TWO years went by and Miriam passed her twelfth birthday. Thereafter she was no longer known as “the little maid” save as a title of affection still retained by her mistress, Milcah, and Isaac, but referred to in terms which meant “a young woman.” Insensibly her manners grew quieter. No longer did she impulsively speak her mind to Adah, nor bound unexpectedly into Milcah’s arms, nor indulge in the old, familiar caresses where Isaac was concerned, although she could not have explained these changes any more than she could have given a reason for being taller and prettier, as she was told she was. Day by day she was becoming gently reserved and charmingly shy and elusively sweet as maidens are wont to be.
Two more years went by and spring came again, the fourth since Miriam had come to Syria and the third since she had first urged the visit of her master to Israel. More and more had she become a necessary part of the great household which had at first been indifferent. Her time was now spent largely in the apartments of her mistress, or in attendance upon that lady when she overlooked the affairs of the house or rode in her chariot. A few times had she visited the House of Rimmon, the sun-god of the Syrians, but because it distressed her this was not always required. On several occasions had she been to the palace and, with Milcah, quite often saw the tradespeople and helped make selections of merchandise for her mistress.
Yet these years, so eventful to Miriam, had brought little change to the House of Naaman save, if possible, to deepen its gloom. Adah had grown more languid, more petulant, more sad. The little maid had not taught her how to be happy as she had so cheerfully promised. Naaman, still demonstrating the futility of one remedy after another, was plainly growing worse. Each winter the rains had washed out the roads and made traveling as far as Israel an utter impossibility. Each spring, when the dry season set in once more, Miriam had entreated her mistress, appealed to Isaac and been disappointed afresh at the rejection of her plan. Still she hoped and grew patient.
Once more she pressed her query, tenderly, anxiously, without receiving an answer. She knelt beside her mistress, despairing, insistent. “Knowest thou not that my lord is no better and that Jehovah thinketh upon thy sorrow? Oh that he would go to the prophet that is in Samaria!”
Caressingly Adah took Miriam’s face between her hands and looked at her through tear-blurred eyes. “All that I possess would I give, little maid, for the confidence of youth, but even as the ruthless rains wash away the footpaths, so doth Experience, in the autumn and winter of life, steal away courage and joy. Yea, well I know that thy master’s malady groweth worse, but what availeth a long and painful journey with disappointment at its end?”
Finding that neither argument nor persuasion availed, Miriam abandoned the subject and waited until she should be able to see Isaac. The next day she was fortunate in having speech with him just before he was summoned to his master’s apartments. Briefly she outlined the last conversation with her mistress and its hopelessness.
“But because thou dwellest in his favor, Isaac, speak thou unto him yet again that he perish not. Believest thou that Jehovah can do this? Believest thou, Isaac?”
“Yea,” looking into the serious depths of her dark eyes, “yea, Miriam, I believe.”
The time was auspicious. The burden of discomfort which Naaman had borne so long had become irritating, loathsome, intolerable. If, by enduring a little more, he could end it forever—yea, he would take the journey to Israel. It was a forlorn hope, but he would risk it.
Breathless with haste, Isaac paused a brief instant before Miriam. He chose to be very mysterious. “What wouldst thou, little maid, if thou couldst have thy choice?”
Expectantly she searched his radiant countenance and caught the gayety of his mood. “Not fruit nor flowers; not silken garments, nor fine linen, nor choice food, for thus sumptuously do I fare every day. Not even a new timbrel, for that thou didst give me when I was but a little maid is beautiful with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Naught have I to wish for save that my master should seek Jehovah through the Man of God who dwelleth at Samaria.”
“Then thou hast thy desire. He goeth!”
“When?” she asked, excitedly.
The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “Our master’s impatience brooketh no delay, as thou wilt know from knowing him, but he must first obtain the king’s permission and the king’s credentials ere he dare venture into another kingdom to ask a favor of a monarch with whose house Syria hath been time and again at war.”
Miriam was dismayed, incredulous. It had seemed such a simple matter to her.
Isaac smiled. “Thou dost not consider how great a man is our master. Knowest thou not it is an affair of state?”
He left her and she ran with swift footsteps to tell the glad news to Milcah and then, with greater deliberation, to speak of it to her mistress.
Next morning the household was early astir. The general air of excitement precluded sleep to even the most laggard, yet why this straw of relief appeared more able to bear the weight of their longings than previous efforts no one could have told, nor, indeed, did they pause to ask. None, at least, save Miriam. At the top of the stone staircase which led to the roof she unexpectedly met Isaac. He greeted her gayly.
“All is well, little maid, so far. To-day I go to the palace to request an audience for my master with the king.”
“Thinkest thou, Isaac, that he will approve the journey?”
“The thoughts of a king, Miriam, are past finding out, but we have a good omen.”
He pointed to the opal sky, beautiful in its sunrise tints. “Seest thou? As the Syrians say, our all-conquering lord, the Sun, goeth forth from his habitation with smiles to the arms of the virgin East who haileth his approach with blushes.”
Miriam pointed to the distant mountains. “Seest thou the good omen? No haze shrouds them from our view, but even as they stand immovable and protecting, so Jehovah is ever a shield round about his people. The rosy sky, against which the mountains show dark and clear, reminds us that our hope is in the Lord our God who only giveth us the victory.”
The soldier stood abashed, but in his eyes there dawned a something which was akin to reverence and more. The girl, catching the look quite accidentally, flushed as prettily as the sky they had been watching and fled instinctively, even as she wondered why she did these things. Yet she did not seek explanations of anyone.
With armament resplendent and an obsequious group of soldier-attendants, as befitted the importance of the mission, Isaac was dispatched to the palace. Having passed the gatekeeper and been conducted across two or three courtyards to the entrance of the king’s residence proper, the guard suddenly stood at attention while Isaac found himself in the presence of the chief officer of the palace.
Each bowed to the ground, exclaiming, “Peace be unto thee.” Three times this was repeated.
Each then put his hand to his heart, which was meant to say, “My heart meditates upon thee.”
Each next put his hands to his lips as if to say, “My lips speak well of thee.”
Finally, each put his hand to his forehead, which conveyed the flattering intelligence, “My intellect delights in thee.”
Lastly they fell upon each other’s neck and embraced fervently.
These civilities over, they stooped and rested in the comfortable Oriental fashion while they held converse. My lord high officer inquired for his visitor’s grandfather. Instead of replying truthfully that he was long since dead, diplomacy required that Isaac relate a tale of courage and honor, whether true or untrue, which he ascribed to the other’s grandfather.
Well pleased with the compliment, my lord high officer inquired for Isaac’s father, with the same result. Next, my lord high officer inquired for Isaac’s master and attributed to him deeds of valor which Isaac entirely disclaimed for Naaman, pronouncing blessings upon the other’s master, the king.
By degrees and after a considerable time had elapsed, the moment was opportune for the delivery of Isaac’s message. He had come to request an audience of King Ben-hadad for his master, Naaman. My lord high officer was politely kind. He would see that the message was conveyed to his master, the king, and in the course of a few days an answer would be returned. Although his real errand was now completed, Isaac’s manner was casual and betrayed no haste, after the approved style of Eastern courtiers. For quite awhile longer they chatted with gravity and pretended interest, then they rose, bidding each other farewell with the same elaborate gestures which had marked their meeting.
With a sigh of relief and a complacence born of duty well performed, Isaac and his soldiers took their way homeward and the House of Naaman began that waiting program which was to be its chief occupation for some time to come and of which its master was to grow almost fatally weary before it should be brought to a happy ending. In a few days, as promised by my lord high officer, the watchman stationed upon Naaman’s roof to note the approach of the king’s messenger sent the joyful cry echoing through the courtyards: “Behold, he cometh.”
Instantly the great house responded with a bustle of preparation and a suspension of all unnecessary tasks, giving itself up to the delightful thrill of expectancy. The crowd of mendicants, the halt and maimed and blind, pensioners upon Naaman’s bounty, melted away from before his gate—at the command of the gatekeeper, aided by a stout staff and one or two men servants—like snow before the sun. The courtyards were cleared of all save those whose privilege and duty it was to be there. Isaac, not now in the dress of a soldier but in the soft, fine raiment of a rich man, as befitted the master he represented, met the stranger at the very gateway.
By means of those elaborate bows which had characterized Isaac’s previous visit to the palace, the messenger was finally drawn within the greater privacy of one of the inner courts. This not only shut them out from the gaze and hearing of the curious but conveyed the complimentary impression that he was received into the bosom of the family. His message was brief. On the morrow his master, the king, would give audience to his well-beloved servant, Naaman, at the fourth hour of the day. Yet, however concise the communication, Oriental etiquette forbade its delivery in a hasty manner or without due ceremony. A long time was it before Isaac, bidding farewell to this important guest, was at liberty to pay a scarcely less ceremonious visit to his anxious master and to stand at length, smiling, before Miriam, that she might hear the joyful tidings.
The next day, promptly at ten o’clock, Naaman and his imposing bodyguard of soldiers appeared at the palace. A no less imposing retinue of palace officials and servants, led by my lord high officer, met him at the palace gate and with great apparent respect conducted him to the throne room. Here he and his king exchanged the same elaborate courtesies which had marked the meeting of their representatives a few days before. Yet with a difference! The latter had been coldly formal, meaninglessly polite. This was the greeting of friends, of those whose regard for each other was built upon a solid foundation of respect and affection, although there was not the slightest trace of undue familiarity on the one hand nor lack of dignity on the other.
Salutations concluded, the king commanded all who attended him to retire from the immediate vicinity. Naaman, following suit, gestured to Isaac, and his bodyguard likewise withdrew to a distance. The two highest dignitaries of Syria could now converse in such privacy that their tones alone were audible to those who stood at either end of the long throne room. Impressively yet briefly Naaman recited the facts: it had become known to him, through a maid in his household, that there dwelt in the city of Samaria, in the Land of Israel, a prophet of Jehovah, the little-known God of the land. This seer, it appeared, was a man mighty in word and deed, able, so the maiden stated, to heal even the dread disease of leprosy. Now, therefore, if he had found favor in the sight of his master, the king, he hoped it would please the king to allow his servant to depart in peace upon this mission.
Ben-hadad was gracious. The affliction of Naaman, the man whom all Syria delighted to honor, was also his affliction. Any chance of relief, however remote, must be seized with as little delay as possible. If Jehovah, the God of the Israelites, acting through his prophet, was thus powerful, to effect a cure would be but a small matter and one to be quickly accomplished. He, the king of Syria, would write a letter to the young king of Israel, son of their late enemy, Ahab, which letter should be delivered in person by Naaman. The request therein contained would of course be immediately granted. The affair should take precedence of certain other state business so that, in a few days, the letter should be written and dispatched by messenger to the House of Naaman.
Thus comforted and highly elated at the success of his mission, Naaman and his attendants made the usual elaborate adieux and departed. It was not that an interview between the king and his army’s commander-in-chief was either unusual or infrequent, but this had been fraught with national and international consequence, and ceremony was necessary. Not often did one monarch ask a favor of another without intending to reciprocate, but this visit of Naaman to Israel, with its consequent exchange of diplomatic courtesies, meant a closer alliance of the two nations; a declaration of friendship, as it were, which would last as long as it served their purpose and which might not be a bad thing in these days of Assyrian encroachments.
Miriam, watching the approach of the party from her favorite spot on the roof, observed that the leader lifted his shield of beaten brass and pointed to the distant mountains. She understood. Isaac was telling her that Jehovah, in whom she trusted, had brought it to pass: the king’s answer was favorable, and breathlessly she ran to carry the second message of hope to her mistress.