The Days of Mohammed Part 19

"Tell me," said the Jew, giving him a shake, "what does Uzza know of you?"

"He knows," said a thin, grating voice from behind, "that Yusuf's hands reek with the blood of Uzza's only child, the fair little Imri, murdered in the cause of religion; and ere I could reach him--yes, priest, with vengeance in my heart, for had I found you then your blood would have blotted out the stain of my child's on your altar!--the false priest had fled, forsaken the reeking altar, left it black in ashes, black as his own false heart. And then, that vengeance might be satisfied, was Uzza's blade turned against the aged grandmother who had delivered the little one up to Persian G.o.ds. O priest, your work is past, but not forgotten!"

"Uzza," cried the priest, "I neither ask nor hope for mercy. Yet would G.o.d I could restore you your child! Its smile and its death gurgle have haunted my dreams through these long years! 'Twas in my heathendom I did it!"

"That excuse will not give her back to me," said Uzza, stepping out of the room with the Jew, as the warden came with the keys.

It was not Uzza's purpose to bring about Yusuf's speedy death. As the cat torments the mouse which has fallen into its power, so he resolved to keep the priest on the rack for a considerable length of time.

Hearing of the conversation between him and Asru, he knew that exquisite torture could be inflicted on the priest through Dumah, and determined to strike at him first through the poor singer. Dumah's execution was, accordingly, ordered.

Early one morning, Amzi, looking out of a little c.h.i.n.k in his window through which the bare court-yard below was visible, was horrified to see a scene revolting in its every detail, and over which we shall hasten as speedily as may be.

There in the gray morning light stood Yusuf, bound and forced to look on at the death of the bright-haired singer, whose sunny smile had been as a ray of suns.h.i.+ne to the two men.

Amzi looked on as if turned to stone--heard Dumah's last cheerful words, "Do not weep, Yusuf; it will be all flowers, all angels, soon. Dumah is going home happy,"--then, he fell on his face, and so lay for hours unconscious of all. Reason came slowly back, and he realized that another of the tragedies only too common in those perilous days had taken place.

"I am going home happy," rang in his ears. The cold moonlight crept in, s.h.i.+ning in a dead silver bar on the ceiling. Amzi lay looking at it, until it seemed a path of glory leading, for Dumah's feet, through the window and up to heaven.

"I am going home happy." Was that home Amzi's home too? Ah, he had never thought of it as his home, though he remembered the words--"In my Father's house are many mansions." He imagined he saw Dumah in one of those bright mansions, happy in eternal love and suns.h.i.+ne, while he, Amzi, was without.

For the first time in his life Amzi was concerned deeply about his soul; and now there was no Yusuf to answer his questions. Ere another day had pa.s.sed he, too, might be called upon to undergo Dumah's fate. He could not say "I am going home happy." How, then, might this blessed a.s.surance be his? He strove to remember Yusuf's words, but they seemed to flit away from his memory. His whole life appeared so listless, so selfish, so taken up with gratification of self! At last he seemed a sinner. How could he obtain forgiveness?

He turned over in agony, and the little stone tablet fell against his bosom. With difficulty, on account of the manacles on his hands, he drew it forth and traced the words with his finger.

"For G.o.d so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

As when a black cloud pa.s.ses away from the moon and a flood of brightness fills the whole air below, so the light burst upon Amzi. He saw it all now! His talk with Yusuf on the love of G.o.d came back to him, and he shouted aloud with joy:

"Praise the Lord, he hath set me free!"

"Then for the sake of mercy, help me to get out of this too," said a voice from the other side of the part.i.tion. It was Asru.

"Alas, my friend," returned Amzi, "chains are still on my body. It is my soul that soareth upward as an eagle."

"Wherefore?"

Amzi read the verse of Scripture aloud.

"I have heard somewhat of that before," said Asru. "Read it again."

Amzi did so, and explained it as well as he could. Asru listened eagerly. This new creed interested him by its novelty, especially since he was in forced inaction and had nothing else to think of. But it also appealed to a heart which had some n.o.ble traits among many evil ones; and as Amzi talked, sorrow for his sins came upon him.

"But the promise cannot be given to such as I," he said, wistfully. "A long life of wickedness surely cannot win forgiveness."

"O friend," returned Amzi, eagerly, "'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' How often did they tell me those words and I would not believe, could not understand!"

And then Amzi told the story of the thief on the cross, as he had read it and talked it over with Yusuf. His voice thrilled with eagerness, and, on the other side of the wall, Asru wept tears of repentance. To him too, the door was opening, and a great longing for the love of Christ and for a better life filled his bosom. So they talked until the noise of the awakening Moslems in the pa.s.sage without rendered it impossible for them to hear each other. But joy had come to both Amzi and Asru within the prison-walls.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A SCENE IN PALESTINE.

"I had rather choose to be a pilgrim on earth with Thee than without Thee to possess heaven. Where Thou art, there is heaven: and where thou art not, there is death and h.e.l.l."--_Thomas a Kempis._

It was a scene perfect in its calm beauty. A small, low, white house, flat-roofed, and dazzlingly clean, nestled at the foot of one of the fairest hills in Palestine; and before the door swept the river Jordan, plas.h.i.+ng with that low, soft ripple which is music everywhere, but nowhere more so than in the hot countries of the East.

A grove of banana and orange-trees sheltered the house, and the delicate fragrance of the ripening fruit mingled with the perfume of late roses.

On the green hills near, sheep rambled at will, and an occasional low bleat arose above the busy hum of bees, giving an air of life to the quiet scene.

In the shade of the trees sat Nathan, his wife and Mary. They had been talking of Mana.s.seh,--poor Mana.s.seh, left behind in barren Arabia!

Nathan too had wanted to stay with his distressed countrymen, but failing health had forced him to seek the more genial atmosphere of the North; and, after a long, tedious journey, he at last found himself safe once more in his beloved Palestine, poor in worldly goods, yet serene and hopeful as ever.

And fortune was at last smiling on the Jewish family. Nathan's health had come back to him in the clearer, more bracing air of the Northern land, his flocks were increasing, and the only gloom upon their perfect happiness was the absence of Mana.s.seh, from whom they were not likely to hear soon. And yet they gloried in knowing that Mana.s.seh had chosen to meet tribulation for the sake of his faith, and that, wherever he was, he was helping others and fighting on the side of right.

"Father," said Mary, "how grand it is to be able to do something great and n.o.ble in the cause! Were I a man, I would go with Mana.s.seh to fight for the Cross."

Nathan stroked her hair softly. "The life of everyone who is consecrated to G.o.d is directed by him," he said. "To Mana.s.seh is given the privilege of defending the faith and helping the weak by his strong, young arm; to Mary is given the humble, loving life in which she may serve G.o.d just as truly and do just as great a work in faithfully performing her own little part. Think you not so, mother?"

"Ah, yes," returned the mother, with her gentle smile. "Life is like the cloth woven little by little, until the whole pattern shows in the finished work; and it matters not whether the pattern be large or small.

So the little things of life, done well for Christ's sake, will at last make a n.o.ble whole of which none need be ashamed."

"But mother, watching the sheep, grinding the meal, was.h.i.+ng the garments, seem such very little things."

"Yet all these are very necessary things," returned the mother quietly, "and if done cheerfully and willingly, call for an unselfish heart. A gentle, loving life lived amid little cares and trials is no small thing, my child."

Mary kissed her mother. "Mother, you always say what comforts one; you always make me wish to live more patiently and lovingly."

"And yet, Mary," said her father, "mother's life has been one round of small duties."

Mary sat thinking for a moment. "Yes, father," she answered slowly, "I see now that mother's life has been the very best sermon on duty. I shall try to be patient and happy in simply doing well whatever my hands find to do. But I wish Mana.s.seh were home;" and she looked wistfully to the west, where bands of color were spreading up the sky, saffron at the horizon, blending into gold and tender green above, while all melted into a sapphire dome streaked and flecked with rosy pink rays and bars.

"How he would enjoy this glorious sunset! Oh, father, how dreadful if he were to be killed!--if he were nevermore to sit with us looking at the sunsets!" Her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

"We are committing him to the care of Almighty G.o.d," returned Nathan, solemnly. "G.o.d is love, and whatever he does will be best."

"You find great comfort, father, in believing that 'all things work together for good to them that love G.o.d,'" said Mary.

"For the children of G.o.d, everything that happens must be best."

"Even persecution and death?"

"Even persecution and death, if G.o.d so will."

Mary looked at his placid face for a long time, then she said: "How very peaceful you and mother are!"