more for Thine own name and glory's sake,
 And for Thy suffering cause!
 I thank Thee, Lord,
 With joyful tears, I thank Thee, gracious Lord,
 That Thou restrainedst me dumb with silence then
 When Saul spake evil of me—for Thy sake.
 Through Thee, Who, when reviled, reviledst not
 Again, through Thee, through Thee, I, also I,
 Proud foolish Rachel, then refrained from words!
 No taunt retorted, no reproach, no blame,
 Stung him from me to sin; I thank Thee, Lord,
 For that!
 "Now is there naught that I may do?
 May I not warn that prophet Stephen? Saul
 Wildly foreshadowed harm himself might wreak
 On him; and what meant Shimei's visit here?
 Mischief, no doubt of that; collusion strange,
 Incredible, impossible, such twain,
 That Shimei and my brother! I will go
 And talk with Stephen's wife, her, what I can,
 Without disloyalty to Saul, stir up
 To fear for Stephen's safety; he need not,
 Surely, dauntless high prophet of the Lord
 Although he be, still ready-girt to die,
 Rush blindfold into danger unforewarned."
So to the house of Stephen Rachel went
 With haste, and there, in darkened words to Ruth,
 Perturbed her woman's breast with vague alarms:
 'Her husband must of stratagem beware,
 And even of violence, aimed against his life.'
 Stephen, by Ruth his wife, of all advised,
 Armed him his heart to face what must befall.
Ruth shook him to the centre of his soul
 With storms of wife's complaints and love and tears:
 "Nay, Stephen, many a time, bear witness thou,
 My heart before she came misgave me sore;
 But now, since Rachel's words, no peace I find
 Concerning thee, in this thy wilful way
 Wherein thou goest—whither, I know not, whence,
 Too well I know, for from a home thou goest
 Once happy, ere this madness came on thee!"
 Sharply so Stephen's wife upbraided him.
 Gravely and gently he admonished her:
 "Name it not madness, woman, lest thereby
 Thou sin that sin against the Holy Ghost.
 No madness is it when the soul of man
 Is sovereignly usurped by the Most High
 To be the organ of Almighty Will.
 I yield myself, nay, Ruth, I join myself,
 To God—no blind unsharing instrument,
 But joyful partner of His purposes."
Solemnly chided so, Ruth quick replied:
 "And what if of His purposes one be
 To let thee plunge, as headstrong, so headlong,
 Thy way to bloody death, thou stiff-necked man?
 Thou hearest what Rachel brings us, doubtful hint
 Indeed, but therefore in itself to me
 Only more fearful; and how fearful joined
 To what thyself confessest thou of late,
 With thine own ears, hast, from the public mouth,
 Heard—instigated whisper, Shimei's brew,
 Accusing thee of treason to the hope
 Of Israel, and purpose to destroy
 The temple, and the customs do away
 Which Moses left us! Stephen, all these signs
 Singly, much more together, point one way—
 They threaten death to thee, if thou persist
 To preach things hateful to the wise and good."
Ruth intermitted, and her husband said:
 "The danger, Ruth, I know, but I must not,
 For danger, slack obedience to my Lord."
Then Ruth said:
 "But I only ask that thou
 Now, for a little, prudently abide
 In hiding till this storm be overpast."
He, with a glance of irony, replied:
 "And always run to covert at the first
 Bluster of opposition? Yea, to some
 That is permitted; but to other some,
 Whereof am I, only to stand foursquare
 And take the buffet of whatever storm.
 And the best prudence is obeying, Ruth."
High answered Stephen thus, but Ruth rejoined:
 "Stephen, thou ever wert a stubborn will,
 And overweening of the wisdom thine,
 Hard-hearted and unloving never yet,
 Never, till now. How canst thou bide thus calm,
 And I, thine erst loved wife, beheld by thee
 So tossed with tempest and not comforted?"
Wherewith self-pity broke her words to sobs:
 She fell on Stephen's neck and wept aloud.
 With both his arms he folded her about,
 While his heart, hugely swelling in his breast,
 Forced to his eye the slow, large, rounding tear.
 It was as if a cloud that wished to rain
 Strongly held back its drooping weight of shower.
 His melting voice at last he fixed in words:
 "What meanest thou to weep and break my heart,
 O thou, mine own, most loving and most loved
 Of women? Flesh cries out to flesh in me
 Against the purpose of my spirit set
 To crucify the flesh with its desires!"
Ruth caught her sobs and held them while she spoke:
 "Flesh of thy flesh am I; thou slayest me
 In slaying thyself; I will not have it so.
 Not ready yet am I to die in thee;
 And thee God surely needs alive, not dead:
 The dead cannot praise God nor serve His cause.
 Who will so preach that gospel that thou lovest
 When thou art gone? Who then will silence Saul?
 I tell thee, Stephen, this is Satan's guile—
 To get thee slain—and overmatch mightst thou
 The arch-deceiver, easily, if thou wouldst,
 So easily—only live."
Conclusive seemed
 Her argument to Ruth and stanched her tears.
 She gently disengaged the fond embrace
 That held her to her husband's heart, and, drawn
 A little backward from his face her face,
 She smiled on him like sunshine after rain.
 Smiling pathetically back, he kissed,
 With kisses that she felt like sacraments,
 Then, and forever after till she died,
 His wife's brow beautiful with hope, and said:
 "Ruth, thou hast said; it is, be sure, his guile,
 Satan's, whereby I presently shall die;
 If so to die indeed be mine, who feel
 Too young still, and too strong, too full of hope,
 Too full of—shall I name it, Ruth?—too full
 Of God Himself, the Holy Ghost, to die!
 For He within me lives such life and power,
 Death seems impossible, all weakness seems
 Far off, an alien thing, and not for me;
 I am immortal and omnipotent.
 That, Ruth, is when I stand to speak for God,
 Preaching to men the gospel of His Son.
"But when, as now, I sit with thee and talk,
 Or when my children cluster round my knees,
 And I hear husband, father, from fond lips
 Pressed to these lips so oft, and with such joy,
 When all the dearness that is meant by home,
 And all the drawing lodged in kindred blood,
 And all that sense, unutterably deep,
 Of oneness, soul in soul, with those we love—
 O Ruth!—but, Ruth, our tears commingled flow,
 'Tis our hearts flow together in those tears!
 O wife and life, when all that I have said,
 And that far more which never tongue could say,
 Surges upon me, surge on surge of thought
 And feeling, like an overflowing flood,
 Belovéd, then, how weak I am, how frail,
 How low and like to die! I lean toward thee,
 As if the oak should lean upon his vine."
Ruth took his word from him and made reply:
 "So lean on me, my love, and be at rest;
 Lean, and make proof how vines at need are strong.
 In me no faltering purpose weakens will.
 Thou speakest of flesh within thee crying out
 To flesh against the spirit—warfare strange
 Of elements that dwell in me at one.
 My nature moves straightforward all one way.
 Rebellion none, no mutiny, I find
 Only resolve to thwart thy mad resolve,
 Thy half resolve, say rather, half and mad—
 So proved by these compunctious visitings
 Thou hast, these gracious sweet remorses wise,
 Relentings toward thy children and toward me;
 Divine presages, Stephen, scorn them not,
 Sent to forewarn thee ere it be too late!
"Bethink thee, Stephen, when didst thou before,
 Ever, thus will and straight unwill, thus halt,
 Thus parley with thyself, thus stand in doubt
 Like a reed shaken with the wind, as now
 I see thee here? Thou art not like thyself;
 Not like that Stephen, ready, combative,
 Thy stature still elastically tall
 To tower and overtop and overfrown
 Whatever front of menace challenged thee.
 By thy changed state, I pray thee, be advised.
 God teaches thee hereby. He does not wish
 Thy will with thy desire to be at war.
 Give up thy heady will, and let desire,
 Divinely wise, the wisdom of the heart,
 Guide thee; her ways are ways of pleasantness,
 And all her paths are peace."
Again well pleased
 With her own argument, Ruth tearful smiled
 A smile that, tenfold tender through those tears,
 Was argument to Stephen more than words.
 From deep within he heaved a sigh and said:
 "Oh! Woman! Woman! Ruth, thou teachest me
 How Adam could, by Eve's enticement drawn,
 Be even beguiled to die. And now, to live,
 Not die, my Eve entices me. O Ruth,
 I feel, I feel, doubt not but that I feel,
 The sweet, the subtly sweet, dissolving spell
 Of wish infused by thee, with thee to live,
 With thee and for thee, nay, in thee, as thou
 In me—this twain one life, how dear, how dear!
 O wife, what is there that I could not bear
 And dare of hard and high, wert thou, with smiles
 And tears and love, for Christ but eloquent,
 As all too well I feel thee eloquent
 For our sweet selves?"
Ruth's heart sank, but she said:
 "O Stephen, for our children!" Then she threw
 Her head upon his bosom, there in tears,
 With passionate sobs and throbs, poured out her heart.
He mightily a mighty swell that yearned
 To be a storm within him, ruled, and said:
 "Nay, Ruth, but we forget. Life beyond life
 Remains to us and to our children. We,
 Forgetfully, desire and hope and fear
 As if death bounded all. A little while
 And Christ will come again. Then they that sleep
 In Him will wake to Him, and they that still
 Wake when He comes, but love Him, will, with those
 Late sleeping in Him now awake, ascend
 To meet the Lord descending, in the air:
 Thenceforward all that love Him, loved of Him,
 Will be forever with Him where He is,
 Beholding there His glory. Blessed state!
 No tears, no fears, no hearts that break, no hearts
 That will not break, although they ache the more,
 Perhaps, God knows, not breaking—naught of these,
 And naught of any ill, but only peace,
 Joy, love, security of peace and joy
 And love, and fellowship in peace and joy
 And love, forever, perfect, more and more,
 With vision beatific still of Him
 Who washed us in His blood and made us kings
 And priests to God. Ruth, here is hope indeed
 For us that will not make ashamed."
But Ruth
 Unhearing heard and was not comforted.
 She raised her head from Stephen's breast, with act
 As if to part herself in hope from him,
 And, with regard made almost alien, said:
 "Hug thou thy hope, thy hope is not for me.
 He could not save himself, thy Christ, but died
 As the fool dieth—and as die wilt thou,
 If thou despise my counsel! Stephen, I
 Would rather take my lot a little less,
 Less large, less perfect, and less durable,
 Than that thou figurest in thy fantasy,
 So I might have it something different
 From that, real, substantial, palpable
 To sense, something whereof one could be sure.
 I am no visionary. Take, say I,
 With thanks the good God gives us now and here;
 Not spurn His bounty back into His face,
 And reach out emptied hands of wanton greed
 To grasp at more He has not offered us.
 We have no right to throw our life away!—
 In hope of life hereafter, only ours
 Then when with patience our appointed time—
 'All' our appointed time, Stephen—we wait,
 Till our change come."
Ruth's chill repellent tone,
 Her mask of manner hard, could not deceive
 Her husband, who, through such disguise with pain
 Put on, well recognized a new device
 Of wife's love, versatile as resolute,
 Constraining tenderness to play severe.
 Yet not the less for that, more rather, he
 Felt at her words a dull weight of despair
 Oppress his spirit; he could only pray,
 In silent sorrow not to be expressed,
 "O Holy Ghost of God, pity and save!"
 A hundred times so praying for his wife,
 In anguished iteration o'er and o'er,
 Stephen not speaking sat, and speechless she.
At last, as if one bound with green withes rose
 Rending the withes to rise, rose Stephen, sweat
 Of supreme agony victorious
 At dreadful cost dewing his brow; he took
 His wife's hand solemnly and tenderly,
 His port majestical compelling awe,
 And, with tense speech, in tones that strangely mixed
 The husband with the prophet, slowly said:
 "Farewell, Ruth, for the hour is fully come
 That I must hence. The burden of the Lord
 Is instant and oppresses me. I go,
 Whither I know not, but He knows, to bear
 Witness once more to His most worthy name.
 I thought that I should never preach again
 His gospel in those temple courts, but now
 Perhaps He wills even that; whatever be
 His purpose, unforeshown, I welcome it.
"Lo, Ruth, this is the last time, for full well
 I know I never shall come back to thee!
 Come thou to me, I charge thee that, and bring
 Our children to their father. Always think
 Hereafter, 'He, that last time, charged me that!'
 I think my God in this has heard my prayer,
 And I go hence in comfort of some hope.
 Our children! Oh! My children! God in heaven,
 Have mercy! How a father pitieth
 His children, think of that, and pity me!
 A father lays them on a Father's heart;
 Father, I charge Thee, by Thy father's-heart,
 Not one be plucked from out His Father's hand!
 Lord Christ, see Thou to this, in session there
 Forever, interceding for Thine own!
"Ruth, give their father's blessing to our babes;
 I trust that they will cheer their mother well,
 When I am gone, and cheer thee to the end.
 Their sweet unconscious voices now I hear
 In laugh and prattle of pathetic glee!
 I fain would see their faces once again,
 Kiss them once more, and take a last caress!
 But nay, I spare myself one pang; sweet babes,
 They are too young to know! But by and by,
 When they are older and will understand,
 Then tell them thou what I now cannot, say,
 'Your father loved you, loves you, and will love
 Forever—that was his last word to me
 For you.' So, Ruth, farewell!"
With first his hands,
 Both, placed in solemn blessing on her head,
 She kneeling by his knees, forth from his house
 Therewith went Stephen all as in a trance.
 With open eyes that saw not, yet with steps
 Guided—how, he well knew, but whither not—
 In simple rapt obedience, he his way
 Took absently like one that walks in sleep.
Stephen his home had fixed in Bethany—
 Sequestered hamlet on the slope behind
 The Mount of Olives from Jerusalem.
 Mary and Martha, here, and Lazarus,
 He knew and loved; and with them oft, their guest,
 Held converse sweet of what He said and did,
 And was, the Friend Who wept when Lazarus died,
 The Lord of life through Whom he lived again:
 But Ruth, self-sundered from this fellowship,
 Abode apart, or only with them bound
 In bonds of kindly common neighborhood.
 These marked when Stephen, marking not, passed by,
 That day, steps toward the holy city bent,
 And to each other said: 'He goes once more
 Bound in the spirit to Jerusalem
 To preach the gospel of the grace of God.
 Behold the lit look on the forward face!
 Behold the gait half-buoyed as if with wings!
 It is like Jesus hastening to His cross!
 Lo, let us follow!' and they followed him.
 But he went ever onward, slacking not
 His steps, nor heeding when the brow he reached
 Of Olivet and thence, across the deep
 Ravine of Kedron worn with rushing floods,
 Before him and beneath him saw outspread
 The city of David with its palaces.

BOOK VIII.

STEPHEN MARTYR.

As Stephen approaches the temple, he is suddenly arrested and brought before the Sanhedrim. There making his defence, he is interrupted with hostile demonstrations, instigated by Shimei. On this, he bursts out with noble indignation, which furnishes the desired occasion for a cry against him of "Blasphemy!" from all, and for a violent hurrying forth of the prisoner without the walls to be stoned. A file of Roman soldiers confronts and stays the tumultuous crowd; but, after parley conducted by Shimei with the centurion, their leader, the rout is suffered to proceed. Meantime, however, a little company of sympathizing Christians, including Rachel with the three from Bethany, have gathered round Stephen and listened to cheerful, tranquillizing words from him. After the stoning, these friends carry the body of Stephen for laving to the pool of Siloam, whence by moonlight up Olivet to Bethany. Here they lay it in a room of Martha and Mary's house until morning.

STEPHEN MARTYR.