Part 11 (1/2)
”What G.o.d hath planted, who shall root up? what G.o.d prospers, who shall destroy?” cried Hada.s.sah. ”Thinks Antiochus Epiphanes that he hath power to strive against the Lord?”
”He has terrible power to use against man,” said Anna, who had a less courageous spirit than her mistress. ”Sharper measures than ever, it is said, are to be taken to put down our secret wors.h.i.+p. Woe unto them who are found keeping the Pa.s.sover to-morrow! It will be done unto them, as it was done to Solomona and her sons.”
”Would that G.o.d would give me strength to attend the holy Feast!” cried Hada.s.sah, on whom the idea of danger following its celebration appeared to act as a stimulant; ”no fear of man should keep me away. But He who withholds the power accepts the will of His servant.”
”I will go with my uncle Abishai,” said Zarah.
”To rejoice and give thanks,” cried Hada.s.sah.
But Zarah's sinking heart could not respond to any accents of joy. She bowed her head on he clasped hands, and faintly murmured,--
”To pray for you, for myself, and--”
No human ear could catch the word which pale lips inaudibly framed.
”Go to our young Greek guest, Anna,” Hada.s.sah. ”Bear to him some of this ripe, cooling fruit, and tell him of the triumphs of Judas.
Though Lycidas be but a heathen,” she added, as her handmaiden quitted the apartment to do her bidding, ”he has a soul to admire, if he cannot emulate, the lofty deeds of our heroes.”
In a brief s.p.a.ce of time Anna returned to the upper room, with alarm and surprise depicted on her face.
”I can nowhere find the Greek lord,” she exclaimed. ”He has made his escape from the house. There is nothing left but his mantle, and that had fallen near the spring.”
Hada.s.sah glanced inquiringly at Zarah. But the maiden betrayed no surprise, uttered no word. She only trembled a little, as if from cold; for the sultry heat of Nisan seemed to her suddenly to have changed to the chill of winter. Hada.s.sah made little observation on the flight of Lycidas until Anna had again quitted the apartment, when the widow lady said abruptly,--
”It was strange to leave without a word of farewell, a word of thanks, after having been for months treated as a guest, almost as a son!”
Zarah, with her cold, nervous fingers, was unconsciously engaged in tearing the edge of her veil into a fringe.
”If I were not uneasy regarding the safety of Abishai,” resumed Hada.s.sah--
But here, for the first time in her life, Zarah, with an appearance of impatience, interrupted the speech of her revered relative.
”Have no fear for Abishai,” cried the maiden, raising her head, and throwing back the long tresses which, from her drooping position, had fallen over her pallid face. ”Have no fear for Abishai,” she repeated.
”The Greek will never repay your generous hospitality by revenging his private injuries upon your son. I can answer for his forbearance.”
”You are right, my child,” said Hada.s.sah, tenderly. ”I did Lycidas a wrong by expressing a doubt. Abishai is secure in his silence; and, such being the case, I believe--nay, I feel a.s.sured--that, it is better that we harbour the stranger here no longer. I am thankful that Lycidas has left us though his manner of departing seem somewhat churlish.”
Was Zarah thankful also? Perhaps she was, though a miserable void seemed to be left in young heart, which she felt that nothing could ever fill up. More an orphan than the fatherless and motherless, more desolate than the widow, loving and beloved, yet--save for one sick and aged woman--alone in the world, it seemed to Zarah that a slight tie bound her to life, and that even that tie was gradually breaking. On the eve of that day of sore trial, the spring behind the dwelling had quite dried up: not a single drop gushed forth from the hill to revive the fading oleanders.
Just before sunset a laden mule was driven to the door of Hada.s.sah's humble retreat. It was led by Joab, a Jew who had in former years been servant to the lady, and who had been one of those who had bravely a.s.sisted in digging the grave of the martyrs. His presence, therefore, in that unfrequented spot excited no alarm.
”Anna,” said he, addressing the handmaid who stood in the doorway (for he knew her by name), ”help me to unload my mule; and do you bear what I bring to your mistress.”
”From whence comes all this?” asked Anna, with no small curiosity.
”I met to-day,” replied Joab, ”the same stranger whom we caught lurking amidst the olives on the night of the burial of Solomona--(that was nigh being his last night upon earth!) He looked ghastly, as if himself new risen from the grave, and scarcely able to drag his steps along. I helped to raise him on my mule, and it bore him to a house in the city which he mentioned. I doubt whether the Gentile recognized me--his mind seemed to be strangely wandering--till I asked him where he had been since we had met by moonlight under a tree; and then he started, and looked fixedly into my face. He knew me, and did not forget that I had been one to spare his life by stepping over the spear,” continued the muleteer, with a grim smile. ”The Gentile is not ungrateful. I suppose that he remembered that he owed a debt in another quarter also, for he bade me return in a few hours; and when I did so, charged me to bear these things to the dwelling of the Lady Hada.s.sah--ay, and gave me this purse of silver for her handmaid.”