Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  The clamour grew louder, and the excited mob rolled back upon itself with a force that was dangerous to life and limb. People fell and were trampled or bruised, — children screamed, and for a few moments the confusion was terrific.

  “Now would be the time to attempt a rescue!” muttered Barabbas, with some excitement, clenching his fists as though in eagerness to begin the fray.

  Melchior laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “As well try to pluck the sun out of heaven!” he said passionately— “Control thyself, rash fool! Thou canst not rescue One for whom death is the divine fulness of life! Press forward with me quickly, and we shall discover the cause of this new delay, — but say no word, and raise not a hand in opposition to Destiny. Wait till the end!”

  CHAPTER XII.

  WITH these words, and still holding Barabbas firmly by the arm, he plunged into the thickest part of the crowd which appeared to yield and give mysterious way to his passage, — and presently reached a place of standing-room where it was possible to see what had occasioned the halt and uproar. All the noise and fury surged round the grand figure of the “Nazarene” who stood erect as ever, but nevertheless seemed even in that upright position to have suddenly lost consciousness. His face had an unearthly pallor and His eyes were closed, — and it appeared to the soldiers and people as if Death had laid a merciful hand upon Him ere there was time to torture His life. In response to sundry calls and shouts for water or some other cool beverage to rouse the apparently swooning Captive, a man came out of the dark interior of his dwelling with a goblet containing wine mingled with myrrh and handed it to the centurion in charge. Petronius, with a strange sinking at the heart and something of remorse and pity, advanced and lifted it to the lips of the Divine Sufferer, who as the cold rim of the cup touched Him, opened His starry eyes and smiled. The infinite beauty of that smile and its pathetic tenderness, — the vast pardon and sublime patience it expressed, seemed all at once to flash a sudden mysterious light of comprehension into the hearts of the cruel multitude, for, as if struck by a spell, their cries and murmurings ceased, and every head was turned towards the great Radiance which shone upon them with such intense and undefinable glory. Petronius staggered back chilled with a vague horror, — he returned the cup of wine and myrrh to the man who had offered it, — the “Nazarene” had not tasted it, — He had merely expressed His silent acknowledgment by that luminous and exquisite smile. And strangely awful did it suddenly seem to the bluff centurion that such an One as He should express gratitude to any man, even by a glance, — though why it appeared unnatural, he, Petronius, could not tell. Meanwhile some of the women, pressing closer and gazing full into the calm, fair face of the Condemned, were touched into awe and admiration and began to utter exclamations of regret and compassion, — others, more emotional, and encouraged by at last hearing an unmistakable murmur of sympathy ripple wave-like through the throng, broke into loud weeping, and beat their breasts with frenzied gesticulations of mourning and despair.

  “They will change their minds, these Jews,” — said one of the soldiers sullenly, aside to Petronius—” With all these wailings and halts by the way, our work will never be done. Best press on quickly.”

  “Hold thy peace!” retorted Petronius angrily—” Seest thou not the Man faints with fatigue and maybe with the pain of the scourging? Let him pause awhile.”

  But He of whom they spoke had already recovered Himself. His lips parted a little, — they trembled and were dewy, as though some heavenly restorative had just touched them. The faint colour flowed back to His face, and He looked dreamily about Him, like a strayed Angel who scarcely recognises the sphere into which it has wandered. The weeping women gathered near Him timidly, some carrying infants in their arms, and, undeterred by the frowns of the soldiers, ventured to touch His garments. One young matron, a woman of Rome, lifted a small fair-haired nursling close up to Him that He might look at it, — the little one stretched out its dimpled arms and tried to clutch first the crown of thorns, and then the glittering golden hair. The sweet encouragement and strong tenderness of expression with which the Divine Immortal met the child’s laughing eyes and innocently attempted caresses, melted the mother’s heart, and she gave way to uncontrollable sobbing, clasping her loved and lovely treasure close, and letting her tears rain on its nestling head. The other women round her, sympathetically infected by her example, renewed their lamentations with such hysterical passion that presently the gradual mutterings of impatience and discontent that had for some minutes proceeded from the male portion of the crowd, swelled into loud remonstrance and indignation.

  “What fools are women!”

  “Press forward!”— “We shall have these whimpering souls preventing the law’s fulfilment!”

  “Why delay thus?”

  But these angry outcries were of little avail, and the women still wept and clustered about the “Nazarene,” till He Himself turned His eyes upon them with a look of love and invincible command which like a charm suddenly hushed their clamour. At the same moment, a low voice, rendered faint with weariness, dropped on their ears melodiously like a sweet and infinitely sad song.

  “Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children!” Here a deep sigh interrupted speech; then the mellow accents gathered strength and solemnity. “For behold the days are coming in the which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the breasts which never gave suck. Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!”

  The rich voice faltered for a moment, and the beautiful eyes of the captive “King” filled with a deep meditative pity as He added, “ For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?”

  The listening women looked up at Him in tearful astonishment, quieted, yet understanding nothing of His words. The last sentence seemed to them particularly vague and meaningless, — they could not comprehend that He who thus spoke to them was thinking of the whole world merely as “ a green tree” or a planet in its prime, and that He foresaw little but sorrow from the wilful disbelief and disobedience of its inhabitants when it should become old and like the sapless tree, “dry.” Dry of faith, dry of love, dry of all sweet, pure, holy, and unselfish emotion, — a mere withered husk of a world ready to be scattered among the star-dust of the Universe, having failed to obey its Maker’s will, or to accomplish its nobler destiny. Such premonitory signs are given to thinkers and philosophers alone, — the majority of men have no time and less inclination to note or accept them. There is time to eat, time to steal, time to lie, time to murder, time to become a degradation to the very name of Man; — but there is no time to pause and consider that after all our petty labours and selfish ambitions, this star on which we live belongs, not to us, but to God, and that if He but willed it so, it could be blotted out of space in a second and never be missed, save perhaps for the one singular distinction that the Divine Christ, dwelling upon it from birth to death, has made it sacred.

  None among the Jewish populace that morning were able to imagine the vast wonder and mystery investing the sublime Figure which moved amongst them with such tranquil dignity and resignation, — none could foresee the tremendous results which were destined to spring from the mere fact of His existence upon earth. All that they saw was a Man of extraordinary physical beauty, who for bold and open teaching of new doctrines pronounced by the priests to be blasphemous, was being led to His death. Thrust violently back by the guards, the frightened group of women who had wept for His sufferings, got scattered among the crowd, and, drifting hither and thither like blown leaves in a storm, forgot their tears in their anxiety to protect their children from the reckless pushing and buffeting of the onward swarming rabble. The disorder was increased by the terrified starting and plunging of horses and mules that got entangled in the crowd during the progress of the procession through the narrow and tortuous streets, — but at last one sharp turn
in the road brought them in full view of Calvary. The people set up a wild unanimous shout, — and Simon of Cyrene carrying the Cross looked up startled and pained by the discordant roar. For he had been lost in a dream. Unconscious of the weight he bore, he had seemed to himself to walk on air. He had spoken no word, though many around him had mocked him and striven to provoke him by insolent jests and jeers, — he was afraid to utter a sound lest he should disturb and dispel the strange and delicious emotion he experienced, — emotion which he could not explain, but which kept him in a state of bewildered wonderment and ecstasy. There was music everywhere about him, — high above the mutterings and murmurings of the populace, he heard mysterious throbs of melody as of harps struck by the air, — the hard stones of the road were soft as velvet to his sandalled feel, — the Cross he carried seemed scented with the myrtle and the rose, — and there I was no more weight in it than in a gathered palm-leaf plucked as a symbol of victory. He remembered how in his youth he had once carried the baby son of a king on his shoulders down one of the Cyrenian hills to the edge of the sea, — and the child, pleased with the swiftness and ease of its journey, had waved aloft a branch of vine in sign of triumph and joy. The burden of the Cross was no heavier than that of the laughing child and tossing vine! But now — now the blissful journey must end, — the rude cries of the savage multitude aroused him from his reverie, — the harp-like melodies around him rippled away into minor echoes of deep sadness, — and as his eyes beheld the hill of Calvary, he, for the first time since he began his march, felt weary unto death. He had never in all his years of life known such happiness as while carrying the Cross of Him who was soon to be nailed upon it; but now the time had come when he must lay it down, and take up the far more weighty burdens of the world and its low material claims. Why not die here, he thought vaguely, with the Man whose radiant head gleamed before him like the sun in heaven? Surely it would be well, since here, at Calvary, life seemed to have a sweet and fitting end! He was only a barbarian, uninstructed and ignorant of heavenly things, — he could not analyse what he felt or reason out his unfamiliar sensations, but some singular change had been wrought in him, since he lifted up the Cross, — thus much he knew, — thus much he realised, — the rest was mere wonder and worship.

  As the multitude poured itself towards the place of execution a party of horsemen dashed through a side-street and careered up the hill at full gallop, the hoofs of their spirited steeds tearing up and scattering morsels of the sun-baked turf like dust in the air as they passed. They were Roman nobles, visitors to Jerusalem, who hearing of what was about to take place, had come out to see this singular Jewish festival of blood. After them followed another group of persons on foot, and glittering in raiment of various costly hues, — these were Caiaphas, Annas, and many of the members of the Sanhedrim, accompanied by a select number of the retinue of their various households. Meanwhile Barabbas was being guarded and guided forward by the astute Melchior who, with wonderful dexterity and composure, piloted him through the thickest of the crush and brought him to a clear space at the foot of the hill. Just as they reached the spot, several richly-attired women, some of them veiled, came out of the shady avenues of a private garden close by and began the ascent at a slow and sauntering pace. They were laughing and talking gaily among themselves; one of them, the tallest, walked with a distinctive air of haughtiness and a swaying suppleness of movement, — she had a brilliant flame-coloured mantle thrown over her head and shoulders.

  “Lo, there!” whispered Melchior, grasping Barabbas firmly by the arm, to keep him prisoner—” Yonder she goes! Seest thou not you poppy-hued gala garb. ’Tis the silken sheath of the flower whose perfume drives thee mad! — the dove-like desirer of stolen pearls! — the purest and fairest virgin in Judæa, Judith Iscariot!”

  With a fierce cry and fiercer oath, Barabbas strove to wrench himself from his companion’s hold.

  “Release me!” he gasped— “Detain me not thus, or by my soul I will slay thee!”

  His efforts were in vain; Melchior’s hand, though light, was firm as iron and never yielded, and Melchior’s eyes, flashing fire, yet cold as ice in expression, rested on the heated angry face of the man beside him, unswervingly and with a chill disdain.

  “Thou infatuated fool!” he said slowly— “Thou misguided barbarian! Thou wilt slay me? ‘ By thy soul’ thou wilt? Swear not by thy soul, good ruffian, for thou hast one, strange as it doth seem. ’Tis the only positive thing about thee, wherefore take not its name in vain, else it may visit vengeance on thee! Judgest thou me as easy to kill as a Pharisee? Thou art in serious error! The steel of thy knife would melt in my flesh, — thy hands would feel withered and benumbed didst thou presume to lay them violently upon me. Be warned in time and pervert not my friendship, for believe me thou wilt need it presently.”

  Barabbas looked at him in wild appeal, — a frozen weight seemed to have fallen on his heart, and a sense of being mastered and compelled vexed his impatient spirit. But he was powerless, — he had, on a mere sudden impulse, put himself, he knew not why, under the control of this stranger, — he had only himself to blame if now his own will seemed paralysed and impotent. He ceased struggling, and cast a longing glance after the flame-coloured mantle that now appeared to be floating lightly up the hill of Calvary like a stray cactus-petal on the air.

  “Thou knowest not,” he muttered—” thou canst not know how I have hungered for her face” —

  “And thou shall feed on it ere long” — rejoined Melchior sarcastically, “And may it quell thy vulgar appetite! But assume at least the appearance of a man, — betray not thyself before her maidens, — they will but scoff at thee. Moreover, bethink thee thou art here as witness of a death, — a death far greater than all love!”

  Barabbas sighed, and his head dropped dejectedly on his breast. His strong harsh features were convulsed with passion, — but the strange force exercised over him by his companion was too subtle for resistance. Melchior watched him keenly for a moment ere he spoke again, — then he said more gently, but with earnestness and solemnity, —

  “Lo, they ascend Calvary! — Seest thou not the Condemned and His guards are already half way up the hill? Come, let us follow; — thou shalt behold the world agonised and the sun fade in heaven! — thou shalt hear the conscious thunder roar out wrath at this symbolic slaughter of the Divine in Man! No worse murder was ever wrought, — none more truly representative of humanity! — and from henceforth the earth rolls on its appointed way in a mist of blood, — saved, may-be, but stained! — stained and marked with the Cross, — for ever!”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  BARABBAS trembled as he heard. Full of apprehensive trouble and dreary foreboding, he followed his inscrutable new acquaintance. Some strange inward instinct told him that there was a terrible truth in Melchior’s words, — though why a stranger and alien to Judæa should know more concerning the mystic “Nazarene” than the Jews themselves was a problem he could not fathom. Nevertheless he began the brief ascent of Calvary with a sinking heart and a sensation that was very like despair. He felt that something tremendous and almost incomprehensible was about to be consummated, and that on the children of Israel for evermore would rest the curse invoked by themselves. Could God Himself alter the deliberately self-chosen fate of a man or a nation? No! Even the depraved and ill-taught Barabbas was mentally conscious of the awful yet divine immutability of Free-will.

  The dry turf crackled beneath the tread as though it were on fire, for the heat was more than ever overpoweringly intense. Time had worn on till it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and the broad unshadowed glare of the sun streamed pitilessly down upon the hill of execution which now presented the appearance of a huge hive covered thickly with thousands of swarming, buzzing bees. The crowd had broken up on all sides, each section of it striving to attain the best point of view from whence to watch the progress of the dire tragedy about to be enacted. The fatal eminence sloped upward very gently, and on
cooler days the climb would have scarcely been perceptible, but at this fierce hour, when all the world seemed staring and aflame with wonder, the way appeared difficult and long. Melchior and Barabbas, however, walking side by side, managed to keep up a moderately swift and even pace, despite the vindictive blaze and dazzle of the sky, and never paused to take breath till, as they neared the summit, they came upon a little group of women surrounding the unconscious form of one of their companions. Barabbas, with a wild idea that his Judith might be amongst them, sprang eagerly forward, and this time Melchior let him go. But he was quickly disappointed, — no silken-robed beauty was there, — they were all poor, footsore, sad-faced, ill-clad creatures, some of whom were silently weeping, while only one of them seemed, by her singular dignity of bearing, to be of a higher rank apart, — but she was closely veiled so that her features were not visible. Their whole attention was centred on the woman who had swooned, and she appeared, from her exterior condition, to be the poorest of them all. Clothed only in a rough garment of coarse grey linen bound under her bosom with a hempen girdle, she lay on the ground where she had suddenly fallen, like one newly dead, — and the piteous still loveliness of her was such that Barabbas, though his wild soul mirrored another and far more brilliant face, could not help but be moved to compassion, as he bent forward and saw her thus prone and senseless. The chief glory that distinguished her was her hair, — it had come unbound, and rippled about her in lavish waves of warm yet pale gold, — her features were softly rounded and delicate like those of a child, and the thick lashes that fringed the closed eyes, being more darkly tinted than the hair, cast a shadow beneath, suggestive of pain and the shedding of many tears. —

  “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.