"He gave his life for us," Paul Dare said in a queer, dull voice. To give one's life for another was the ultimate in altruism, the final sublimity of unselfishness. . . . And he, Paul Dare, had seen the this done, had been an eye-witness to it.
It was true, people did such things. Without fuss and feathers they performed such actions. . . . But the greatest discovery flowing from Bailey's rash heroism was this: that it was a splendid, worthy thing to do. Dare was familiar with the old Latin aphorism that it is a seemly and decorous thing to lay down one's life for the fatherland. It had been but an aphorism, a phrase. . . . Now he saw and understood that it is a seemly and decorous thing to lay down one's life for a loved one. . . . Greater love hath no man than this. . . .
At last, to the full measure of his fine intelligence, he realized what he had been, perceived what he must become. Jaunty Bailey died to teach him this.
"I despised him," he said in that emotionless tone, "and he was a better man than I. . . . Not because of this alone. He always was a better man than I. . . ."
"Poor, poor Jaunty," Rhoda whispered. "He was so gay. He was always so—so alive. . . . Life gave him so much more than it gives to most people. . . . And the world will call him bad. . . . Oh, Jaunty—Jaunty, why must you have done this for me?"
"I am ashamed," said Dare. "While he fought for you and died I hid in safety." Then, presently, "I must think—I must think!" He stood with bent head while Rhoda knelt and wept —then he bent and touched her shoulder. "Come," he said.
"Where? . . . I cannot leave him!"
"We will leave him as he would like to be left," said Dare. "You must trust this to me. I think I know."
And so he bent and lifted Jaunty in his arms, a burden his strength was taxed to bear, and led the way toward the narrow path; thence downward to the shelf upon which was the ancient cell of the anchorite, and there Paul Dare laid him upon the bed of soft leaves they had prepared for their night's rest. While Rhoda watched Paul covered what was material of Jaunty Bailey with their softness, and then began the building of a cairn, stone upon stone, stone upon stone, so that the man he hated, the man he admired, the man who had taught him more than he ever knew, should sleep in that lofty, noble, lonely spot forever and undisturbed. And Rhoda watched! . . . When all was completed Dare did a thing strange for him, incomprehensible, perhaps, to himself, but essential. He walked to the edge of the shelf so that below him was a gulf of blackness, above him only the arc of the heavens, star-studded, and he stretched wide his hands and lifted his face.
"If there be a God," he said, boldly, "and if there be a soul, I ask that He deal fairly noting all the facts, with the soul of this man who lies here. . . ."
For a moment he stood so, then he turned to Rhoda. "Come," he said.
"Where?"
"I don't know, but this place is no longer safe. The shots will have been heard—"
"I don't care. I can't bear to leave him."
"Would you have him die for nothing?" Paul asked. "Come."
It was close to midnight when they came out upon the highway from Jericho to Jerusalem, that road constructed for the triumphal passage of the man who once was emperor of the Germans, and turned their faces westward toward the Holy City. They acted upon no plan, but instinctively carried out the plan made days ago by Jaunty Bailey. To him Jerusalem spelled safety. . . .
They went in silence and in weariness, resting often by the roadside, then climbing again, and ever climbing. They were lost in the night, lost in something greater and more far reaching than the night. It was as if they were alone in the world, deprived of will and driven, always driven to some end, to some climax inevitable. They could not stop. The matter was out of their hands, and they realized it, surrendered to the force which drove them. . . .
Then, it may have been after an hour or after several hours, they were not alone. From the shadows of the roadside a figure joined them and spoke to them—and they were not afraid.
"I have waited for your coming," said the voice of El Ghafir. "I knew this must be your road—and you are weary."
"He is dead," said Paul Dare. "He died for us. . . . It is hard to understand."
"Yet you shall understand," said the melodious voice. "Come with me. We must reach our destination before morning."
"What destination?"
"A garden," said El Ghafir, "and there, it may be, understanding will come to you—as there it came to me when the world was centuries younger."
"How did you know—" Rhoda asked.
El Ghafir smiled. "I knew you would come and when you would come."
He led them a few steps to a waiting motor car and helped Rhoda to a seat into which she sank with a little moan; Dare was by her side, and the broad form of El Ghafir sat in front beside the driver. Then there was motion, swift, restful as the car sped over the mountains, through invisible wadys, past that spot where the Good Samaritan turned from the road to succor the man who had fallen among thieves. Then into the Wady el-Hod, and presently, ascending again, past the hamlet of Bethany where Christ loved to visit with Lazarus and with Martha and Mary, his sisters. Rhoda and Paul Dare had ceased to think, they only felt; they were not frightened, but rather were indifferent, numb. . . . And so, with no words exchanged, the car passed under the shadow of the Mount of Olives, swerved to the right and proceeded for a time beside the Valley of the Kidron, and then, hard by the Church of the Tomb of the Virgin, they halted beside an iron paling.
"It is our destination," said El Ghafir, and when they alighted he guided them through the night until they came to an iron gate which swung inward upon its hinges to admit them to an enclosure where their feet touched not the harsh surface of the road, but soft, growing grass. . . . And there, under an olive tree, hoary and gnarled with the passing of the centuries, Paul and Rhoda sank upon the ground in weariness.
Cold, hungry, depressed by the darkness and the strangeness of the spot, they huddled together, fugitives, homeless, in the midst of a land where every man's hand would be against them. Guided by this mysterious personage whose name was The Watchman, and whose purposes they could not fathom. . . . Paul Dare did not speak, but sat close to Rhoda, not venturing so much as to touch her hair with his yearning fingers; but presently, seeing how the wind caused her to tremble, he removed his coat and laid it gently across her shoulders as he had done night after night during their hegira down the valley. . . . It was Paul Dare who did this! Paul Dare the callous, dry-as-dust intellectual, who had sought only for crackling parchment-truths, and cared not who lived or died, or rejoiced or suffered. . . . It was Paul Dare who had traveled far, who had come, through travail, to his great moment, to the hour of illumination. . . .
They were alone. El Ghafir had removed himself a little way and stood, a black silhouette against the valley below; at his hand the ancient olive tree which tradition says was young and in full bearing when Pontius Pilate governed Jerusalem. . . . So he stood for moments gazing across at the mass of the city of David, and then, with arms widespread, face lifted to the night, he spoke, and his voice was wonderful to hear, low in its sweetness, quivering with great woe and yearning.
"Is the time not yet, oh Father? . . . Have I come once more in vain? . . . Is thy third message not ready—and my day of deliverance. . . How long, oh Thou to whom a thousand years are but as a day? . . . How long? . . ."
Paul and Rhoda listened, awed, subdued. The meaning of what they saw and heard was not clear to them, but it was something not mortal, something not to be measured with finite instruments nor assayed in a mortal furnace.
"Thou hast revealed Thy law from this land of Judea, in the beginning through the mouth of Moses. Thou hast revealed Thy message of hope through the lips of Thy Only Begotten Son. . . . When, when, oh, Jehovah, wilt thou vouchsafe Thy final message of fulfilment? . . . When will He come again, so that I may see His face and die? The years, and the burden of the years! . . . The centuries and the tens of centuries! . . ."
They liste
ned raptly, and the hand of a fear that was not the fear of anything mortal rested upon them.
"To this spot I come," went on that wondrous voice. "To Gethsemane, the place of His agony. . . . How many times have I returned, oh Father, in hope, but to go again in despair. . . . Twice in each hundred years have I come—since then!"
Something stirred in Rhoda Fair's soul, something deep and veiled so that she could not see its face, and she was afraid, even as Moses was afraid before the burning bush. She cried out.
"Mr. Ghafir! . . . Mr. Ghafir! . . . Oh, help me! . . . Help me!"
The dark figure moved toward them, stood towering over them, and the face of El Ghafir was dimly revealed, sublime in its grief that was more than human grief.
"It is you," he said, gently. "In my own concerns I forgot for the moment. . . . You are still alive! You have not joined those innumerable friends and loved ones who have left me lonely! . . . The generations pass, but memory lives. . . . My child! . . . Sometimes I forget—forget if those I love be living today or lie dead these thousand years. . . ."
Paul Dare was bold enough to speak—something of the old Paul Dare, the seeker after truth.
"Are you that man "' he demanded.
"I am that man."
"That old wives' tale is—truth!"
"I who stand before you testify to its truth."
"You are he whom legend calls—"
"—The Wandering; Jew," said El Ghafir gravely, humbly.
Dare was on his feet, clutching El Ghafir's sleeve. His face worked, his eyes glittered as he shook the man's arm impatiently. "Then tell" he cried. "Tell! . . . Give your testimony." His voice lifted shrilly with a dreadful eagerness. "The truth, man! . . . You alone can speak the truth from your own knowledge—as an eye-witness. . . . Speak, man, speak! Is there a God?"
"It is permitted," said El Ghafir. "I may bear testimony here and tonight. . . . On this spot and this hour. . . ."
"Sir," said Paul Dare, "we have seen death this night, and something greater than death. We have seen a splendor. . . . I do not understand it. . . . I have witnessed the greatest thing in the world, and for it can find no explanation. . . . Why did Jaunty Bailey die for us? What lived in him that sent him to that death?"
El Ghafir turned from Paul to Rhoda. "Are you, too, afraid?" he asked. "Is the night black and the way hidden? . . . Are you in despair?"
"I have known no peace since my mother died. . . . I—I have come to think I can endure no more."
"Do you know where you are? On what ground your body reposes?"
"I do not know."
"This," he said, "is the garden called Gethsemane—where He, the man I hated, the man I have grown wise to love, suffered the agonies of human fear. . . . This is that spot. . . . Yonder by that very olive tree he knelt alone in prayer. There his voice was lifted to utter sublime words. . . . 'Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me! nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt. . . .' There the disciples slept, and yonder he said to Peter, 'What, could ye not watch with me one hour?' "
"Those things are written. . . . Of your own knowledge, man! What did you see and hear?"
"They are written," said El Ghafir, "and that is not enough for you. You must thrust your hand into His side. . . . You demand an eye-witness to the presence of God upon earth before you will believe."
"Before I can believe."
He sat between them, and his hands reached out in the darkness to touch them—and then he spoke:
"Let us sit thus, your hands clasping mine—for so it may be, you shall see as well as hear. . . . Close you your eyes. . . . In that day," he said, "I kept a shop in the Street of David. . . . The city was in tumult, for it was a turbulent people and divided against itself—and many spoke of the Galilean, arguing this thing and that. There were those who thought he conspired against the might of Rome. . . . I who speak, was of the party of Caiphas—an ambitious man. . . ."
From that moment Paul Dare and Rhoda could not say surely if they listened or watched; whether they visualized the words of El Ghafir, or if his voice ceased and with their eyes they watched in very truth the march of events which led from the garden to the cross. . . .
. . . So, after the betrayal in this garden, they brought Him into the presence of Caiphas, and that I saw! . . . There, with false witnesses, they accused him of blasphemy, and I was in the throng which followed him, bound, into the presence of Pontius Pilate, and there I saw and heard the things which are written."
His hands held their hands, and his voice was low, vibrant, sweet with a marvelous sweetness. . . . And they saw, saw that robed figure, bound, surrounded by shouting, furious men; saw upon his dais the Roman who washed his hands. . . . Saw the face of the Man of Sorrows! . . .
Then a mob, shouting, bearing staves, jostling, crowding, reviling, upon the heels of one who wore a crown of thorns and bore upon his suffering back a cross! . . . A narrow street, ever winding and ascending, up which toiled the Man, growing weaker and ever weaker beneath his burden. . . .
"And I," said the voice of El Ghafir, "sat before my shop, awaiting the spectacle, and when He came to that place He was very weary and sank beneath the weight of that which He bore upon His back. So, seeing me seated, He turned His eyes upon me and stretched out His hand in appeal. . . . For thirst was upon him and His body was not strong. . . . And I laughed and jeered. spat upon him! . . ." The voice ceased for a moment and then continued. "And then His eyes found mine, and I was not at ease, but there was not anger in them, only such sorrow as the world has never seen, and he spoke. To me he spoke, and the centuries have not erased his words, gently spoken, yet uttered by the Son of God! . . . 'Tarry thou and await my return,' he said. . . . And I jeered again and laughed loudly at the saying. . . . But now, seeing how he was unable to bear that cross, they compelled another to take it upon his shoulders,—and I, joining the mob, followed to Golgotha. . . . And there I saw! . . . I who for nineteen centuries have been God's watchman, saw! . . ."
It seemed to Paul and Rhoda that they, too, saw—saw three crosses erect upon a rocky hill, and about the foot of one were grouped the women. . . . As El Ghafir bore testimony the scene unfolded before their eyes until His voice spoke the dreadful words, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani, and it seemed to them the words issued not from the lips of the man who sat between them, but from those tortured lips upon the cross! . . .
There fell a silence.
Presently El Ghafir spoke again. "I hated Him for the curse which had fallen upon me—that I could not die. I was His enemy, but I was afraid. . . . I was helpless for good or ill—a spectator, a watchman . . . a man capable always of love and grief, a man destined to a thousand bereavements. . . . I made war against Him. I was the Antichrist! For centuries the hatred burned side by side with the terror—and I was not without power because I possessed the secrets of the world. . . . Stubborn was I—but as the years flicked by, as the centuries rolled onward, wisdom came to me, hatred died and love was born—for had I not seen all? Had I not lived and watched the progress of His word upon earth! . . ."
On and on he spoke, gently, with a tremendous calm, until he came to the end, and there he paused to turn his face first to the one and then to the other of them—and it was the hour for dawn to light the eastern sky.
"To these things I testify as an eye-witness," he said, and fell silent.
"It is enough," said Paul Dare in a hushed whisper.
"It is enough," said Rhoda Fair. . .
Chapter Twenty-seven
DAWN touched the summit of the Mount of Olives, poured down its slopes and across the valley of the Kidron to lift Jerusalem out of the night. It was the one time of day when the Holy City is lovely. Not now was it sun-baked, arid, yellow. Not now was it harsh, inclement, forbidding; but, softened and tinted by the morning light, it glowed and was transfigured. Dome and steeple and minaret gave back the glow; gracious tones and colors massed and blended, so that to the weary eyes of Paul Dare and Rhoda it
was no city of ancient stone, but a metropolis builded upon a dream.
There before them were walled Zion, where Solomon had erected his temple; where Herod's edifice replaced it, where now stood the Mosque of Omar magnificently covering the Sacred Rock. The sun loved to touch this glorious dome, to caress the glaze and color of the multitude of beautiful tiles with which Saladin, foe of Richard of the Lion Heart embellished its walls. To the right and in the distance lifted the more somber domes of that church, so internally divided by religious differences, which, beneath its sprawling roof and in its caverns houses those spots most sacred to Christianity. There is Calvary, there the tomb which in the day of Joseph of Arimathea was new, there the spot upon which the women anointed His body with oil; there the cavern in which a Byzantine empress unearthed the Holy Cross. . . .
Closer at hand, in relief against the mighty wall of the city, was the Golden Gate, not open, but built solid with masonry so that none might pass in or out until prophecy is fulfilled and He shall ride in again as he rode on that day of triumph when the people strewed his path with palm branches. . . .
The Holy City! . . . The Holy City which, but a few short hours ago had been but a city to them, a place of teeming populations in which they might lose themselves from their pursuers. . . . But their eyes had seen—and the city which He loved, the city where He suffered and died, was more to them than a huddle of mortar and stone. . . . It was a symbol. Almost, in that ardent, golden sunlight it seemed to their fired imaginations to be the New Jerusalem itself. . . .
"Is it well with you?" asked the voice of El Ghafir, for they had sat there long in silence, close together.
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