"Hail, victor!" he whispered, looking into the dead face. "Blessed be they who conquer death."

CHAPTER 25

The day was near its end. Soldiers of the cohort, bearers of the dead, harpers and singers filed through the gate of Herod's palace. Hard by, in Temple Street, were many people. An old man stood among them, his white beard falling low upon a purple robe, his face turned to the sky.

He sang as if unconscious of all around him. Often he raised his hand, which trembled like a leaf in the wind. Horses, maidens, and men halted to hear the words:

"Now is the day foretold of them who dwell in the dust of the vineyard.

Bow and be silent, ye children of G.o.d and ye of far countries.

Consider how many lie low in the old, immemorial vineyard.

Deep--fathom deep--is the dust of the dead 'neath the feet of the living.

"Gone are they and the work of their hands--all save their hope and desire have perished.

Only the flowers of the heart have endured-- only they in the waste of the ages, Ay--they have grown, but the hewn rock has crumbled away and the temples have fallen.

Bow, haughty people; ye live in the day of fulfilment--the day everlasting.

Soon the plough of oppression shall cease and the ox shall abandon the furrow.

Ready the field, and I sing of the sower whose grain has been gathered in heaven.

"Now is he come, with my voice and my soul I declare him.

Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty G.o.d, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace."

The flood of inspiration had pa.s.sed. The singer turned away. "It is Simeon," said a voice in the crowd. "He shall not die until his eyes have beheld the king of promise."

Those departing from the games of Herod resumed their march. At the gate of the castle of Antonia, Vergilius, with David and two armed equites, one bearing colors, left the squadron. They rode slowly towards the setting sun. Now there was not in all the world a city so wonderful as Jerusalem. Golden dome and tower were gleaming above white walls on the turquoise blue of the heavens.

"Good friend, I grieve for her who is dead," said Vergilius to David.

"She died for love," the other answered as one who would have done the same.

Vergilius looked not to right nor left. His dark, quivering plume was an apt symbol of thought and pa.s.sion beneath it. His blood was hot from the rush and wrath of battle, from hatred of them who had sought his life. He could hear the cry of Cyran; "Rise, rise, my beloved!"

Again, he was like as he had been there on the field of battle. He could not rise above his longing for revenge. He hated the emperor whose cruel message had wrung his heart; he hated Manius, who had sought to destroy him; he despised the vile and stealthy son of Herod, who had plotted to rob him of love and life; he had begun to doubt the goodness of the great Lawgiver.

No sooner had he found an enemy than his G.o.d was become a G.o.d of vengeance. The council, the continued failure of his prayers, the cruelty of impending misfortune, the death of Cyran had weakened the faith of Vergilius. He had begun to founder in the deep mystery of the world. The voice of the old singer had not broken the spell of bitter pa.s.sion. Vergilius trembled with haste to kill. He feared even that his anger would abate and leave him unavenged. There were memories which bade him to forgive, and of them was the gentle face of Arria, but he turned as one who would say "Begone!" He had not time even to consider what he should do to oppose the will of the emperor. As they rode on, his companion addressed the young commander.

"Saw you Manius in the balcony of Herod?"

"No."

"As I pa.s.sed beneath it I saw him by the side of Salome, and I heard her say: 'Not until you slay him shall I be your wife.' I fear she means you ill, good friend."

"She-cat!" exclaimed Vergilius. "'Tis a yowling breed that haunts the house of Herod."

They came soon to where a throng was gathered thick, so for a little they saw not a way to pa.s.s. In the midst were three men sitting upon tall, white camels, their trappings rich with colored silk and shining metal.

"They speak, to the people," said David. "It must be their words are as silver and gold."

"I doubt not they be story-tellers from the desert," said one behind.

The press parted; the camels had begun to move slowly. One of their riders hailed the young commander, saying, in a voice that rang like a trumpet:

"Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"

"I would I knew," was the answer of Vergilius.

"So shall ye soon," said the stranger. "We have seen his star in the east and have come to worship him."

The camels pa.s.sed with long, stately strides. The hors.e.m.e.n resumed their journey.

"Strange!" thought Vergilius, turning his charger and looking back.

"They be surely those who have travelled far."

The squad of cavalry, under plume and helmet, moved on, pa.s.sing the Joppa gate and riding slowly down a long hill.

"See the glowing clouds yonder," said Vergilius, pointing westward.

"Ay, they be fair as the tents of Kedar," was the answer of David.

"There is a great beauty in the sky and the blue hills," Vergilius remarked, thoughtfully.

"And you would kill, look not upon them--they are so fair."

"If I close my eyes, then, I do see a thing more fair."

"What?"

"The face of one I love. It is a love greater than all other things--fame or king or fatherland."

"Or revenge?" inquired David.

For a little Vergilius made no answer; but presently he said: "I am a Roman; who seeks my life shall lose his own."

They came upon a ewe lying in the roadway. She looked up with a mute appeal, but moved not. She seemed to reckon upon the kindness of them approaching. The squad parted, pa.s.sing on either side. All drew rein, and one, dismounting, stood a moment looking down at her. Then laying hold of her fleece, he moved the ewe tenderly aside.

"A sign and a wonder!" said the Roman knight, as they continued their journey. "That old fighter has no hand for kindness."

"But mark this miracle of G.o.d," said the friend of Vergilius. "He softens the heart of those with young and makes gentle the hand that touches them. Ay, has he not softened the heart of the world? 'Tis like a mother whose time is near."

Soon a purple dusk had overflooded the hills and risen above the splendor of Jerusalem. The old capital was now like a dim, mysterious, golden isle in a vast, azure sea. Vergilius thought, as he went on, of those camel-riders. He seemed to hear in the lift and fall of hoofs, in the rattle of scabbards, that strange cry: "Where is he that is born king of the Jews?"

Darkness fell upon those riding in silence on the lonely road.

Suddenly they drew rein, listening.

Said Vergilius, whispering: "I thought I heard voices."

"And I," said David, his words touched with awe. "'Twas like tens of thousands singing in some distant place."