“What news bring ye from the city?” she demanded— “Do they mourn there or rejoice for the death of Caiaphas?”
“Alas, Judith, dream not so wildly!” — murmured Barabbas quickly— “Caiaphas is not dead, — some enemy hath wounded him in the night, — but he doth live, and will live on, — trouble not thyself!”
As he spoke she looked at him strangely, — and over her features came a swift dusky pallor as of death.
“What! Caiaphas doth live and will live on?” she cried—” He is not dead? Then upon him, O God of Israel, send down thine everlasting curse! — let loose on him the fiends of darkest hell! Betrayer, seducer, liar, and selfseeking hypocrite, remember, O just God, remember the sins of this thy so-called righteous servant in the Holy Place, and let thy judgments meet the measure of his vileness! Not upon Judas” — and she raised her arms aloft in passionate appeal— “not upon Judas, nor on any blind and ignorant sinner, visit thy vengeance, O dread Lord, but on thy Priest who in pretence of serving the Divine hath murdered it! A curse on Caiaphas! — the curse of dead Judas, — the curse of dying Judith! — the never-lifting curse of the wretched who are led by a priest’s Lie out of Heaven into Hell!”
Dilating with her inward passion, she looked like a pale fierce prophetess denouncing the evils of the time, — reason for the moment seemed to have returned to her, — her voice was clear, her sentences connected, — and Peter and the others stared upon her amazed, awed, and fascinated. But the rush of her wild eloquence exhausted her, — she lost breath and looked vaguely about her, groping with her hands in a blind way, as though she had become suddenly enveloped in darkness. All at once she sprang forward eagerly with an impetuous grace and swiftness that caused those around her to fall hastily back, except Barabbas, who still tried to hold and support her, though she with a gesture of her old pride and scorn motioned him away. Alone on the white dusty road she stood in a listening attitude, — her eyes glittering, her lips apart; evidently she heard, or thought she heard, something that to the others who watched her was but silence. The sun poured straightly down upon her, — she looked like a fair startled sylph in the amber glow of the burning Eastern noonday, — gradually an expression of surprise and then of rapture lighted her pallid face, — she lifted her gaze slowly, and with seeming wonder and incredulity, fixed her eyes on the near grassy slope of the Mount of Olives, where two ancient fig-trees twining their gnarled boughs together made an arch of dark and soothing shade, Pointing thither with one hand, she smiled, — and once more her matchless beauty flashed up through form and face like a flame.
“Lo, there!” she exclaimed joyously—” How is it that ye could not find Him? There is the King!”
Throwing up her arms, she ran eagerly along a few steps,... tottered,... then fell face forward in the dust and there lay;... motionless for ever! She had prayed for the pardon of Judas, — she had sought — and found — the “King”!
Barabbas, Mary Magdalene, and the disciples quickly surrounded the prone figure shrouded in its gold hair, but ere they could raise it, the sound of a horse’s hoofs galloping fast down the road came closer and closer, and finally stopped. A man’s voice called out anxiously, —
“What have ye there? Need ye any service?”
They looked up, — and a solemn silence fell upon them. For it was Iscariot. He had just returned from a vain search for his daughter in the villages of Bethpage and Bethany. In one keen glance he read in their awestricken faces his own new misery, and dismounting from his horse he dispersed the little group with a single tragic gesture of supreme despair. The white figure fallen in the dust, the lustrous wonder of the hair that covered it as with a mantle, swam before his eyes, — flinging himself down he clutched wildly at the corpse of that fair child of his who had been to his heart above all earthly things beloved.
“Judith!” he cried.
Then, slowly and shudderingly he lifted the body and turned the face upward to the light,... alas, the piteous beauty of that face! — what sadness, and what wonder in its fixed grave smile! So strongly too did it resemble the face of the dead Judas, that had it not been for the wealth of woman’s hair falling about it, it might have been taken for the fine, fair remorseful countenance of that self-slain disciple. Yet a certain vague joy rested on the quiet features; — one little hand pressed against the bosom, held a cross; this Iscariot saw, and wrenching it from the stiffening fingers, flung it in the dust.
“Get hence!” he cried fiercely—” Ye madmen of Galilee, get hence! Out of my sight, and linger not to triumph in my misery! Behold, my house is desolate, — I have no more place or honour in the world! Rejoice at that, ye enemies of Israel! What care I for your promised heaven! — ye have reft from me the joy of earth! What are your boasted miracles! your resurrections from the grave! — will ye give me back my children? Will ye raise up my son, self-slaughtered for your Prophet’s sake? — Will ye restore to me this maid, the daughter of my blood, the treasure of my care? Nay! ye are liars all! — ye have no power to comfort the afflicted, ye cruel preachers of a loveless creed, — ye cowards and accurst! Leave me, I say! — leave me,... alone with my dead!”
And clasping the body of his daughter in his arms, he laid his grey head upon her still breast and wept, — wept as only strong men weep when they are broken-hearted.
Awed and troubled, and vaguely perplexed too by the mystery of a grief and pain too great as it seemed for human or divine consolement, the disciples slowly moved away, the Magdalen accompanying them sorrowfully, her face veiled to hide her tears, — and only Barabbas remained beside the stricken father to share with him his bitter agony. Once Peter looked back and seemed to consider whether he should speak. But he hesitated, — for what, after all, could he say? He had not the secret of his Divine Master who by a mere look could calm a tempest. True, he might have said, “Be patient, Iscariot! God will comfort thee!” What! This to a Pharisee and usurer? Never! Let him, instead of children, hug his bags of ill-gotten gold, — what Jew with wealth hath need of other comfort? So Peter thought, yet there was an uneasiness in his mind; his Master, he well knew, would not have acted thus, and he was by his lack of broad sympathy already falsifying and distorting the Divine example. Tormented by, yet wilfully deaf to the teasing whisper of conscience, he walked on “to meet the Lord” by the road to Galilee, half hoping, half fearing, half doubting, half believing, an image of the future on which he was destined to set his lasting mark. Meanwhile John lingered a moment, — his earnest gaze rested compassionately on the tragic group beneath the olive-boughs, — the aged Jew clasping his dead daughter, his grey locks mingling with her gold, — and the rugged dark figure of Barabbas standing near; — then, stooping, he raised reverently from the dust the cross Iscariot had thrown there, kissed it, laid it against his breast, and with fair head bent musingly and eyes full of dreams, went slowly on his way.
CHAPTER XLVI.
NEARLY a week had elapsed since the miracle of the Resurrection of the Crucified had been reported in Jerusalem. The high-priest Caiaphas was recovering rapidly from his well-nigh deadly wound, and had so far carried out certain secret plans of his as to have had the centurion Galbus, together with his companion Maximus, sent hastily out of Judæa and back to Rome. Petronius too, the other centurion, suspected of sympathy with the followers of the Nazarene,” was likewise dismissed, — but all three officers had no sooner reached their native country than they were at once promoted in the Roman legions, by whose good office and influence no one knew, unless the stranger Melchior who wore the Emperor’s signet had something to do with the matter. Meanwhile, it was generally understood among the Jews that the body of the Prophet out of Galilee” had been stolen, — moreover, that the authorities of the Sanhedrim council were already on the track of the criminal concerned in the robbery. Public attention, however, had been somewhat diverted from the matter by the grand and picturesque obsequies of Judith Iscariot. Never had the city seen such a sight as the long procession of w
hite-robed, lily-wreathed maidens who attended the corpse of the fairest woman in Judæa” to its last resting-place beside that of her ill-fated brother. White flowers and white draperies symbolised to the people’s gaze the dead girl’s pure virginity, — and though some shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders and whispered rumours of scandal, none dared speak boldly of the truths they knew. For Iscariot was a power in Jerusalem, — his usurer’s grip held fast the fortunes of many a struggling household, — the secret fear of him kept would-be rancorous tongues mute. But the proud priest Caiaphas hid his burning eyes in the pillows of his sick-bed, and smarted in his guilty conscience as he heard the sound of the dreary funeral chant passing by his palace walls, — yet he maintained a rigid silence, — and his pale wife Rachel, coldly watching him, also held her peace. Between them lay the full and true knowledge of Judith’s deep dishonour, — nevertheless, like the murderous dagger she had used, which now was rusting at the bottom of a well, that knowledge remained buried in their hearts by unspoken yet mutual agreement.
All the disciples and followers of the “Nazarene,” men and women alike, had left Jerusalem, some for fear of the priests, some to return to their own homes in the country districts, — and the city inhabitants were beginning to fall back into their usual methods of living, — methods which had been so strangely disorganised by late events. Joseph of Arimathea had had his tomb, now rendered so sacred, hewn open from the top that it might be more readily examined within and without, and disgusted with the callousness and suspicions of the priests, himself entirely believing in the Divine Resurrection from the Dead, sold his fine house in Jerusalem, gave all the proceeds to the poor and departed to his native humble town of Arimathea, there to dwell in retirement for good. Among other gossip of the town it was rumoured that Pilate, the governor, had written letters to the Emperor Tiberius, asking to be recalled to Rome, on the plea of ill-health, but of this nothing was known for certain.
It was about the eighth day after the first Easter, — and over the little village of Nazareth the sun was sinking. A blaze of royal gold and purple falling aslant from the west reddened the outlying fertile valley and surrounding cornfields, and poured warm splendour through the open doorway of a small dark dwelling where sat an aged man, alone at a carpenter’s bench, working busily, though sunset was the usual sign for rest from labour. He was finishing a wooden cradle of which every portion was panelled into squares of curious and elaborate carving. His wrinkled hands manipulated the carving tools with singular swiftness and dexterity, and as he fashioned a flower or a leaf in the design, he worked with the minute and fastidious care of an artist who loves the labour he has chosen. Beside him on the bench lay a fresh-gathered branch of field-lilies, — he was copying these on a square of wood with extraordinary fidelity. The red glow of the skies illumined his bent, roughly-clad figure, and set a rose-halo round his snow-white hair, — he was completely absorbed in his toil, — so much so that he did not hear an approaching slow footstep at his door, or see the shadow which darkened it and partially robbed him of the sun.
“Art thou Joseph, the carpenter of Nazareth?” said a harsh sad voice, suddenly addressing him—” And dost thou work thus peacefully without mourning, thy son being dead yonder in Jerusalem?”
The old man started. Laying down the panel he was carving, he shaded his eyes with one hand from the sun, and looked up dimly and wonderingly at his questioner. He saw before him a tall broad-shouldered man, dark and fierce-featured, travel-worn and dusty, with terrible black eyes that burned beneath his shaggy brows with the danger-fires born of long pent-up unshed tears.
“What stranger art thou?” he demanded— “Why comest thou hither?”
“I am an outcast of the world, by name Barabbas,” — and as the intruder gave this answer, he moved a step or two within the shed—” Thus have I answered thee straightway, but to me thou offerest no quick reply. I have come hither from Jerusalem, impelled by a desire to find thee and to speak with thee, if peradventure thou art he of whom the people tell me. Wherefore I ask again, art thou or art thou not Joseph, son of Jacob, a descendant of the House of David, and father of Him who was called the ‘King of the Jews’?”
Rising from his bench, the venerable man confronted his importunate visitor.
“Yea, I am Joseph,” he answered mildly.
Barabbas, gaunt and worn with sorrow, sleeplessness and fatigue, fixed upon him a piercing look as though he sought to read the inmost secrets of his soul.
“Surely thou art a poor and aged man” — he muttered faintly—” On the brink of the grave thy feet are treading, — with that darkness waiting for thee, that darkness in which we know not what may chance to us, — thou wilt not lie! I shall find truth in thee doubtless, — truth — truth at last” —— ——
His voice failed him, — his eyes closed, — he dropped wearily on a low bench near the door. He had travelled for two days with scarcely any rest or food, and in his exhausted condition it was some minutes before he perceived that Joseph was proffering him a wooden bowl full of pure cool water. He drank gratefully, and recovering himself a little be again turned his eyes on the imposing, reverend figure beside him. —
“I am Barabbas” — he repeated presently after a pause, “ But perchance that name doth tell thee nothing. Hear then its meaning. I have been thief, rebel and murderer, — no good thing is there in my mind towards any man; by right and justice I should have been crucified instead of Him who was thy Son, for He was innocent and I am guilty. But if thou knowest the world’s ways, this will not seem unto thee strange, for man’s laws are made to excuse man’s guilt, — and innocence is ever slain, being a virtue unrequired, an aggravation and reproach to wickedness. So hath it been in Jerusalem these past wild days, — and so methinks will it ever be in all the labyrinths of this life. Freedom hath done me little service, — I have lived centuries of grief since the doors of my prison were unbarred, — I thirsted for my liberty, — it came, but brought me naught but sorrow, — rather would I have died than suffered as I have suffered, — death did never seem to me so sweet and welcome as now, — God knoweth it! Thou lookest at me with most unmoved and placid face, — carest thou not that they have slain thy Son?”
Joseph said no word, but stood immovably erect, — the sunset-glow shining warmly about him and widening its ring of glory round his silvery hair.
“Howbeit now it seems they have not slain Him after all, and thou perchance dost know it” — went on Barabbas, watching for some change of expression in the old man’s peaceful countenance— “And all the world is growing mad with talk of ‘miracles.’ He hath arisen living from the dead, and hath appeared to His followers — part of this tale is true, but has no ‘miracle’ in it, inasmuch as I am sure He never died. He swooned upon the Cross and recovered in the tomb, and doubtless will appear to men for many years to come, and thus will be confirmed the story of His resurrection. Markest thou this? No Divinity was in this Man, nor any sort of ‘miracle thou, Joseph, dost not assume Divinity for the Child begotten of thy will and born of thy blood in mortal fashion as all creatures of mortality are born?”
He had spoken in tones that were purposely cold and matter-of-fact, yet under his assumed composure there was concealed a keen and painful anxiety. Still silent, Joseph stood, a regal figure, bathed in the purple and gold reflections of the evening skies. At last Barabbas could bear the suspense no longer, — his suppressed impatience broke forth in a kind of fury.
“Speak, man, speak!” he cried passionately—” Oh, if thou knewest my tortures! Lo, I have seen this Man, — this ‘King of the Jews,’ in all His fair, heroic appalling beauty! His face, His voice, His aspect haunt me! — His patient eyes consume my soul! Man or God, whiche’er He be, in very truth His looks were more of God than Man, — His tenderness was more than human! Men are cruel to each other, — He was pitiful, — men complain, — He never murmured! I watched Him die, — He made a glory out of pain! — and on the morn when
it was said He had risen from His grave, I, even I myself, saw Him walking softly ‘mid the shadows of the dawn and speaking — ay! to whom, thinkest thou, did He speak? To a broken-hearted woman whose sins He had forgiven. ’Twas marvellous, — no man newly escaped from the grave would have stopped for this methinks, — yet God, we are taught, is vengeful, — wherefore it seems this ‘Nazarene’ is neither man nor god. Oh that I knew Him as He truly is! — I would dare all things for this one instruction. Lo, I have pleaded even with His mother, thy wife, praying her to tell me of His birth which now is also said to be a ‘miracle’ — but she was dumb, even as thou art, and while I looked upon her a great light shone about her face, — a light mystic and wonderful that filled my soul with fear. Even such a splendour did invest the ‘Nazarene’ when I beheld Him in the Hall of Judgment, — beauty and light seemed portion of His nature. Nevertheless the terror of this mystery doth madden me; hence I have come to thee; — speak thou the truth, Joseph, as simple man and honest, and tell me all thou canst of this same Jesus, the wonder of Judæa, — thou, as His father, must know everything concerning Him, even from the very hour that He was born into the world! Wherefore, if only out of mercy to my pain and ignorance I do beseech thee, speak!”
“What can I tell thee, tortured soul!” said Joseph at last, in solemn compassionate accents — Save that the Man Divine was not my Son?”
Barabbas sprang up and caught him convulsively by the arm.
“Not thy Son!” he echoed — Was not Mary thy wife? Hast thou no children?”
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