Part 7 (1/2)

It seemed to Heraklas that there came to him, also, Christ's solemn question. With awe-struck lips, Heraklas whispered, out of a heart that craved its answer, ”Who is he, Lord, that I might believe on him?”

Heraklas bent above his roll. The answer of the Lord was there. ”It is He that talketh with thee.”

The lad dropped his papyrus, and covered his face. He bowed in awe.

For a long time he knelt there, pouring out his soul in prayer--but not to Egypt's G.o.ds. And that which is written of the blind man was fulfilled in Heraklas, also--”And he said, Lord, I believe. And he wors.h.i.+ped him.”

When Heraklas rose from his knees, the sun was high in mid-heaven.

It was the time at home when his mother would burn myrrh to the sun.

But no prayer to Re or hymn to Horus escaped Heraklas' lips. How should he, who rejoiced in the knowledge of sins forgiven, pray more to false G.o.ds?

A holy awe and a great joy wrapped his soul. The burden of sin that had oppressed him, the hopeless burden which had not ceased to cause Heraklas misery even when he made offerings to Isis and poured forth prayers to Serapis, was gone, gone at the touch of Jesus.

Plucking from his girdle his carnelian buckle, that signified to an Egyptian the blood of Isis, said to wash away the sins of the wearer, Heraklas leaned forward, and flung the rosy ornament far into the white foam of the waves below. He could not wear that heathen sign, even though his mother had given the ornament to him.

”O Isis,” murmured Heraklas, as he lost sight of the carnelian buckle within the waves, ”I care not for thy blood! I know whose blood hath washed away my stain.”

With reverent rejoicing, he concealed his papyrus and turned homeward.

He pa.s.sed into the great city. A woman was wors.h.i.+ping before a statue of the G.o.d Chonsu, the moon. Heraklas went by quickly, making no sign of reverence. Glancing back, he saw the woman gazing after him.

A little farther on stood a statue of Anubis. Other men, as they pa.s.sed, gave homage, but Heraklas did not turn his head toward the idol. He noted, in the stalls and in the shops, the altars and little idols. When he next went to purchase anything, must he do reverence? Heraklas met a beggar and dropped a coin into his hand.

”Isis and Osiris bless thee!” wished the suppliant.

Heraklas' lips parted to answer. Should he, who had been blessed of the Lord, seem to accept the blessing of idols? But the beggar turned to another giver, and Heraklas hurried on his way.

Before he could reach home, a sacred procession came in sight.

Already Heraklas could plainly see the leopard-skin that fitted over the linen robes of the Egyptian high priest who was coming. Twelve or sixteen inferior priests walked beside the superior one. The high priest's lock of hair, pendant on one side of his head, became more and more plain to Heraklas with every step of the procession.

”They carry the shrine of the sacred beetle of the sun,” suspected Heraklas. ”I cannot meet them!”

He turned, and dashed down the first opening that presented itself.

The pa.s.sage led him utterly out of his way.

”But better so,” meditated Heraklas, ”than that I should have met that skin-dressed priest!”

He stopped an instant. His circuitous way had led him in sight of a spot where he had once seen the Christian woman, Marcella, and her daughter Potamiaena, pa.s.sing on their way to martyrdom. How awful a form of martyrdom was it that Alexandria visited upon that beautiful Christian daughter! Gradually, hot, scalding pitch was poured over her body, in order that she might endure the utmost torture possible.

Heraklas looked around him at the proud, beautiful city.

”O Alexandria, Alexandria!” he whispered, ”in thee is found the blood of the saints!”

For a moment the thought of such a death, as a Christian's punishment, overcame him. Yet he remembered that it was through Potamiaena's martyrdom that the soldier, Basilides, was led to become a Christian also. He refused to take a pagan oath, and was brought to martyrdom.

When Heraklas reached home, he was trembling. His short journey had been freighted with silent meaning.