"They are fallen, the good are fallen,Low in the dust they are fallen;And their hair is steeped in blood;But the poison-wind shrieks above them,Sighing anon like the cushat,And breathing its curses upon him,Upon him, the chief of impostors.As he passes the leaflets tremble,And the flowers shrink from his pathway;And the angels smile not upon him,For he maketh the widow and orphan;And the voice of Rachel risethIn mourning loud for her children.And no comfort doth fall upon her.Soft like the balm of Gilead."
"They are fallen, the good are fallen,Low in the dust they are fallen;And their hair is steeped in blood;But the poison-wind shrieks above them,Sighing anon like the cushat,And breathing its curses upon him,Upon him, the chief of impostors.As he passes the leaflets tremble,And the flowers shrink from his pathway;And the angels smile not upon him,For he maketh the widow and orphan;And the voice of Rachel risethIn mourning loud for her children.And no comfort doth fall upon her.Soft like the balm of Gilead."
Turning to one of his followers, Mohammed commanded angrily:
"Seize that singer!"
Dumah heard the exclamation, and was off like the wind, followed by two or three Moslems, each anxious to secure the victim first, and thus win the approval of the august Mohammed.
On, on, straight to the house of Amzi fled Dumah. Bursting open the door, he rushed in, his long hair disordered, his face purple with running and his eyes wide with terror.
"Save me, Yusuf! Save me, Amzi!" he cried. "Mohammed will kill me! Mohammed will kill me!"
Yusuf sprang to the door, and the poor fugitive threw himself at Amzi's feet, clinging to his garments with his thin, white hands.
But the pursuers were already upon him. Yusuf strove in vain to detain them, to reason with them.
"Can you not see he is a poor artless lad? Can you not have mercy?" he cried.
"It is the order of the prophet of Allah!" was the response.
Yusuf resisted their entrance with all his might, but, unarmed as he was, he was quickly thrown down, and the terrified Dumah was dragged over his body and hurried off to be put in chains in a Moslem cell.
Amzi was distracted. There seemed little hope for Dumah. The small Jewish band then in Medina could not dare to cope with the overwhelming numbers of Moslems that swarmed in the streets. If Dumah were delivered it must be by stratagem; and yet what stratagem could be employed?
Early in the evening Amzi and the priest withdrew to the roof for consultation.
"You believe that your God is all-powerful—why do you not beseech him for our poor lad's safety?" cried Amzi passionately.
"I have not ceased to do so since his capture," returned Yusuf. "But it must be as the Lord willeth. He sees what is best. Even our blessed Jesus said to the Father, 'Not my will, but thine be done.'"
Amzi was not satisfied. "Can he then be the God of Love that you say, if he could look upon the death of that poor innocent nor exercise his power to save him?"
"Amzi, I do not wonder at you for speaking thus. Yet consider. We will hope the best for our poor singer. May God preserve him and enable us, as instruments in his hands, to deliver him. But God may see differently from us in this matter. Who can say that to die would not be gain to poor Dumah? All witless as he is, he shall have a perfect mind and a perfect body in the bright hereafter. We know not what is well. We can only pray and do all in our power to effect his deliverance; we must leave the issue to God."
Amzi bowed his head on his hands and groaned. Yusuf raised his eyes towards heaven; the tears rolled down his cheeks, and his lips moved. Even he could not understand the mysteries of this strange time. Yet he was constantly comforted in knowing that "all things work together for good to them that love God."
Saddest of all was the vision of the handsome, dark face that, contorted in the fury of combat, had glared upon him from the Moslem ranks in the Battle of Bedr, while Manasseh's hand showered blows upon the head of his best friend—for the sake of the prophet of Islam.
"Manasseh! Manasseh!" he exclaimed in bitter sadness. "Why hast thou forsaken thy father's God? O heavenly Father, do thou guide him and lead him again into thy paths!"
"'Do the duty which lies nearest thee' which thou knowest to be a duty! Thy second duty will already have become clearer."—Carlyle, "Sartor Resartus."
"'Do the duty which lies nearest thee' which thou knowest to be a duty! Thy second duty will already have become clearer."—Carlyle, "Sartor Resartus."
Upon the following morning Yusuf hastened to obtain an interview with Mohammed. The prophet lived in an ostentatiously humble abode—a low, broad building, roofed with date-sticks, and thatched with the broad leaves of the palm tree.
Mohammed absolutely refused to see him. Ayesha, the youngest and fairest of the prophet's wives, sent to inform him that Mohammed had nothing to say to the Christian Yusuf. So with heavy heart he turned away and sought the house of Zeid, deeming that he, as the prophet's adopted son and most devoted follower, might have some influence in obtaining Dumah's release.
Zeid sat in a low, airy apartment, through whose many open windows a cool breeze entered. By him sat his newly-wedded wife, unveiled, for at that time the rules in regard to veiling were not so strictly insisted upon as at a later day, when the prophet's decree against the unveiling of women was more rigorously enforced.
Even Yusuf noted her marvelous beauty. There was a peculiarity of action, a something familiar about her, too, which gave him a hazy recollection of having seen her before; but not for several moments did the association come up in his memory, and he saw again the little Jewish home of Nathan in Mecca, the dim light, and the beautiful child whose temples Nathan's wife was so tenderly bathing. Yes, after the lapse of years, in a flash he knew her for Zeinab!
She listened with interest to the tale of the Jewish singer; but there was a heartlessness in her air, and a certain contempt in the look which she bent upon the Christian who was thus making intercession for an unworthy Jew.
"I have neither eyes to see, tongue to speak, nor hands to act, save as the prophet is pleased to direct me," was Zeid's reply, in the most determined tone.
Yusuf, seeing no hope, left the house, and shortly afterwards Zeid, too, went down into the town. Scarcely had he left when Mohammed entered.
Zeinab was still at the window, which opened directly on the courtyard. A myrtle bush grew near, and she listlessly plucked some of the white blossoms and twined them in the braids of her glossy black hair. She wore a loose gown of sky-blue silk with a drape of crimson, and deep pointed sleeves of filmy, white lace. Her veil was cast aside, and when the prophet entered she turned her magnificent dark eyes, with their shading of kohl, full upon him.
Ever susceptible to the influence of beauty, he exclaimed, "Praise be God, who turneth the hearts of men as he pleaseth!" And he at once coveted her for his wife; although according to law she bore the relation of daughter to him.
He intimated his desire to Ali, who, in turn, broke the news to Zeid. Zeid returned pale and trembling to his home. He loved his wife deeply; yet his devotion to the prophet and the sense of obligation which he owed him as foster-father, for having freed him from servitude, appealed to him strongly. Bowing his head upon his wife's knee, he wept.
"Why do you weep, Zeid?" she asked.
"Alas!" he cried, "could one who has known thee as wife forbear to weep at having thee leave him?"
"But I will never leave my Zeid."
"Not even to become the wife of the prophet?"
"Mohammed does not want me for his wife," she said quickly.
Zeid sighed. "Could you be happy were you his wife?" he asked.
The beauty's ambitious spirit rose, but she only said: "Were I made his wife, it would be the will of Allah."
Zeid pushed her gently from him, and went out. "Mohammed," he said, seating himself at the prophet's feet, "you care for Zeinab. I come to offer her to you. Obtain for your poor Zeid a writ of divorce."
The prophet's face showed his satisfaction. "I could never accept such a sacrifice," he said, hesitatingly.
"My life, my all, even to my beloved wife, belongs to my master," returned Zeid. "His pleasure stands to me before aught else."
"So be it, then, most faithful," said the prophet. "O Zeid, my more than son, a glorious reward is withheld for you."
Then, as ever, a revelation of the Koran came seasonably ere another day, to remove every impediment to the union of Mohammed and Zeinab.
"But when Zeid had determined the matter concerning her, and had resolved to divorce her, we joined her in marriage unto thee, lest a crime should be charged on the true believers in marrying the wives of their adopted sons: and the command of God is to be performed. No crime is to be charged on the prophet as to what God hath allowed him."
There were those in Medina who resented Mohammed's selfishness in thus appropriating Zeinab to himself, and there were those who questioned the honor of such a proceeding; but this questioning went on mostly among the few Bedouin adherents who had flocked into the town in his service, for the most sacred oath of the highest class of Bedouins has long been, "By the honor of my women!"
In none did the prophet's action inspire more disgust than in our two friends, Yusuf and Amzi. Amzi had long since lost all faith in the prophet as a divine representative; and this marriage with Zeinab only confirmed his distrust.
"Pah!" he said to Yusuf, "he not only lets his own impulses sway him, but he uses the sanction of heaven to authorize the satisfaction of every desire, no matter who is trampled upon in the proceeding. Was there ever such sacrilege?"
Yusuf returned: "For this I amthankful,brother: that you at last apply the term 'sacrilege' to the claims of this impostor."
"Think you he is no longer in earnest at all for the raising of his countrymen from idolatry?"
"He seeks to throw down idols, but to raise himself in their stead. Cupidity and ambition, Amzi, have well-nigh smothered every struggling seed of good in Mohammed's haughty bosom."
"Do you not think that, at the beginning, he imagined himself inspired?"
"Mohammed is strangely visionary. At the beginning he, doubtless, thought he saw visions, but, if the man thinks himself inspired now, he is mad."
"Yet what a personality he has!" said Amzi, musingly. "What a charm he bears! How his least word is sufficient to move this crowd of howling fanatics!"
"A man who might be an angel of light, were he truly under divine guidance," returned Yusuf. "And, mark me, Amzi, his influence will not stop with this generation. The influence of every man on God's earth goes on ever-rolling, ever-unceasing, down the long tide of eternity; but, in every age, there are those who, like Mohammed, possess such an individuality, such a personality, that their power goes on increasing, crashing like the avalanche down my native mountains."
"How eloquently such a thought appeals to right impulse, right action!" said Amzi, thoughtfully. "Did a man realize its import fully, he would surely be spurred on to act, not to sit idly letting the world drift by."
"'No man liveth unto himself,'" said Yusuf slowly. "Whether we will it or not, we are each of us ever exerting some influence for good or for ill upon those with whom we come in contact. No one can be neutral. Acts often speak in thunder-tones, when mere words are heard but in whispers."
"I fear me, Yusuf," said the Meccan, with a half-smile, "that Amzi has neither thundered in action, nor even whispered in words. So little good has he done, that he almost hates to think of your great influence theory."
Yusuf smiled and slipped his arm about the Meccan's shoulder. "Amzi, the name of 'benevolent' belies your words," he said. "Think you that your home duties faithfully performed, your pure and upright life, pass for naught?"
"You would stand aghast, Yusuf," returned Amzi, "if I told you the amount of time that I have squandered, simply in dreaming, smoking, and taking my ease."
"Time is a precious gift," replied Yusuf, "it flows on and on as a great river towards the sea, and never returns. It appears to me, every day, more clearly as the talent given to all men to be used rightly. I, as well as you, have let precious hours pass, and, in doing so, we have both done wrong. Yet I pray that we may every day see, more and more, the necessity of well occupying the hours,—'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'"
"Would that I had your decision of purpose, your firmness of will!" said Amzi, wistfully. "Yusuf, it would be impossible for me to spend all my time as you do,—visiting, relieving, studying, speaking ever the word in season, and ever working for others. I should miss mykaif."
"Even if you know it was in the cause of the Lord?" asked Yusuf, with gentle reproof. "Yet, Amzi, you have done as much as I, considering your opportunities. The great thing is to do faithfully whatever comes to one's hand, whether that be great or small. Know you not that it was said to him who had received only two talents, 'Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things.' As bright crowns await the humble home-workers as the great movers of earth, provided all be done 'as unto the Lord.'"
"But," returned Amzi, impatiently, "my 'good works,' as you call them, have not been done 'as unto the Lord.' My charities have been done simply because the sight of misery caused me to feel unhappy. I felt pity for the wretched, and in relieving them set my own mind at ease, and gave satisfaction to myself. I feel that it is right to do certain things, and so I do them under a sense of moral obligation."
"Then," said Yusuf, "has this acting under a sense of moral obligation brought you perfect satisfaction, perfect rest?"
"Frankly, it has not."
Yusuf rose, and, placing both hands on Amzi's shoulders, said earnestly: "My friend, who can say that every good impulse of man may not be an outcome of the divine nature implanted in him by the Creator, and which, if watered and developed, will surely burst into the flower of goodness when once the influence of God's Spirit is fully recognized and ever invoked? Amzi, you have many such seeds of innate good. Your very longings for good, your tone of late, show me that you are near this blessed recognition. Why will you not believe? Why will you not embrace the Lord Jesus Christ? We are all weak of ourselves, but we have strength in him. Amzi, my friend, pray for yourself."
He turned abruptly and left Amzi alone, to ponder long and earnestly over the conversation of the past hour.
"Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console."—Colton.
"Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console."—Colton.
And now began a veritable reign of terror for the Jews of Medina. The first evidence of the closing of Mohammed's iron hand was shown in his forcing them to make Mecca, rather than Jerusalem, their kebla, or point of prayer. Many refused to obey this command, and were consequently dragged off to await the pleasure of the prophet.
At first the keenest edge of Moslem vindictiveness seemed to be directed against the bards or poets, for the power of stirring andpathetic poetry in arousing the passionate Oriental blood to revenge was recognized as an instrument too potent to be overlooked.
Ere long even the form of imprisonment was, to a great extent, set aside, and the knife of the assassin was set at work. Among those who thus fell were Kaab, a Jewish poet who strove to incite the Koreish to aggressive measures against the Moslems; and Assina, a young woman who had been guilty of writing satires directed against the prophet himself.
Yusuf and Amzi became greatly alarmed for the safety of Dumah. Every possible means of rendering assistance to the poor singer seemed to be cut off. They could not even find any clue to his whereabouts, and feared that he, too, had fallen beneath some treacherous blade.
As yet, Amzi and Yusuf had been permitted to wander at will. For hours and hours did they roam about the streets seeking for some clue to Dumah's place of imprisonment, but all efforts were futile, until one day Amzi heard a faint voice singing in the cellar of one of the Moslem buildings. He lay down by the wall, closed his eyes, and strained his ears to catch the sound. It was assuredly Dumah, singing weakly:
"Oh, why will they not come,The friends of Dumah!For living death is upon him,And the walls of his tomb close over,Yet will not in mercy fall on him.Does the sun shine still on the mountain,And the trees wave?Do the birds still sing in the palm-trees,And the flowers still bloom in Kuba?And yet doth Dumah languish"But Dumah's friends have forgotten him,Nor seek him more,And even the angels vanish,And the tomb is all about him:O Death, come, haste to Dumah!"
"Oh, why will they not come,The friends of Dumah!For living death is upon him,And the walls of his tomb close over,Yet will not in mercy fall on him.Does the sun shine still on the mountain,And the trees wave?Do the birds still sing in the palm-trees,And the flowers still bloom in Kuba?And yet doth Dumah languish
"But Dumah's friends have forgotten him,Nor seek him more,And even the angels vanish,And the tomb is all about him:O Death, come, haste to Dumah!"
The voice sank away in a low wail, and Amzi sprang up. His first impulse was to rush in and batter at the door of Dumah's cell; his second, to call words of comfort through the wall. Yet either would be imprudent and might ruin all, so he hastened home to Yusuf.
"I will go to him immediately," said the priest.
"But how?"
"In disguise if need be," was the reply.
"In disguise!" exclaimed Amzi. "Friend, with your physique, think you you can disguise yourself? Not a Moslem in Mecca who does not know the figure of Yusuf the Christian. Nay, Yusuf, your friend Amzi can effect a disguise much more easily. Here,"—running his fingers through his gray beard,—"a few grains of black dye can soon transform this; some stain will change the Meccan's ruddy cheeks into the brown of a desert Arab. The thing is easy."
"As you will, then," said the priest; and the two were soon busy at work at the transforming process.
With the garb of a Moslem soldier, Amzi was soon, to all appearance, a passable Mussulman, with divided beard, and chocolate-brown skin.
He set out, and, having arrived at the door of the sort of barracks in which Dumah was imprisoned, mingled with the soldiers, quite unnoticed among the new arrivals who constantly swelled the prophet's army.
With the greatest difficulty, yet without exciting apparent suspicion, he found out the exact spot in which Dumah was confined. Upon the first opportunity he slipped noiselessly after the attendant who was carrying the prisoner's pittance of food. Under his robe he had tools for excavating a hole beneath the wall, and his plan was to step silently into the room, secrete himself behind the door, and permit himself to be locked in, trusting to subsequent efforts for effecting the freedom of himself and Dumah.
Silently he glided into the darkened room behind the keeper. All within seemed dark as night after the brighter light without; but Dumah's eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could see more clearly. He penetrated the disguise at once.
"Amzi! Amzi!" he cried out delightedly, "you have come! You have come!"
Amzi knew that all was undone.
"Treachery!" called the keeper.
The Moslems came pouring into the room. Amzi was overpowered, and pinioned on the spot.
"What means this?" cried Asru, the captain of the guard.
"Treachery, if it please you," returned the keeper. "An asp which has been in our camp with its poison-fangs hid! No Moslem, but an enemy—a friend of this dotard poet!"
"Search him!" was the order.
The tools were found.
"Aha!" said the captain. "Most conclusive proof, wretch! We will teach you, knave, that foxes are sometimes trapped in their own wiles. Off with him! Chain him!"
Amzi was hurried off, and Asru strode away to execute some other act of so-called justice. He was a man of immense stature, heavy-featured, and covered with pock-marks, yet his face was full of strength of character, and bore traces of candor and honesty, though the lines about the mouth told of unrestrained cruelty and passion.
At home Yusuf waited in an agony of suspense. The day passed into night, the night into day, the day into night again, yet Amzi did not come. Yusuf could bear it no longer. Anything was better than this awful waiting. Only once he almost gave up hope and cried in the words of the Psalmist, "O Lord, why castest thou off my soul? Why hidest thou thy face from me?" Then like balm of healing came the words, "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee; he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved."
Dressed in his quiet, scholarly raiment, and quite unarmed, he set out in search of Amzi. Arriving at the place, he saw none whom he knew. He was stopped at the door.
"I wish to see the captain who has command here," he said.
"You are a peaceable-looking citizen enough," said a guard, "yet we have orders to search all new-comers, and you will have to submit, stranger."
Yusuf was searched, but as neither arms nor tools were found upon him, he was allowed to have audience with the captain.
"Ah!" said Asru, recognizing him at once. "What seeks Yusuf, a Christian, of a follower of Mohammed the prophet?"
"I seek but the deliverance of two harmless, inoffensive friends," he replied.
"A bold request, truly," said the other. "Yet have I not forgotten my debt of gratitude to you. I have not forgotten that it was Yusuf who nursed me through the foul disease whose marks I yet bear, when all others fled;" and he passed his hand over his pock-marked face.
"Of that speak not," returned Yusuf, with a gesture of impatience. "'Twas but the service which any man with a heart may render to a needy brother. However, if you are grateful, as you say, you can more than repay the debt, you can make me indebted to you, by telling me aught of Amzi, the benevolent Meccan, whose hand would not take the life of a worm were he not forced into it."
"He is here in chains," said Asru haughtily, "as every spy who enters a Moslem camp should be."
"Amzi is no spy!" declared Yusuf emphatically.
"His sole object, then, was to free that half-witted poet?" asked Asru, incredulously.
"It was none other. He loves him as his own son, as do I. Amzi would suffer death willingly, Yusuf would suffer death willingly, would it spare that poor, confiding innocent!"
The priest's eyes were flashing, and his tones bore witness to his earnestness. He did not notice, nor did Asru, a pair of bright eyes that peered at him from the chink of the doorway; he did not know that a face full of petty, vindictive spite was partially hidden by the darkness without, or that two keen ears were listening to every word he said.
"Yusuf," returned the captain in a low tone, "you are the only man who has ever seemed to me good. Your words, at least, are ever truth. You wonder, then, that I follow the prophet? Simply because the excitement of war suits me, and"—he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh—"it is the best policy to be on the winning side. Most of these crazed idiots believe in him, and fearthat he will work enchantments upon them if they do not; but the doctrine of the sword and of plunder goes farther with a few, of whom Asru is one. Because I believe in you, Yusuf, I shall try to carry out your request. But it would cost me my life were it found out, so it must be seemingly by chance. Rest assured that, bad as I am, cruel as I am, I shall see that Yusuf's friends have some 'accidental' way of escape."
So spoke Asru, nor knew that a pair of feet were hurrying and shuffling towards the prophet, while a soldier kept guard at the door.
"May heaven bless you for this!" cried the priest. "So long as Amzi and Yusuf breathe you shall not lack an earthly friend."
"Tush!" exclaimed the captain. "'Tis but the wish to make old scores even. You serve me; I serve you. We are even."
"Then I shall leave you," said Yusuf, rising with a smile.
Asru opened the door.
"Hold!" cried a guard. "By order of the prophet, Asru is my prisoner!"
"Wherefore?" cried Asru, attempting to seize his dagger.
"Because, though it is politic to be on the winning side, it is not always safe to be a traitor and to countermand Mohammed's orders," replied the prophet's musical voice, as the soldiers gave way to permit his advance.
Asru freed himself and dashed forward, wielding his dagger right and left, but it was a rash effort. He was instantly overpowered and bound hand and foot. The priest shared the same fate.
The prophet looked down upon the captain. "Asru," he said, "you whom I deemed a most faithful one, you who have proved false, know that death is the meed of a traitor. Yet that you may know Mohammed can show mercy, I give you your life. For the sake of your past services I grant it you, and trust that, having learned obedience and humility, you may once again grace our battle-fields nobly. Guards, chain him, yet see that he is kept in easy confinement and lacks nothing. Send me Uzza."
The Oman Arab came forward. He was a dark-browed man, under-sized, and with one shoulder higher than the other. His eyes were long and narrow, with a look of extreme cunning about them, and his mouth was cruel, his lips being pressed together so tightly that they looked like a long white line.
"Upon you, Uzza, O faithful, as next in command, I confer the honor of the position left vacant by Asru. Do thou carry out its obligations with honor to thyself and to the prophet of Allah."
Uzza prostrated himself to the ground.
Mohammed turned to Yusuf. "Whom have we here? What said you in your accusation, Abraham? An accomplice of Asru, was it?"
The little peddler, the silent watcher at the door, came forward, hopping along as usual, but with malignant triumph in his face.
"This, O prophet," he said, making obeisance, "is not only an accomplice of Asru, but a sworn enemy of the prophet of Allah and of all who believe in him."
"Why, methinks I have seen him before," said Mohammed, passing his hand over his brow. "Is not this the gentle friend of Amzi?"
"He is the friend of Amzi," returned the Jew, "but even Amzi lies in chains as a spy among the Moslems."
"I had forgotten," said the prophet. "Yet what harm hath this gentle Meccan done?"
"He is Yusuf, the Magian priest," said the Jew. "And believe, O prophet of Allah, the Magians are your most bitter enemies."
Uzza started and leaned forward with intense interest. Yusuf felt his burning gaze fixed on his face.
"What proof have you that this is a Magian priest?" asked the prophet, wearily.
"See!" exclaimed the Jew.
He tore back the priest's garment, and there was the red mark of the torch outlined distinctly against the white skin.
"Ha!" cried Uzza, starting forward, theveins of his forehead swelling with excitement. "The very mark! The secret mark of the priests among those who worship fire and the sun! This, O Mohammed, is not only a priest, but a priest who has fed the temple fires, and as such has been pledged to uphold the Guebre religion at whatever cost."
Yusuf said nothing.
"Can you not speak, Yusuf?" asked Mohammed. "Have you no word to say to all this?"
"It is all true, O Mohammed," replied Yusuf, quietly. "It is true that in my youthful days I was a priest at Guebre altars. Now, I am not Yusuf the Magian priest, but Yusuf the Christian, and a humble follower of our Most High God and his Son Jesus."
"Dare you thus proclaim yourself a Christian to my very face?" exclaimed Mohammed. "Magian or Christian, ye are all alike enemies. Off with him! Do with him as you will, Uzza,—yet," relenting, "I commend him to your mercy." He turned abruptly and left the apartment.
Yusuf was immediately taken and thrown into a close, dark room. He was still bound hand and foot.
The little Jew entered, and sat down with his head on one side.
"He knows that Yusuf's hands reek with blood," said Uzza."He knows that Yusuf's hands reek with blood," said Uzza.—Seepage 58.
"Now, proud Yusuf," he said, "has come Abraham's day. Once it was Yusuf's day; then the poor peddler, the little dervish, was scourged and chained, and well-nigh smothered in that vile Meccan chamber. Now it has come Abraham's day, and Yusuf and Abraham will be even. How does this suit your angelic constitution? Angelic as you are, you cannot slip through chains and bolted doors so easily as the little Jew. Oh, Yusuf, are you not happy? Uzza hates you;I saw it in his face. Did you ever know him before?" The Jew's propensity for news was to the fore as usual.
Yusuf answered nothing.
"Tell me," said the Jew, giving him ashake,"what does Uzza know of you?"
"He knows," said a thin, grating voice from behind, "that Yusuf's hands reek with the blood of Uzza's only child, the fair littleImri, murdered in the cause of religion; and ere I could reach him—yes, priest, with vengeance in my heart, for had I found you then your blood would have blotted out the stain of my child's on your altar!—the false priest had fled, forsaken the reeking altar, left it black in ashes, black as his own false heart. And then, that vengeance might be satisfied, was Uzza's blade turned against the aged grandmother who had delivered the little one up to Persian gods. O priest, your work is past, but not forgotten!"
"Uzza," cried the priest, "I neither ask nor hope for mercy. Yet would God I could restore you your child! Its smile and its death gurgle have haunted my dreams through these long years! 'Twas in my heathendom I did it!"
"That excuse will not give her back to me," said Uzza, stepping out of the room with the Jew, as the warden came with the keys.
It was not Uzza's purpose to bring about Yusuf's speedy death. As the cat torments the mouse which has fallen into its power, so he resolved to keep the priest on the rack for a considerable length of time.
Hearing of the conversation between him and Asru, he knew that exquisite torture could be inflicted on the priest through Dumah, and determined to strike at him first through the poor singer. Dumah's execution was, accordingly, ordered.
Early one morning, Amzi, looking out of a little chink in his window through which the bare court-yard below was visible, was horrified to see a scene revolting in its every detail, and over which we shall hasten as speedily as may be.
There in the gray morning light stood Yusuf, bound and forced to look on at the death of the bright-haired singer, whose sunny smile had been as a ray of sunshine to the two men.
Amzi looked on as if turned to stone—heard Dumah's last cheerful words, "Do not weep, Yusuf; it will be all flowers, all angels, soon. Dumah is going home happy,"—then, he fell on his face, and so lay for hours unconscious of all. Reason came slowly back, and he realized that another of the tragedies only too common in those perilous days had taken place.
"I am going home happy," rang in his ears. The cold moonlight crept in, shining in a dead silver bar on the ceiling. Amzi lay looking at it, until it seemed a path of glory leading, for Dumah's feet, through the window and up to heaven.
"I am going home happy." Was that home Amzi's home too? Ah, he had never thought of it as his home, though he remembered the words—"In my Father's house are many mansions." He imagined he saw Dumah in one of those bright mansions, happy in eternal love and sunshine, while he, Amzi, was without.
For the first time in his life Amzi was concerned deeply about his soul; and now there was no Yusuf to answer his questions. Ere another day had passed he, too, might be called upon to undergo Dumah's fate. He could not say "I am going home happy." How, then, might this blessed assurance be his? He strove to remember Yusuf's words, but they seemed to flit away from his memory. His whole life appeared so listless, so selfish, so taken up with gratification of self! At last he seemed a sinner. How could he obtain forgiveness?
He turned over in agony, and the little stone tablet fell against his bosom. With difficulty, on account of the manacles on his hands, he drew it forth and traced the words with his finger.
"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."
As when a black cloud passes away from the moon and a flood of brightness fills thewhole air below, so the light burst upon Amzi. He saw it all now! His talk with Yusuf on the love of God came back to him, and he shouted aloud with joy:
"Praise the Lord, he hath set me free!"
"Then for the sake of mercy, help me to get out of this too," said a voice from the other side of the partition. It was Asru.
"Alas, my friend," returned Amzi, "chains are still on my body. It is my soul that soareth upward as an eagle."
"Wherefore?"
Amzi read the verse of Scripture aloud.
"I have heard somewhat of that before," said Asru. "Read it again."
Amzi did so, and explained it as well as he could. Asru listened eagerly. This new creed interested him by its novelty, especially since he was in forced inaction and had nothing else to think of. But it also appealed to a heart which had some noble traits among many evil ones; and as Amzi talked, sorrow for his sins came upon him.
"But the promise cannot be given to such as I," he said, wistfully. "A long life of wickedness surely cannot win forgiveness."
"O friend," returned Amzi, eagerly, "'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' How often did they tell me those words and I would not believe, could not understand!"
And then Amzi told the story of the thief on the cross, as he had read it and talked it over with Yusuf. His voice thrilled with eagerness, and, on the other side of the wall, Asru wept tears of repentance. To him too, the door was opening, and a great longing for the love of Christ and for a better life filled his bosom. So they talked until the noise of the awakening Moslems in the passage without rendered it impossible for them to hear each other. But joy had come to both Amzi and Asru within the prison-walls.
"I had rather choose to be a pilgrim on earth with Thee than without Thee to possess heaven. Where Thou art, there is heaven: and where thou art not, there is death and hell."—Thomas á Kempis.
"I had rather choose to be a pilgrim on earth with Thee than without Thee to possess heaven. Where Thou art, there is heaven: and where thou art not, there is death and hell."—Thomas á Kempis.
It was a scene perfect in its calm beauty. A small, low, white house, flat-roofed, and dazzlingly clean, nestled at the foot of one of the fairest hills in Palestine; and before the door swept the river Jordan, plashing with that low, soft ripple which is music everywhere, but nowhere more so than in the hot countries of the East.
A grove of banana and orange-trees sheltered the house, and the delicate fragrance of the ripening fruit mingled with the perfume of late roses. On the green hills near, sheep rambled at will, and an occasional low bleat arose above the busy hum of bees, giving an air of life to the quiet scene.
In the shade of the trees sat Nathan, his wife and Mary. They had been talking of Manasseh,—poor Manasseh, left behind in barren Arabia! Nathan too had wanted to stay with his distressed countrymen, but failing health had forced him to seek the more genial atmosphere of the North; and, after a long, tedious journey, he at last found himself safe once more in his beloved Palestine, poor in worldly goods, yet serene and hopeful as ever.
And fortune was at last smiling on the Jewish family. Nathan's health had come back to him in the clearer, more bracing air of the Northern land, his flocks were increasing, and the only gloom upon their perfect happiness was the absence of Manasseh, from whom they were not likely to hear soon. And yet they gloried in knowing that Manasseh had chosen to meet tribulation for the sake of his faith, and that, wherever he was, he was helping others and fighting on the side of right.
"Father," said Mary, "how grand it is to be able to do something great and noble in the cause! Were I a man, I would go with Manasseh to fight for the Cross."
Nathan stroked her hair softly. "The life of everyone who is consecrated to God isdirected by him," he said. "To Manasseh is given the privilege of defending the faith and helping the weak by his strong, young arm; to Mary is given the humble, loving life in which she may serve God just as truly and do just as great a work in faithfully performing her own little part. Think you not so, mother?"
"Ah, yes," returned the mother, with her gentle smile. "Life is like the cloth woven little by little, until the whole pattern shows in the finished work; and it matters not whether the pattern be large or small. So the little things of life, done well for Christ's sake, will at last make a noble whole of which none need be ashamed."
"But mother, watching the sheep, grinding the meal, washing the garments, seem such very little things."
"Yet all these are very necessary things," returned the mother quietly, "and if done cheerfully and willingly, call for an unselfish heart. A gentle, loving life lived amid little cares and trials is no small thing, my child."
Mary kissed her mother. "Mother, you always say what comforts one; you always make me wish to live more patiently and lovingly."
"And yet, Mary," said her father, "mother's life has been one round of small duties."
Mary sat thinking for a moment. "Yes, father," she answered slowly, "I see now that mother's life has been the very best sermon on duty. I shall try to be patient and happy in simply doing well whatever my hands find to do. But I wish Manasseh were home;" and she looked wistfully to the west, where bands of color were spreading up the sky, saffron at the horizon, blending into gold and tender green above, while all melted into a sapphire dome streaked and flecked with rosy pink rays and bars.
"How he would enjoy this glorious sunset! Oh, father, how dreadful if he were to be killed!—if he were nevermore to sit with us looking at the sunsets!" Her voice trembled a little as she spoke.
"We are committing him to the care of Almighty God," returned Nathan, solemnly. "God is love, and whatever he does will be best."
"You find great comfort, father, in believing that 'all things work together for good to them that love God,'" said Mary.
"For the children of God, everything that happens must be best."
"Even persecution and death?"
"Even persecution and death, if God so will."
Mary looked at his placid face for a long time, then she said: "How very peaceful you and mother are!"
"How could we be otherwise," the father replied, smiling, "with Jesus with us each hour, each moment? And we know that he 'will never leave nor forsake us.' I think, too, that he is very close to my daughter. Mary, is there anything in this world that could take the place of Jesus to you? Would wealth or honor or any earthly joy make you perfectly happy if you could never pray to Jesus more, never feel him near you as an ever-present Friend, nevermore have the hope of seeing his face?"
Mary clasped her hands, and her face glowed. "Never, oh, never!" she cried. "I would rather be like poor blind Bartimeus begging by the wayside, yet able to call, 'Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!'"
The sun had now set, and the sky had faded with that suddenness common in Eastern lands.
Nathan arose. "Let us now offer up prayer for the safety of Manasseh, and for the steadfastness of the brethren; for we know that where two or three are gathered together in Jesus' name, there is he in the midst of them. Let us pray!"
The three knelt in the dim chamber, with silence about and the evening stars above, and prayed for the lad who, amid very different scenes, was in the heart of the strange revolution. And then they sang the words of that sublime psalm, than which no grander poem was ever written: