OVER the peaceful Israelitish hills came the piping of a reed flute. Anyone familiar with the country would know that it was a shepherd, seeking to assure the flock of his continued presence that they might fear no evil, but to the young man, scarcely more than a boy, lying prone on his back in the shade of the bushes, it conveyed nothing at all, yet it was the only sound which persisted in his consciousness. He lived by it as much as did the sheep and goats. When the tune was blithe he saw sunlit fields and abundant harvests; shaded glens and cool, gurgling streams; a palace and a soldiers’ barracks; the face of an old, bedridden woman and a delicately pretty girl feeding pigeons in a romantic spot. When the notes were sad—as they frequently were—he defended this maid from some grave peril in which the odds were all against him.
There came a day, however, when he no longer raved in delirium, but looked upon his surroundings with recognition in his eyes. He tried to sit up, to reach a little water-bag that looked cool and comforting, but finding himself weighted down with a strange heaviness, contented himself with gazing around wonderingly. The sky seemed so near. No, it was not the sky. It was a covering of skins sewed together and stretched from one bush to another over him. Nothing else save the interminable flute which told his newly awakened senses that the shepherd was near. It was all so soothing, just lying there, and he was so unexpectedly weak, that he closed his eyes and sank into a deep and refreshing slumber.
When he awoke the canopy over his head had been removed and he gazed at the brilliant stars. Looking around, he decided that he must be inside of a sheepfold. By the moonlight he discerned roughly built stone walls on four sides. The open entrance was guarded by a recumbent shepherd, staff in hand, alert, watchful. One, two, three other figures he counted, evidently sleeping heavily beside great gray masses which he knew must be sheep. All at once a scream pierced the silence, a hideous, unearthly sound, and then a long, lithe body leaped over the wall.
The young man who observed these things knew instinctively that it was a mountain lion, tempted far from its rocky lair by hunger. He knew that the shepherds, instantly awakened, would give battle, and that they would be more than a match for any wild animal in search of food, but a sense of his own helplessness swept over him. He saw the terror of the sheep, the mangled body of a victim, heard the cry of its mother, and then a great wave of sickness shut out sight and sound. He had fainted from sheer weakness.
A little later he opened his eyes upon the troubled face of the shepherd—his shepherd, as he soon learned to call him in distinction from the others, who paid him but scant attention. It was a kindly, pleasant face, over-thoughtful perhaps but with health and youth written large under its tan. In the days that followed, the invalid found himself grasping at the strength and energy radiated by this personality, basking in his sunny smile, entertained and quite frequently instructed by his conversation, cheered and encouraged by his practical helpfulness.
If, however, the convalescent was pleased with the shepherd, how much more was the shepherd pleased with the convalescent! Moved at first merely by motives of pity and generosity, he soon took a delight in the presence of the stranger which was wholly inexplicable to himself. He had never met anyone—at least not a very young man like himself—who possessed such a fund of general information and seemed to have such mature judgment. He talked as one who had lived in cities and associated with those who had seen much of that world which was new and strange to this mountain lad who had spent his eager, responsive youth hand-in-hand with Toil and Responsibility, as youth often does in the East.
One day, under the shadow of a great rock which shielded them from the heat of the midsummer sun, they were talking. “How long sayest thou I have been here, Benjamin?”
“It is eight weeks, Isaac, since I found thee under the bushes yonder, sick with fever.”
“Then eight weeks hast thou cared for me, night and day. How knewest thou that I was not a robber, or, worse still, what thy countrymen despise most, a Syrian spy?” The tone was careless and breathed a laugh, but the speaker glanced searchingly at his companion, who, after a moment’s silence, replied quietly:
“I stopped but to consider thy pressing need, Isaac, for our Law commandeth us to regard the necessity of the stranger, but if I had thought further, the pack on thy back would have proclaimed thee a peddler, though thy stock be small. Likewise, thy pronunciation showeth that our tongue is native to thee and thou hast an Israelitish name.”
Isaac sighed and there sounded in it something of relief. “My mother was of thy nation,” he explained, “a captive in Syria, where she married my father, who was of Egyptian blood and a servant in the same house with herself. I am named for some of her people and she spoke to me always in her own language.” Then, hastily, as if he feared questions: “But for thee I might have died, an awful, burning death here in the wilderness, without even a drink of cold water to allay my thirst or a friend to save my body from the vultures.”
“Think not of it, Isaac. It is only thy departure on the morrow which saddeneth me. Caring for thee was as balm to a sore heart, better than all the aromatic herbs in Gilead.”
Isaac looked questioningly: “A woman?”
The shepherd assented. “From childhood have I had no thought save of her and for her. When I could make her a home, I desired my father to ask her in marriage of her parents, as is our custom. At first they were willing, as I had believed, but their consent was refused, the maiden being pleasing to a man of greater means. Yet was she true to me. I had it from her own lips and through the mouth of my little sister, Miriam, of whom I have before spoken to thee. All at once the maiden changed. Deaf, dumb, and blind did she become to all that concerned me, and when I would see her they said she was sick, which I cannot believe, and I had to come away without a word of explanation. It troubleth me.”
To Isaac, more worldly wise, the reason was plain. “She favoreth the other,” he said, “and thou shouldst not cherish the memory of one who hath treated thee with contempt. Canst thou not think of someone else, Benjamin?”
The shepherd laughed in a mirthless way. “None to fill her place, Isaac; nor is it of another she thinketh. Nay! One there was who always appeared at the spring when I was waiting for my beloved. She was a clever, amusing maid, but a life with her would be like living on honey without any bread.”
Isaac nodded in comprehension. “The same have I felt toward all the maidens I ever met save one. Once, as I traveled with my pack, I was able to avert a danger she knew not of, and her face hath been in my memory ever since. I have not wished to dislodge it. She fed wild pigeons, I recall, in a romantic little gorge.”
A silence fell between them, each, with fine feeling, unwilling to ask for details not volunteered.
The next day, at parting, Isaac took from his own arm a heavy bracelet of gold and clasped it around Benjamin’s. “Not for its value,” he insisted, when the shepherd demurred, “but as a covenant of lasting friendship ’twixt thee and me. As thou hast saved my life so doth it belong to thee or thine if in aught I can ever serve thee.”
The next minute Benjamin was alone. At the turn of the road Isaac looked back and waved his hand in farewell and the shepherd, with a sigh, turned to his sheep and his constant thoughts of Rachel. He did not know that at that very hour events of considerable importance to both of them were taking place in the little “city” of their nativity.
Noontime, whose brightness had no power to dispel the sorrow which hung over Caleb’s household, saw Judith slipping, with a shudder, out of its gloomy portal. Abner was coming up the hill as she started to descend it. She answered his pleasant greeting with assumed diffidence.
“I hasten, my lord, desiring to spend a time with Rachel, who, as thou knowest, hath spent these eight weeks and more in the house and mostly on her bed, suffering from a mysterious sickness none dareth yet to name. Save that she hath long been secretly betrothed to my kinsman, Benjamin, who taketh his sheep to the hills, we know not where, and that her parents are very wroth—yet because thou hast looked with favor upon the maid would I warn thee—”
“I thank thee,” he said, slowly, his face somewhat paler than usual, and the two hurried their separate ways.
In strange contradiction to such solicitude, however, Judith did not visit Rachel. She rarely did. It was Miriam who sat by her friend’s side telling her of Hannah’s plight.
“There is not enough grain and olive oil in the whole city to satisfy Abner’s claim and save Eli and Nathan from bondage, nor will he wait for the next barley and wheat to be harvested. As for grapes and olives, they will not be ripe for months. Father hath tried to shame Abner, but he saith he is grieved to be so misunderstood; that Hannah should be grateful to him for taking upon himself the burden of her sons’ support.”
Apparently, Rachel was not in a mood for conversation. The younger girl gazed at her in great dejection for a few minutes and a tear splashed down on her hand. “It would be easier to bear other people’s troubles, Rachel, if one could help. I am going to bathe thy feverish face and hands and take down thy hair. Thou shalt hold the little mirror of polished bronze that Ezekiel, thy kinsman in Damascus, sent thee.” Suiting the action to the word she went on talking: “Damascus must be a very great city, peradventure almost twice as large as ours. Father hath told me about the war between Israel and Syria and the treaty of peace, so that Syrian merchants may come to Israel and a street hath been set aside in Damascus in which our people may dwell.”
Rachel seemed to take no more interest in foreign affairs than in those at home, but the little maid was not discouraged. “Thou art more comfortable now. Thou hast been sick ever since that day the heat overcame thee in the gorge when thou wert feeding the pigeons, but thou dost not have to go on being miserable. Thou knowest, the Lord is thy strength and song. I am going to see how Hannah doeth and remind her of this. She abode with us through the night, but now she is in her own house. First, though, I shall sing thee to sleep. Thou seest I have brought my timbrel. Then will I steal softly away.”
Having made good her word, Miriam was about to depart when the kindly voice of Rachel’s mother detained her: “Stay, Miriam, yet a moment and take to Hannah this little pot of oil. The gift is not much to her that dwelleth in the house of sorrow, but it carrieth a message of sympathy.”
Halfway to her destination Miriam met Judith. “I have been seeking for thee,” said the older girl. “Knowest thou that we have a guest, a man? He hath come from a distance in the heat and dust, and I have been to draw cool, fresh water wherewith to bathe his hands and feet and so refresh him while thy mother prepareth a meal to set before him.”
Miriam hazarded a few guesses as to the identity of their visitor, but Judith shook her head. “It is none whom thou hast mentioned, but who it is I know not. He weareth a mantle.”
“Then he is one of the prophets.”
“Nay, for he is bald and the prophets wear long hair. Neither hath he the appearance of a fanatic, as do they. Rather, he seemeth like some well-to-do man of the cities, peradventure a merchant. His speech is gracious and gentle and he carrieth a walking stick like any serious-minded, elderly gentleman. He is attended by a younger man and thy father did him great obeisance. Also—”
But Judith was alone. Miriam was running like some wild thing straight to Hannah’s house. Out of breath she stumbled over the threshold and thrust the pot of oil into the woman’s hands.
“Hannah—Hannah—the Man of God hath come, my lord Elisha, and even now sitteth at meat in our house. Do thou go quickly. Thy husband was of his young men. Do thou tell him about Abner taking Eli and Nathan as bondmen for debt. Jehovah hath sent him that as God hath been thy strength, he shall now be thy song. Hasten, Hannah,” but Hannah was already gone.
Twenty-four hours later Miriam, wild with excitement, paused on the threshold of Rachel’s house. Within were voices and while she hesitated as to whether or not to enter, she heard the message.
Abner had sent his friend, after the manner of the East, to speak on the subject of his betrothal to Rachel, not to bring the customary gifts and make necessary arrangements, but to do the rather unusual thing: to withdraw his previous proposal on the plea of her ill-health. The affair was conducted with elaborate civilities on the part of both the emissary and Rachel’s parents, hiding the contempt of the one and the rage of the other.
It was a very awed little Miriam but one with shining eyes who held Rachel’s hand a few minutes after the messenger had departed. “Art thou not glad?” she whispered.
The older girl nodded slightly, aware of her mother’s frown.
“And Benjamin will be so happy,” Miriam declared, but Rachel sighed.
“He thinketh no more upon me,” she said, and refused to be comforted.
The general gloom of the household was soon overborne, however, by the tidings Miriam had brought. At the feet of the prophet Hannah had knelt in supplication and he had had compassion upon her distress.
“At his command,” recited Miriam, joyfully, “we borrowed from our neighbors all the empty vessels possible, then she and Eli and Nathan went into their own house and shut the door. Eli told me what happened. From the little pot of oil thy mother sent by me, Hannah filled all those vessels! Then came she again to the Man of God, who was still in our house, and he instructed her what next to do. Now she hath gone to sell the oil and pay Abner. Yet will there be something left, for I heard my lord Elisha say unto her, ‘Live thou and thy children of the rest.’”
When the happy comments had died away Miriam stroked her friend’s hair. “Why dost thou not ask to be healed, Rachel? Let us go to the Man of God.”
But Rachel shook her head. “I must not ask for what I do not want, Miriam, and when Benjamin no longer thinketh upon me, why should I desire to get well?”