CALEB’S face expressed entire approval as he looked after Judith, disappearing down the hill. “Thou seest, Sarah, that all this poor child needed was instruction in the way of righteousness.”
“And firmness to see that she walketh therein,” put in the wife.
“But she hath a willing mind, Sarah. Hast thou not noticed how, of late, she needeth no second bidding to go to the spring? She doth not even wait for Miriam to help; she watcheth to see when the jars need refilling and seeth to them most diligently.”
“Yea,” was the response, “and I have wondered what—” but Caleb, sighing, was already taking his way to the valley as Judith neared the spring.
A little smile played about her lips. “How strange it is,” she thought, “that Benjamin’s sheep need a drink of water and our jars must be refilled at exactly the same time every day!”
At that very moment Rachel, with a tiny reed basket of bread on her arm, started in the same direction.
“If I should see him while I feed the pigeons,” her face was rosy red, “and he might be somewhere near, although, of course, if I knew for certain I could not be so bold as to be there too—”
She entered a little gulch whose narrow walls constantly widened as one neared the spring. The air was sweet with aromatic shrubs. A bird hidden somewhere seemed about to burst its throat with melody. Insects buzzed a little song of content. As the girl appeared, a flock of wild pigeons rose from various resting places and circled around her with the familiarity of old friendship. Her thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Peeping through the bushes, she had seen Benjamin and Judith, laughing and talking together with all too evident enjoyment. For a moment—or was it several?—she seemed rooted to the spot with surprise, then, sick at heart, she had dropped down upon the coarse, green grass, grateful for the overhanging rocks and bushes which gave her safe concealment.
To think of Benjamin, who had never cared for any maid but herself! They had been childish sweethearts. Around her neck at this very instant was suspended from a grass-woven chain a bracelet of dried grasses which he had given her once when they played at a wedding. In a thousand ways since then and with a tenderness she could not doubt he had told her of his love. Had he not desired Caleb, his father, to ask her parents’ consent to their marriage? True it had been refused, Abner’s proposal having been received unexpectedly a day or so earlier, yet she and Benjamin had hoped against hope, and now—
But the pigeons were insistent. They pecked from her basket. They alighted upon her shoulders. They watched for the customary open handful of crumbs from which to eat. Mechanically, since they would not be denied, she fed them. Abner, passing along the brow of the hill, saw both tableaux. He stopped, looked, and passed on, pondering deeply.
“Rachel is the gentler, the sweeter,” he said to himself, “but this maid from Sharon is likewise pleasing. I wonder! Yea, I wonder!”
In a little while Judith started homeward, the smile still lingering. “What a frank, winning boy!” she meditated, “and not unambitious, either, but I do not envy his charming Rachel the hard work and self-denial she will have as a shepherd’s wife. Strange how she turneth from this man Abner, who hath treasures of oil and wine and grain; who hath men servants and maid servants.”
She stopped and gazed over field after field of barley and wheat, now almost ready for the harvest. “Had I but her opportunity!” She stamped her sandaled foot to the great peril of the water jar and its precious contents, but her rage soon spent itself and she became thoughtful. At last she drew a deep breath.
“Why not?” she asked herself. “Of course an Eastern woman may not decide whom she will marry, but there is no reason why she should not try to influence her fate somewhat,” and, quite calm again, even elated, she turned her face toward the home she found so irksome.
Scarcely had she passed when two young men crossed hastily the well-worn path and started to descend the steep sides of the gulch. Suddenly one placed a detaining hand on the other’s arm and they dropped down behind a sheltering bush, peering out and speaking guardedly.
“Seest thou anything, Isaac?”
“Naught do I see, Lemuel, but what one is apt to behold all the way from the Dead Sea to Damascus: a romantic little gorge and a pretty maiden feeding some wild pigeons. I thought thou hadst discovered something.”
His companion regarded him with amusement. “Something thou meanest, Isaac, to breed distrust or caution or care, whereas the ‘something’ was only satisfactory. Much hast thou to learn, or peradventure thou art over-fastidious. Knowest thou not that women were made to delight the hearts of men—that is, as long as they keep their youth and their faith in us, which is not long at the best—and that our journey hath been singularly barren of such interests as lovely maidens far from home?”
The information was received coldly. “Far from home, Lemuel, but not far from what, in this mountainous land, they call a ‘road,’ and not far from her city’s supply of water. This gorge doubtless containeth a spring or stream. As thou art aware, they have wells only in the lowlands. The maiden is therefore not far from protection even if I were absent.”
The other laughed sneeringly. “Thy bravery and thine honor doeth credit to thine house. Peradventure it will purchase thee promotion. It shall be reported to my lord N-a-a-m-m-m.”
A hand was placed firmly over his mouth. “Thy indiscretion will spoil our errand, which shall also be reported and to the same source.”
A not unmusical cry came echoing down the glen: “R- a- c- h- e- l.”
The girl with her head in her hands neither moved nor answered, but in a moment Miriam’s face peeped through the foliage and lighted up with relief.
“Everywhere have I searched for thee, Rachel, and Eli hath helped. He hath a new story, a splendid one. Dost thou not want to hear?”
Rachel gave a half-hearted assent and the two new arrivals threw themselves on the coarse green grass near Rachel, while Eli, smiling in response to Miriam’s eager encouragement, began the story she considered so wonderful:
“Once there was a cave which the hand of God had hollowed out of the limestone hills and in front of which he planted bushes to hide its mouth. At first the cave was happy enough, but after awhile it became envious of those in less lonely situations. Right in the midst of its discontent, however, along came a leopard who was pleased with this retired spot and brought up a family here.
“Next, there arrived a band of robbers who slew the wild animals and deposited themselves and their ill-gotten gains in the cave, hiding by day and sallying forth at night. At last some of the thieves were slain in a battle with honest travelers and the rest of the band fled.
“From that time on the cave-dwellers were of a better class. It became the abode of the hunted and oppressed. Our father David once took refuge here from the fury of King Saul, and many a troubled soul afterward, including the Man of God, Elijah. But its greatest usefulness came when Queen Jezebel established Baal-worship as the court religion of Israel and persecuted the prophets of the Lord.
“At this time Obadiah, the mayor of King Ahab’s court, hid herein fifty of the hundred prophets he saved from the queen’s vengeance, the cave being very commodious. Hereafter it was known as ‘the prophet’s cave,’ and of late years shepherds have kept provender always on hand so they may resort hither with their flocks when winter storms drive them from the hills.
“One day the cave, with the wisdom of years, was reviewing its history. ‘How foolish was I and ignorant,’ it thought, ‘to be dissatisfied with the place Jehovah had appointed me when I should not have been nearly so useful had I been on the highway, where I would have chosen to be.’”
The tale ended, Rachel praised it faintly, but the younger girl beamed delighted appreciation, watching Eli’s departing figure as long as she could see it.
“Doth he not make thee feel as if thou wert standing up on tiptoe all inside, Rachel?” she demanded. “Some day he is going to learn to read and write and become learned in the Law, as was his father, and go about the country teaching and prophesying.”
Rachel put a hand to her head. “Let us go home,” she said, “I feel weak and ill. Peradventure it is the summer heat which hath come on so suddenly.” She staggered to her feet.
Miriam, at once all sympathy, put an arm around her friend’s waist and they took the steep path out of the gorge, the pigeons still circling around the empty basket. Only once did the smaller maid speak and that was just as they came opposite the hiding place of the two strangers.
“Thou knowest, Rachel, that Eli’s tale was a true one, being of our own prophet’s cave here in this very glen, thirty paces beyond the fallen sycamore tree, its mouth hidden by the sumac bushes. Thou wilt remember how oft we have been there.”
Rachel murmured an assent and they moved out of sight and hearing. The young men rose from their cramped positions.
“The very place, Lemuel, thanks to our small friend, though she knew not whom she was befriending. This night shall we abide there and mark the spot for future need. This is a rich little valley. To-morrow we separate, each taking the way determined aforetime,” and with swift steps they proceeded in the direction Miriam had indicated.
The perfumed breath of May lost its elusive sweetness and became burdened with the heat of June. The evening meal was over and the last faint radiance of sunset was swallowed up in darkness. Caleb closed and barred the heavy door against the summer breezes and the family spread their sleeping mats in preparation for rest.
Judith yawned audibly. “So glad am I that this tiresome day hath drawn to a close.”
Miriam was scandalized. “Glad that the Sabbath is over? And soon after sunrise one of the Sons of the Prophet came to instruct the city in the ways of Jehovah.”
“But,” insisted Judith, “I like not that long-haired Order of wayside preachers who shout and denounce and talk mysteries.”
Caleb felt it his duty to impart information. “Alas, the sacred Order is not what it was before King Ahab took unto himself the foreign Queen, Jezebel. A fine soldier and statesman was Ahab, and I doubt not he believed he benefited Israel by his alliance with our more cultured and enterprising neighbors, the Phœnicians. He thought much about the advantages of trade, as shown by his treaty with Ben-hadad, the Syrian king, whereby the merchants of Israel now have their own street in Damascus, the great capital city of Syria.
“Many good qualities had King Ahab, but a sorry day it was for Israel’s religion when he allowed Queen Jezebel a free hand to spread Baal-worship, even to the persecution of the prophets of the Lord. Hundreds were put to death; many fled to more peaceful homes, such as Egypt, and others still bowed the knee, not so much to the hated Baal as to the strong authority of the court. Fear threatened to destroy all that was purest and best in the land, but the Lord of Hosts hearkened to the distress of his people and granted deliverance by his prophet Elijah.
“Since then, and especially in these later years under Elijah’s successor, Elisha, the prophetic Guilds have been revived in the hope of spreading piety and some degree of learning among the people at large; they who have been exposed for so long to the pernicious teachings of the priests of Baal, as encouraged by that wicked woman, Jezebel.”
“But truly the service of Baal is much more joyous than thy worship of Jehovah with all thy strict observances and commandments,” said Judith, earnestly, “and why call Queen Jezebel ‘wicked’? It was but courteous to a foreigner to allow her to bring her own religion into her new home, and naturally she was anxious to spread the teachings in which she believed.”
In tones whose sternness was softened by pity, Caleb bade her hush. “Thou knowest not what thou sayest. The ‘wicked,’ through the pride of his heart, will not seek after the one true God. They care not to know the Law by which we, his chosen, are warned and in keeping of which there is great reward. It is well that thou shouldst understand clearly—”
A hubbub outside claimed attention. Faintly at first, and then nearer and nearer until it halted outside the very door, came the yelping and barking of dogs mingled with the sound of running footsteps, and voices.
Miriam crept to Sarah’s outstretched arms. “O mother,” in a frightened whisper, “thinkest thou the Syrians be upon us?”
The mother held her close. Caleb snatched up the goad ordinarily used for driving oxen, the sharply pointed end of which made a formidable weapon. From the darkness came a sound of labored breathing and a woman’s sobbing cry.
“Open, Caleb. It is only I, Hannah, and my children, Eli and Nathan, and the dogs rend us.”
As the door was thrown open to admit them she cried, mournfully, “Peace, peace be to thy home, though there be none in mine.”
She was almost incoherent with grief. “The word came to me but a little while before the Sabbath and I waited until the passing of the holy day to hurry to thee, my friends. The dogs mistook us for foes and pursued. In the darkness we stumbled oft and fell. Yea, we are bruised, but our bodies are less sore than our hearts, for Abner, my creditor, taketh my two sons, Eli and Nathan, to be bondmen for debt.
“Since my widowhood have I lived on his land. Oft hath he brought us food. Once, twice, thrice have I borrowed of him, so kind hath he seemed. Always he urged me to take more and yet more than I asked. Never once hath this shame seemed possible. Let us kneel in supplication to the God of our fathers.”
“Yea, Hannah, and I doubt not he will hear and answer. Abide thou with us for a time and to-morrow we will see if aught can be done.”