Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “What aileth her?” asked Barabbas gently.

  One or two of the women eyed him doubtfully but offered no reply. Melchior had approached to within a certain distance of the group and there he waited. Barabbas beckoned him, but seeing he did not stir, went hastily up to him.

  “Shall we not be of some service here?” he demanded—” ’Tis a wondrous fair virgin whom sorrow or pain hath surely overcome.”

  “Do as it seemeth unto thee well,” — responded Melchior quietly, looking him full in the face as he spoke; “nevertheless thou must be advised in this matter. You ‘wondrous fair virgin,’ as thou callest her, is but a woman of ill-fame, — a golden-haired wanton of the city ways called Mary Magdalene.”

  Barabbas started as if he had been stung. A dark frown gathered on his brows.

  “Mary Magdalene!” he muttered—” Of a truth she is a sinner! I have heard sundry evil things of her, — yet of myself I would not be merciless, — I could not stone a woman,... but if to-day I see and speak with Judith” —

  “Enough!” interrupted Melchior disdainfully—” I understand thee! Thou wouldst not sully thyself, good thief, with even so much as a look from a wanton, Judith being pure as heaven and Mary black as hell! Leave her where she lies, O thou moralising murderer, — thou true type of the men who make such women! — leave her to the ministrations of her own sex. She whom thou, assassin, dost scorn, hath been brought to penitence and pardoned by Him who dieth presently, yet what of that. ’Tis naught, ’tis naught! — for He must be crucified, but thou canst live! — O wondrous world that thus pronounceth equity! Come, let us onward!”

  Barabbas listened, sullenly ashamed.

  “If she be penitent, ’tis well” — he muttered— “but why then goest thou not thyself to her?”

  A sudden gravity clouded the ironical glitter in Melchior’s eyes.

  “Why?” he echoed pensively, — then after a pause, “Were I to tell thee truly why, thou wouldst learn more than is yet fitting to thy nature. Let it suffice to thee to know that among those women there is One, whom I may not venture to approach save in worship, — for where she treads is holy ground. For her sake from henceforth. Woman is made Queen! — nay, look not thus strangely! — thou shalt hear more of this anon.”

  He resumed his walk sedately, and Barabbas, more and more troubled and perplexed, gave a disquieted glance backward over his shoulder at the group now left behind. He saw that the fainting Magdalene had revived sufficiently to be lifted partially to her feet, — and he caught the flash of the dazzling sunlight on the falling masses of her luxuriant hair. Then he turned his eyes away, and bent his looks downward to the ground, and a silence fell between him and Melchior. All at once a shriek of agony tore the air into sharp echoes, followed by another and yet another. Barabbas stopped, his blood freezing at the hideous outcry. Unable to speak, he gazed at his companion in affrighted inquiry.

  “’Tis the first taste of pain such as thou mightest this day and at this moment have suffered,” said Melchior, answering his look—” They are nailing down two thieves. Hearest thou not the clang of the hammers? A few paces more and we shall see the work.”

  They quickened their steps, and in a couple of minutes reached the summit of the hill. There they found themselves in full view of the terrible scene of execution, — a pageant of such tremendous import, such sublime horror, that the imagination of man can scarcely grasp it, — scarcely realise the consummate bitterness of the awful and immortal tragedy. The multitude had formed into a complete ring, circling unbrokenly round the crest of Calvary, — while the soldiery had divided into two lines, one keeping to the right, the other to the left. At a signal from the centurion, Simon of Cyrene laid down with tender and lingering reluctance the great Cross he had so lightly carried, — and as he did so, the Man of Nazareth, moving tranquilly to the spot indicated to Him by His guards, took up His position beside the intended instrument of His death, and there waited patiently for the accomplishment of His fate. The executioners were already busily occupied with part of their dreadful task, — for at the crafty suggestion of Caiaphas the two thieves who had been brought out from the prison that morning were nailed on their respective crosses first. This was to satisfy the refined cruelty of the Jewish priests, who by this means sought to overpower the “Nazarene” with terror by forcing Him to witness the agonies of those who were destined to suffer in His sacred company. But herein the bloodthirsty chiefs of the Sanhedrim were doomed to disappointment. No shadow of fear blanched the serene visage of the Divine, — not a tremor of horror or anxiety quivered through that stately frame of heroic stature and perfect mould. He stood erect, as a king of a thousand worlds might stand, conscious of power and glory, — His tall white-robed figure was fully outlined against the burning sky and seemed to have gathered from the sun-rays a dazzling luminance of its own, — every prickly point in His crown of thorns glistened as with drops of dew, — His fair calm face shone with a beauty not of mortals, — and so lightly did His sandalled feet seem poised on the hot and arid soil beneath Him, that He scarcely appeared to touch the earth more than a sunlit cloud may do ere rising again into its native ether. The land, the sky, the air, the sun, all seemed to be a part of Himself and to share mysteriously in the knowledge of His presence; had He spoken one word, — one word of thunderous command, it would have shaken the Universe. But with that inward force known only to God and the angels, He held His peace, — and His radiant eyes, in their poetic wistfulness and wonder, seemed saying silently—” I go to lift the curtain from this Death, which all My foolish creatures fear! I pass through torturing pain to give weak human nature courage! And I descend into the grave as Man, to prove that Man, though seeming dead, shall rise to life again!”

  Meanwhile the shrieks and cries that had startled Barabbas were growing louder and wilder. They all proceeded from one of the doomed thieves, — the other was silent. With a mingling of morbid curiosity and nervous dread, Barabbas went shrinkingly towards the spot where the executioners were at work, and gazing at the distorted features of the struggling criminal gave an irrepressible cry of amazement.

  “Hanan!”

  Hanan indeed it was, his former fellow-prisoner, with whom he had fought through iron bars the previous night, and whom he had left yelling after him that very morning. Hearing Barabbas speak his name, the wretched man turned his protruding eyes round with a hideous expression of rage and envy.

  “Thou, — Barabbas! Thou, — free? Dog! Accursed devil! What evil conspiracy hast thou worked in to get thyself released and me condemned? Through thee I sinned! — through thee I have come to this! Coward! I spit on thee! Justice! — I will have justice! Thou lying hypocrite! Didst thou not swear to stand by thy friends? Let be, ye brutes!” and with a yell he tore his arm away from the men who had seized it to nail it against the left-hand beam of the cross on which he was stretched—” Thou, thou Barabbas, art thief as well as I — thou art worse than I, for thou art murderer! Come thou hither and be tormented in my stead! This morning thou didst leave me in my cell starved and athirst, — and lo, they came and brought me forth to die, — while thou art here pranked out in soft attire, free — free! Thou ruffian! And this is Rome’s justice for the Jews! Ah!” — and he screamed furiously, as two or three soldiers beckoned forward by the executioners came and by force tied his arms with strong rope to the cross-beams of the instrument of death, while the great sharp nails were driven remorselessly through the centre of his palms, “ Take ye Barabbas and crucify him!” he yelled, “ He murdered Gabrias, — he stole the jewels of Shadeen, — he it is who stirreth up sedition in the city, — bring out another cross for Barabbas! — let Barabbas die” —

  Blood sprang to his mouth, choking his utterance, — his face grew dusky purple with agony and suffocation. The soldiers laughed.

  “Thou cowardly dog!” said one of them—” Die like a man, if there be any manhood in a Jew. A Roman would scorn to make such outcry. As for Barabbas, he is set f
ree by law and pardoned.”

  Hanan heard, and his eyes rolled horribly with a delirious glare.

  “Pardoned — pardoned!” he muttered thickly—” May all the curses of deepest hell be on thee and thy wanton” —

  But his sentence was left unfinished, for at that moment his cross was raised and set upright in the socket prepared for it in the ground, — and the blistering sun blazed down upon his bare head and naked body like an opened furnace-fire. He twisted and writhed in vain, — in his indescribable torture he would have torn his hands from the nails which pierced them, had they not been too tightly bound for such an effort. Most awful it was to look upon him hanging thus, with the anguished blood blackening in his veins and swelling his straining muscles, — and Barabbas turned away his eyes, sick and shuddering.

  “Do they all suffer like that?” he asked of Melchior falteringly.

  “All who are made of clay and clay only, suffer thus” — responded Melchior, eyeing the tormented criminal with an air of scientific coldness, “ He has had his chance in this world and lost it. None but himself can be blamed for his present condition.”

  “Wilt thou apply such moralising to the Nazarene?” demanded Barabbas half indignantly.

  Melchior lifted his eyes for an instant to the sky as though he saw some wonder there.

  “Ay! Even to the Nazarene!” he said softly—” He also hath had His Way, and chosen His condition, — and unto Him be the glory hereafter! — Time is His slave, — and Destiny His footstool, and His Cross the safety of Humanity!”

  “Nay, if such be thy thought of Him” — murmured Barabbas, shaken to his very soul by a trembling awe he could not explain, “were it not well to speak with Him ere He dies? — to crave a blessing” —

  “His blessing is not for me, but all” — interrupted Melchior with solemnity—” And I have spoken with Him, — long ago, when His life on earth was young. But now, ’tis not a time for words, ’tis a time for vigilance and prayer; — watch thou therefore with me, and hold thy peace, — this is but the beginning of wonders.”

  Just then the executioners finished nailing the second thief to his cross. This man made no resistance and scarce an outcry. Once only, as his feet were pierced by the huge nail that was roughly hammered through them, he gave vent to an irresistible faint shriek of pain, — but afterwards, with an almost superhuman effort he controlled himself, and only moaned a little now and then. His eyes turned constantly towards the “Nazarene” — and he seemed to derive ease and satisfaction from merely looking in that direction. There was much renewed excitement and stir among the thronging people as they saw the second cross about to be set up, for they judged that but little time would now elapse before the crowning act of the appalling drama, — the crucifixion of Him whom they accused of blasphemy because “He made Himself the Son of God.” And in the restless surging to and fro of the mob, Barabbas suddenly spied standing somewhat apart, a knot of women whose costly raiment, adorned with jewels, bespoke them of higher wealth and rank than ordinary, — and among them one dazzling fair face shone forth like a star amid flame, for the hair which clustered above it was of a red-gold lustre, and the mantle flung about it had the glowing tint of fire. One devouring eager look, and Barabbas, forgetting all fear, warning, or prophecy, fled like a madman towards that flashing danger-signal of a beauty that seemed to burn the very air encompassing it, — and with wild eyes, but-stretched hands, and breathless utterances he cried, —

  “JUDITH!”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  SHE whom he thus called upon turned towards him as he came with a haughty air of offence and inquiry, — and the marvellous loveliness of her as she fully confronted him checked his impetuous haste and held him, as it had often done before, tongue-tied, bewildered and unmanned. Nothing more beautiful in the shape of woman could be imagined than she, — her fairness was of that rare and subtle type which in all ages has everwhelmed reason, blinded judgment, and played havoc with the passions of men. Well did she know her own surpassing charm, — and thoroughly did she estimate the value of her fatal power to lure and rouse and torture all whom she made the victims of her almost resistless attraction. She was Judith Iscariot, — only daughter of one of the strictest and most respected members of the Pharisaical sect in Jerusalem, — and by birth and breeding she should have been the most sanctimonious and reserved of maidens, — but in her case, nature had outstepped education. Nature, in a picturesque mood, had done wondrous things for her, — things that in the ordinary opinion of humankind, generally outweigh virtue and the cleanness of the soul in the sight of Heaven. To Nature therefore the blame was due for having cast the red glow of a stormy sunset into the bronze gold of her hair, — for having melted the blackness of night and the fire of stars together and set this mingled darkness and dazzle floating liquidly in her eyes, — for having bruised the crimson heart of the pomegranate-buds and made her lips the colour of the perfect flower, — and for having taken the delicate cream and pink of early almond blossoms and fixed this soft flushing of the Spring’s lifeblood in the colouring of her radiant face. Small cause for wonder was there in the fact that her beauty conquered all who came within its radius; even her rigid father himself grew lax, weak, and without authority as far as she was concerned, and blinded by the excess of his parental pride in her perfections, had gradually become the merest tool in her hands. How then could Barabbas, the criminal Barabbas, feel himself other than the most abject of slaves in such a dazzling presence! A beaten hound, a chidden child were firmer of resolution than he when the chill yet lustrous glance he loved fell on him like a star-beam flashing from a frosty sky and set his strong nerves trembling.

  “Judith!” he exclaimed again, — and then stopped, discouraged; for her large eyes, cold as the inner silence of the sea, surveyed him freezingly as though he were some insolently obtrusive stranger.

  “Judith!” he faltered appealingly— “Surely thou dost know me, — me, Barabbas!”

  A sudden light of comprehension swept away the proud annoyance of her look, — her red lips parted a little, showing the even small white teeth within, — then a glimmer of amusement illumined her features, wakening dimples at the curves of her mouth and lifting the delicately pencilled corners of her eyebrows, — then she broke into a soft peal of careless, vibrating laughter.

  “Thou, Barabbas?” she said, and laughed once more, “ Thou? Nay, ’tis not possible! Barabbas was of late in prison, and of truth he could not steal from thence such purple raiment and solemnly sedate expression as thou wearest! Thou canst not be Barabbas, — for scarce two hours agone I saw him standing before Pilate, unclad, and foul as wolves and leopards are! — yet verily he seemed a nobler man than thou!”

  Again she gave vent to her silvery mocking mirth, and her eyes flung him a glittering challenge of disdain and scorn. He, however, had recovered partial control of his emotions, and met her taunting gaze steadfastly and with something of sadness, — his dark face had grown very pale, — and all the warmth and rapture had died out of his voice when he spoke again.

  “I am Barabbas” — he repeated quietly—” And thou, Judith, dost know it. Have I not suffered for thy sake? — and wilt thou still mock at me?”

  She glanced him up and down with an air of mingled derision and pity.

  “I do not mock at thee, fool! — thou dreamest! How darest thou say thou hast suffered for my sake! I will have thee scourged for thy presumption! What has the daughter of Iscariot to do with thee, thou malefactor? Thou dost forget thy crimes too easily!”

  “Judith!” he muttered, his pale features growing paler, and his hands clenching themselves in an involuntary movement of desperate despair, “ Bethink thee of thy words! Remember the old days,... have pity” —

  She cut short his hesitating speech by an offended gesture and turning to the women who stood near, exclaimed derisively, —

  “Lo, maidens, ’tis Barabbas! Remember ye him who was ever wont to pass by the well in our pal
m-tree nook in his goings and comings to and from the house of Shadeen? — how he would linger with us till sunset, wasting his time in idle words and rumours of the town, when of a truth he should have been better employed in useful errandry. ’Tis the same knave who knotted for me the silken hammock on the fig-tree boughs in my father’s garden, — and for Aglaie, yonder simpering Greek girl of mine, he once pulled down a flower that blossomed too high for her to reach. ’Twas all the service he ever did for us, methinks! — yet he hath become of a most excellent pride in prison! — the unexpected freedom given him by the people’s vote hath puffed him out with singular vanities! Would ye have known him, maidens, clad thus in purple, and of so decorous a demeanour? As I live, he would have adorned a cross most fittingly!— ‘twere pity he were not nailed beside the Nazarene!”

  The women to whom she spoke laughed carelessly to please her, — but one or two of them seemed sorry for Barabbas, and glanced at him kindly and with a certain pity. He meanwhile showed no anger or impatience at the scoffing words of his beautiful tormentor, but simply looked her straight in the eyes, questioningly and sorrowfully. A deeper flush coloured her fair cheeks, — she was evidently troubled by the steadfastness of his gaze, — and, noting this momentary embarrassment of hers, he seized his opportunity and made a resolute step towards her, catching her hand in his own.

  “Is this thy welcome, Judith?” he said in a passionate whisper—” Hast thou no thought of what my long, long misery has been apart from thee? Deny it as thou wilt, I sinned for thy sake and suffered for thy sake! — and ’twas this thought and this alone that made my suffering less hard to bear. Mock me, reject me, thou canst not hinder me from loving thee! Slay me, if it give thee pleasure, with the jewelled dagger hanging at thy girdle, I shall die happy at thy feet, — loving thee to the last, thou cruel virgin of my soul!”

  His voice in its very whisper thrilled with the strange music that love can give to the roughest tones, — his black eyes burned with ardour, — and his lips trembled in their eloquent appeal. She heard, — and a slow smile smoothed away the disdain in her face; he had grasped her left hand in his and she did not withdraw it. But with her right she felt for the dagger he spoke of, — it was the merest toy weapon set in a jewelled sheath, — yet sharp and strong enough to kill. Moved by capricious impulse she suddenly drew forth the blade and pointed it at his breast. He did not flinch, — nor did he for a second remove his eyes from the adoring contemplation of her perfect loveliness. For a moment she remained thus, — the weapon uplifted, — the radiant smile playing round her mouth like a sunbeam playing round a flower, — then, laughing outright and joyously, she thrust back the dagger in its sheath.