OUT on the Syrian plains three horsemen plodded steadily through the storm. At last they halted, shivering, in the shelter of a great rock. One went about the necessary preparations for a slender meal, another faced his companion contritely.
“I am so sorry, Benjamin. I—”
“We usually are, Isaac, when we see what sorrow is wrought by our wrongdoing.”
“I have been trying to put myself in thy place, Benjamin. I can realize something of what thou hast suffered. I admit that it is all my fault that—”
“I have never thought of blaming anyone else, Isaac.”
“I wish,” impatiently, “that thou wouldst let me explain. I was greatly surprised that—”
“I am sure of it, Isaac. We go along doing what we want instead of what we ought, and we are always surprised when God’s ‘Thou shalt not’ makes us stop and think.”
The other made a gesture of despair. “Have I lost thy confidence entirely? If thou wouldst but let me tell the story instead of telling it thyself in thine own way, thou wouldst be better prepared—”
“Rachel and I have been companions since babyhood, Isaac, and never have I been unprepared for her lightest wish, nor am I unprepared now for her dire distress. As for my sister, it will go hard with thee if thou hast allowed ill to come to a child.” He closed his lips in a way that revealed both strength and determination.
The soldier faced him without flinching. “We near Damascus,” he said, coldly, “and it is necessary that we speak of certain arrangements. We wish to observe the usual customs, but our situation is peculiar: that which is usually furnished by the family of the maiden we must ourselves provide. Rachel will need festive robes and a veil and a girdle and a chaplet for her flowing hair, not mentioning the perfumery and the jewels which every bride desireth, and saying nothing, also, of thy festive robe and nuptial wreath and the myrrh and frankincense for thine adorning.”
The shepherd buried his face in his hands. “Not once have I thought of these things, but only of her need of me. And I a captive, without even a trinket I can sell, and my flock the stolen property of an enemy!”
Isaac tapped the bracelet so lately transferred from the other’s arm to his own. “I anticipated this when I asked for my pledge. When sold, as I intend it shall be, it will provide all and more, but I am curious to know why thou wert allowed to keep the token. Eleazer’s band which took thee is not noted for its gentleness nor its generosity.”
“I know not the reason, Isaac, save that I fought for it once and twice and thrice and was not overcome.”
His tone was abstracted; now it became passionate: “But thinkest thou I would take so much from thee—from thee?”
Isaac spoke soothingly: “Peradventure not for my sake, Benjamin, but for Rachel—whom we both love!”
The shepherd looked up quickly. “Love?” he queried, his mood changing to contempt. “But the other maiden more.”
Isaac laughed. “The other maiden—” All at once he became serious. “Thou wilt understand when I tell thee—” but a glance at his companion’s forbidding countenance caused him to shut his lips in a grimness which was not lost in their short resting time, nor in the several miles which they traveled, nor even in Damascus itself. Only once was there speech between them and that was as they entered the city gates.
It was Benjamin who broke the silence. “Thou hast told me of Rachel, but not of my sister. Take me, therefore, first to Miriam that I may know for myself how she fareth.”
Isaac bent his head stiffly. “It is well,” he said, and led the way to the largest and most magnificent dwelling the shepherd had ever beheld.
To her mistress, Miriam spoke Syrian as far as possible; to Milcah, either Syrian or the speech of Israel, more often a mixture of the two, but to Milcah’s mother it was joy unspeakable to use only her native tongue. Unfortunately, this pleasure was not to last. The feeble strength waned fast, and one morning Miriam ran swiftly to Milcah, imploring her to hasten to the invalid. She herself sped to the gatekeeper.
“Do thou send to the barracks and there leave word that Isaac come home as soon as he arriveth in Damascus. His mother—”
For reply the gatekeeper pointed to the street. In company with two others he was just dismounting. The gate was opened for them and a breathless little figure, tense with excitement, rushed into his arms, unmindful of his companions.
He bent his head over hers for a moment, listening to her broken words, then, with a courteous explanation to the stranger, he hurried down the courtyard and turned into that in which his mother’s room was located. Miriam started to follow, her mind intent upon this new grief, but a hand touched her on the shoulder and she looked into the brown, questioning face of her brother.
The warmth of her welcome left him no room for jealousy of Isaac. Both faces beamed as genially as the sun, which had finally succeeded in dispersing the clouds and drying up the rain drops. She guided her visitor to the spot that she and Isaac liked, the seat under the damson tree near the fountain. He gazed in wonder at his surroundings, at the richness and beauty everywhere, marveling that she seemed so much at ease amid all this magnificence. It was so different from what he had expected to find, nor could he understand the greeting he had just witnessed between herself and Isaac.
“Art thou not afraid of the man who took thee captive?” he asked.
Radiant with the happiness of her brother’s coming and clinging to him as if he were a pleasant dream which might be lost, she answered quite serenely: “Afraid of Isaac? Nay, thou canst not fear one who loveth someone thou dost love.”
He thought she referred to Rachel and it was like the thrust of a knife.
“Ever conscious is he, Benjamin, of the debt he oweth thee. He hath told me.”
The shepherd was bitterly incredulous.
“Before thou seest Rachel,” she went on, “I must tell thee something she knoweth not I have learned.”
A stern look crept into Benjamin’s face.
“Rachel liketh Isaac very much indeed—”
The shepherd paled. This possibility had not occurred to him.
“But I think Isaac liketh her not at all, else he would have visited her.”
Benjamin uttered an exclamation, but she was too full of the importance of her discovery to pay attention. She continued impressively, looking around to make sure she was not overheard:
“Not since he found her, cold and tired and hungry, just outside this wall one daybreak and conducted her to the street of the merchants of Israel, where Amos and Rebekah took pity upon her distress, never once did she see him until the morning. I went with Milcah and we found him talking to her on the footway. He had stopped just a moment to tell her that he and his servant were starting to bring thee. I think he would have done nothing for her at all, not even on the way hither, if she had not been thy betrothed. He would not even promise to help her when I first asked. Wouldst thou not have supposed he would consider her as sweet and beautiful as thou dost and I?”
The shepherd was too bewildered to reply at once. “Art thou very sure of what thou sayest?” he finally stammered, an odd excitement in his manner. “Thy words sound strange to mine ears. I would hear all thou knowest,” and Miriam was very obliging.
Beginning with the last time he had visited their home in Israel (which had been a few days before their parents went to the feast at Jerusalem; when he and Rachel had come to a full understanding), she told him all that had befallen her and what she knew concerning Rachel. He heard with varying emotions, and all too soon Isaac stood before them. On his face was the dignity of sorrow. The gladness died out of Miriam’s countenance; his grief was hers. He pressed the hand she slipped into his and addressed Benjamin.
“My mother—” he began and his voice broke. In a moment he went on: “My servant will conduct thee to Rachel and attend upon thee. After the custom of our people I must remain in seclusion until after our period of mourning hath ended. Nevertheless, the House of Naaman is thine abode as long as thou art in Damascus and whenever thou comest hither. My home is thine. And this I give into thy keeping for the purpose of which we spoke. I will instruct my servant regarding its disposal.”
He unclasped the bracelet from his arm and for the second time gave it to the shepherd, but his present manner bore no resemblance to the first. Something of the difference occurred to Benjamin. He called after the retreating figure. He ran and placed himself before Isaac, bowing low before him.
“Thy servant hath misjudged thee. Forgive, I pray thee. What am I that thou shouldst show such kindness unto me?”
The shepherd’s voice faltered before the other’s coldly courteous manner. He went on almost timidly: “My sister hath explained much that I could not understand hitherto. Surprise and perplexity hath gone and in their stead hath come shame. I would that thou shouldst overlook—”
The cold steel of Isaac’s eye might have been the cold steel of a weapon piercing Benjamin’s heart, the effect being much the same.
“Thou didst once save my life, which is precious unto me, and I have given thee that which is dearer than thy life, thy betrothed. The debt hath been mutually repaid. Henceforth we owe each other nothing.”
Tears sprang to the shepherd’s eyes. “Naught save remembrance and good will. I would that we might both remember this obligation.”
There was no answer unless Isaac’s silence and his averted head might be construed in the negative.
Benjamin tried again. “As thou didst once admit thy guilt to me, so do I now acknowledge to thee my fault and plead my penitence.”
“It is too late, Benjamin. Thou hast refused to listen to the confession I sought thee voluntarily to make. Thou hast assailed my motives with insult. Thou hast outraged every feeling of affection I ever had for thee. For the sake of all that is past we must not allow ourselves to become enemies, but friends we can never be again.”
The shepherd persevered although seeming to find speech difficult: “We are both wrong, Isaac. Should we permit the winds of trouble to dry up the fountain of loving-kindness and to scatter abroad the waters of bitterness? Captivity filleth my mind with suspicion. Resentment causeth thee to hate. Is it right?”
Isaac stood immovable, without speaking. Miriam, where they had left her, ceased her weeping and running to where the two stood slipped a hand in each of theirs.
“I shall be so lonely now that Isaac’s mother hath gone. Thou wilt stay in Damascus as long as thou canst, wilt thou not, Benjamin?”
He sought to comfort her, yet he could not leave his duties longer than was necessary. He would go to Rachel now, the arrangements would be made for their marriage according to the customs of Israel, and after the formal betrothal feast he would hurry back to his flock because it was with an hireling who cared not for the sheep. When the rainy season ended he would return to Damascus for his bride and take her to the home he would prepare meanwhile. The present arrangements would consume but a few days. “But when I am no longer here I shall think of thee as still being brave, shall I not, Miriam?”
“Yea,” she said, tremulously. “Thou wilt have sad enough meditations, longing for Rachel and thinking of our home in Israel and of father and mother.” There was a long pause. “But thou must not grieve over me. At first I thought I should die here, until I knew that somebody loved me. Now Milcah doth a little, and I think my mistress will, but I have never had to wonder about Isaac. He always hath. He will watch over me as thou wouldst.”
She leaned confidingly against the soldier and he slipped his arm around her: “The heart of my little maid can safely trust in me,” he assured her. Then, to Benjamin: “Behold, the other maid of whom we spoke.”
Miriam looked up wonderingly, not understanding Benjamin’s embarrassment nor Isaac’s defiance, but neither troubled her. She smiled upon them impartially. “And what hath made it easy for me to love Isaac,” she went on, “is because he loveth thee so much, Benjamin. It hath made me so happy. Else I could not bear things even now.”
She was caressing their two hands, holding them to her cheeks and patting them; thus she failed to see that each young man avoided the other’s eye.
“I love thee both so very much,” she confided.
They each smiled down upon her indulgently, and somehow their eyes met—with the smile still in them, and this time they did not turn away. Oddly enough the coldness, the constraint faded before that look as snow disappears before the genial warmth of the sun. They parted in a manner quite satisfactory to the little maid, who beamed upon them both. Suspicion and resentment had fled before the affectionate trust of a child!