SOMEWHERE out on the Syrian hills a shepherd was engaged in a most interesting occupation. At the door of the sheepfold he was holding a light rod, forked at one end, under which the flock passed as he counted. It was always the last task of the evening.
“Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven. So far nothing hath disturbed thee through the day now gone. Seventy-eight, seventy-nine. Nay, Master Bold, thou wilt wait thy turn. Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two. Come, thou timid one, thy mother is already in and calleth for thee. Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five. Now, Bright Eyes, what mischief art thou up to? This rod is a means of counting, but it can be turned into a means of punishment if it be necessary to make thee see thy duty. Eighty-six, eighty-seven. Nay, not so much crowding there. Youth is eager, knowing not that time is long and weariness certain. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. What, my pearl, the heat of the day hath been too much for thee? Wait thou.”
The shepherd hastily dipped his fingers in the horn of olive oil that hung at his belt and anointed its temples.
“There, so shalt thou be refreshed, and here, do thou drink of this cup of cold water which overfloweth for thee.”
The needy one attended to, he went on with his count of the others. “Ninety-one, ninety-two—”
Two horsemen approached, the one behind leading a third animal which was without a rider. At a sign, the one with the led horse halted while the other dismounted and with some impatience waited until the long enumeration was finished. Then he advanced toward the shepherd.
“Peace be unto thee.”
“And to thee,” the shepherd made answer. “Thou art in uniform. Hast thou orders for thy servant? Quickly, thy name and errand. One of my sheep hath strayed and I go to seek it, hastening lest the darkness descend and I be unable to find it.”
“Well thou knowest, Benjamin, that I am Isaac, servant to Naaman, commander-in-chief of the armies of Syria, but I come on a private and not on an official errand. Lead thou the way and I will go with thee.”
There was an awkward silence broken at last by the soldier: “Thou art looking somewhat haggard since I saw thee last, Benjamin.”
“I have passed through much sorrow of spirit, Isaac.”
“But surely thou hast no fault to find with thy treatment. Thou hast a well-built sheepfold: the long, low buildings to shelter thy flock in storms, the large space for them to roam in when thou dost not bring them to pasture, and the whole surrounded by wide stone walls, surmounted by sharp thorns to keep out wild beasts. Nor have we a hard master to serve. Thy faithfulness and ability will be noted by those who have charge of such matters for the king.”
The shepherd’s tones were infinitely sad: “Could any reward compensate my parents for the loss of their only son; for their loneliness and grief and real need of me? Could any reward make up to my little sister for the brother who should guard and guide her? Could any reward atone to me for the loss of my well-beloved, my betrothed?”
The light was already dim as they stumbled over the rocks and through patches of woodland, the long briars catching at their garments and tearing the flesh. They passed another sheepfold. Benjamin raised his voice in a shout: “Hast thou found a sheep which is lost?”
Clearly the answer came back: “Nay, we have none but our own.”
Sighing, the shepherd went on, the soldier abreast of him.
“I have come to redeem my pledge, Benjamin.”
The other’s face was sadly accusing. “Here, on these lonely hills, with only the fast-falling night for a witness, and not before the eyes of men?”
The soldier’s face flushed. “If thou meanest our last meeting on the way hither, I had thought thou wouldst understand. It was through no information furnished by me that thou wert taken, nor was it by my band. Naaman is Captain of the Host. I have but a few men under me and my authority is small. I could not help thee then. Besides, thou wert in no personal danger, else I would have risked it. It was thy flock of which Eleazer’s company was so proud. They took thee because the sheep knew thy voice but a stranger would they not follow, fleeing from any but thee.”
A contemptuous smile played around Benjamin’s mouth. He unclasped from his wrist a broad gold bracelet and handed it to Isaac.
“I thought thou wouldst be apt to consider this too costly a token,” he said.
A pained look crossed Isaac’s face. “I redeem it with what hath cost me more: the delight of a woman’s presence and a woman’s sweetness and a woman’s wonderful devotion which otherwise might have been mine. I have come to invite thee to a wedding—thine own wedding—with Rachel of Hannathon in the Land of Israel.”
The shepherd was plainly startled. “Thou hast come to ask me to marry my betrothed? I do not understand.”
“She was captured about the time thou wert by one of the men in my company,” the soldier explained. “I am glad to say I was able to save her from familiarity at the hands of the soldiers—”
“For which I am grateful to thee, Isaac.”
“But three days’ journey from Damascus she left us with another captive, a young lad called ‘Nathan,’ being sore afraid. By accident I discovered her hiding place, but knew not it was the maid of my dreams, she being enveloped in her wedding veil, as I afterward learned it was. Nevertheless, I discovered her identity in time to soften the hardships of the journey with food and water, together with the leopard’s skin thou gavest me, her clothing being insufficient protection against the cold winds which swept down from the Lebanons. I was quite sure the two would come to Damascus, so I had the gate watched and word brought to me of her arrival. She appeared to be alone, the boy having disappeared, and though she had wandered far out of her way in the city, I found her after some search and conducted her, as she desired, to the street of the merchants of Israel. Her kinsman, however, whom we sought, had died a month before.”
Benjamin’s voice betrayed uneasiness. “And then?”
“And then I found lodging for her in the house of one, Amos the perfumer, also of Israel, since which time she hath been there cared for, provided with necessary raiment and awaiteth thee, desiring that thou come quickly.”
Benjamin’s attitude became questioning. “It is now the height of the rainy season. All this occurred months ago and I hear but now.”
“Thou art hearing as soon as it was convenient for me to bring thee word. Am I in a place of authority? Do I not come and go at another’s bidding? Besides, it was but little more than a week ago that she told me of the whispered conversations which always break off when she appeareth, the averted glances and, almost worse than this, the pitying kindness of her friends—”
The shepherd’s face grew white and stern. “Then didst thou think it was time to send for the one who would not fail her? I suppose, Isaac, thou hast not thought of marrying the maiden—considering the circumstances.”
The soldier sought to restrain his anger. “I did,” he answered, “or at least I would have had it not been for another maiden to whom I would have found it hard to explain matters. This other—”
“I see it all,” the shepherd responded, bitterly. “Having a little authority and noting that the maid was fair, she was thy lawful prey, whereas the maiden who is surrounded by care and affection thou canst not bear to offend. My little Rachel, pure as the snows of Hermon, and entirely at thy mercy—”
He raised his stout staff. The soldier threw up one arm to ward off the blow but he did not draw the short sword which hung at his girdle.
“Thou dost not let me make myself clear,” he said, gently, “but thou shalt know for thyself. And another sorrow I have unwittingly brought thee. At the same time that Rachel was taken by my band, Miriam was also captured, although I knew not she was thy sister.”
Benjamin lowered his staff, grief succeeding indignation. “And what of her? Tell me.”
“I have myself seen to her welfare, and my errand here is to tell thee of both maidens and to conduct thee to them that thou mayest assure thyself—”
Benjamin assented briefly. At that moment his keen ear detected the far-off bleat of a sheep. Guided by its cries, he made his way to it as quickly as possible and with his light, hooked rod disentangled its wool from the cruel thorns which caught and tore his own flesh meanwhile. Catching the forelegs together with one hand and the hindlegs with the other, he swung the exhausted animal over his shoulder and began retracing his steps. Isaac followed, a dozen times essaying to reopen the subject upon which he had come prepared to speak, and a dozen times being repulsed by the gloom in which Benjamin seemed wrapped.
They passed the sheepfold where inquiry had earlier been made and the shepherd raised his voice in a shout, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.”
Arriving at last whence they had started and the weary and injured animal tenderly cared for, Isaac and Benjamin took opposite sides of the fire, each preferring the company of his own bitter thoughts to conversation. A recumbent shepherd kept watch before the door of the fold. Two more slept. To use the tongue of Israel would have been to insure privacy to the message, but each waited for the other. If Isaac were sufficiently penitent, thought Benjamin, he would talk even though the words came falteringly. As it was, his errand was one of expediency and no real satisfaction would be gained by forcing from his lips details of the confession he should make voluntarily. If, thought Isaac, Benjamin wished to ask questions, he would answer them fully, but why give unasked information which was distorted and misunderstood as soon as uttered? And so, each nursing a sense of injury, the long night passed.
A couple of days were spent in making preparation for the care of the flock while Benjamin should be away, and the fourth they started for Damascus. At dawn a gentle rain was falling. The substitute shepherd was delighted. Since the flock must remain within shelter of the fold while the storm lasted, it were that much easier cared for. To the three whose horses stood waiting, the rain mattered not at all. Benjamin moved here and there, giving directions and making sure that all was well before his departure. Once he paused and took a sick lamb in his arms:
“I go to bring another,” he whispered, tenderly, “bruised and wounded as thou art, but her spirit, like thine, shall be healed with the oil of loving-kindness.”
An hour later he was riding across the rain-soaked plain, the other horseman a little in advance, the servant in the rear. The two foremost were quite unchanged, the one lost in the depths of profound irritation, the other in melancholy, and neither speaking save when their common errand made it necessary.
Miriam took an early opportunity of again calling upon the mistress of the household. She felt no sense of obligation beyond her promise. The visit was entirely a friendly one and was so understood. On the threshold she paused with a bright smile of greeting, which was cordially returned. Entering, she found a cushion of the right height, threw it upon the floor and sat down, resting her arms confidingly on Adah’s lap, studying the face above hers.
“I have noticed how sad thou art, and I think it is the way thy house is built. Thou wouldst not be nearly so lonely if thy dwelling were like ours in Israel: all in one big room with the animals in one part and the family on a raised floor in the other. Of course thou hast too large a household for that, but thou dost not know how comforting it is to hear the animals stamping around in their stalls at night and on rainy days. Here it is so quiet I cannot sleep sometimes.”
Adah frequently did not sleep, but she had never attributed it to the silence.
“If thou couldst but rise early in the morning,” Miriam continued with animation, “and grind the wheat—thou art so rich thou couldst have an ass or a camel harnessed to the mill to do the hardest part of the work—and if thou couldst make up the dough quickly and bake it in cakes for thy family’s breakfast, it would give thee so much delight. Hast thou never tried it?”
“Not the pleasure of toil, Miriam, but I have sometimes wondered—”
“And if thou wouldst pretend to find fault because thy bread is eaten so fast and thy husband would pretend to find fault because thou hast not baked enough, and he would caress thee and say thou canst bake the best bread to be found in any house in Israel—I mean in Syria—it would be such joy to thee. Hast thou never known this?”
“Not the joy of service, Miriam, but I have often thought—”
“And if thou didst see to the clothing of thy entire household instead of having Milcah do it for thee; I mean the spinning and weaving and washing, and couldst look after the conduct and instruction of thy men servants and thy maid servants. If, while thy husband sits in the gate, judging the cause of the people, thou wert also considering the needs of the poor, thou wouldst never have time to be sad. Hast thou never done these things?”
“Not enough to give me the happiness of being necessary, but I have sometimes envied those who were.”
Adah recollected herself with a start. To be making such undignified admissions! Her countenance settled back into its old lines of haughty indifference and Miriam was quick to notice the change. She took the older face tenderly between her hands and kissed it, quite unaware that she was not expected to take such liberties. Her voice was full of pity:
“Thou dost look so sorrowful. I never knew before how much thou dost need me. I can teach thee so much. I will show thee how to be happy.”
Adah thought it extremely doubtful, but it would have been cruel to discourage such cheerful confidence. Besides, she saw a loophole of escape from an embarrassing conversation: “Thou hast no time to give to me.”
Miriam pondered. “I will take time,” she said with decision, “just as much as I can spare from Isaac and Milcah and their mother.”
She ran to the door and looked appraisingly at the position of the sun on the courtyard foliage.
“I must go now,” she said; “it groweth late. See how the shadows lengthen?”
Adah, left alone, smiled, then she sighed. Alas, that the sorrow of the House of Naaman should be past the little maid’s generously offered assistance, past the ability of the wisest men and the greatest gods of Syria!