They faced each other at the barred window and peered through the gloom.
'It's you!' she murmured.
'Did we not have an appointment to meet here?'
'It's so dark! You will be ill.'
'I do miss the sunshine; that is true.'
'You wouldn't try to run away if I gave you your breakfast outside?'
'That might get you into trouble.'
'But—there's no one at the palace who would know or care—provided you made no attempt to escape.' Recovering the rusty key from the main door, Esther opened the cell and John came out shielding his cavernous eyes against the unaccustomed light. They sat down on the broad stone seat, with the tray between them.
'Tell me: where have you been?' He ate hungrily, but listened intently while she talked of her experiences as a solitary tramp on the way to Tiberias.
'And have you seen him of whom I told you?' asked John eagerly.
'No—but I have heard of him. On the day I arrived, a young fisherman who befriended me told his shipmates about a strange Carpenter who healed diseases and spoke words of comfort to the people, gently admonishing them to bear their own and others' burdens.'
'Gently?'
'I could hardly believe, sir, that this Carpenter was the one of whom you spoke.' She hesitated here, wishing she had not ventured so far upon a subject of which she knew so little. 'Perhaps I misunderstood the young fisherman—or perhaps I had misunderstood you. I had thought of him as a frowning man with a stern voice—on an errand of vengeance. Apparently that is a mistake.'
'Tell me more, daughter!' he demanded earnestly.
With that, Esther reviewed all she could remember of the report made by the dreamy young fisherman. The Carpenter had spoken with a strangely soothing voice, seemingly not of this world. No—there had been no talk of divine retribution, no threats of doom; indeed, no scolding at all. The man had urged the people to find their happiness within themselves, seeing they would never be free of their enslavement to foreign masters.
'And—no talk at all about the mighty being thrown from their seats and the exaltation of the poor?'
Esther shook her head. After an uncertain moment, she said, 'I shall go and hear him for myself. I am sure I can get permission to leave the palace for a day or two. If the man is not too far away—'
'Do that!' entreated John. 'Find out what manner of man he is! Then—come and tell me.' He rose and marched toward his cell. Esther turned the big key.
'It hurts me to do this,' she said softly.
* * * * * *
It was noon when she reached the cottage in Bethsaida. With a cry of happy surprise, Hannah ran to meet her at the gate. They embraced each other with tenderness.
'You came home!' exulted Hannah. 'I hope they have not mistreated you.'
No—they had not mistreated her, and she would be going back to her work tomorrow. But now—she was on a special errand, the strangest of errands.
Over the dining-table—for Hannah had insisted on preparing their luncheon—Esther told the story of the hermit and his gruesome predictions; and his queries about the Carpenter.
'Everyone seems to be excited about him,' said Hannah. 'Last night the neighbours were saying that he was leaving Hammath and heading this way.'
'I wonder you have not gone out to hear him yourself, Hannah,' said Esther.
Hannah seemed confused and did not at once reply.
'I might have done so, dear. But—poor Simon, who for some reason has been living on his ship, might decide to come home, and I ought to be here. I should be much embarrassed—and I fear he would be very angry—if he came home to find that I had been away listening to this Carpenter. That would be very offensive to Simon.'
'Let us go, this afternoon, Hannah,' begged Esther. 'We would be home before supper-time. Simon is not likely to return earlier.'
Presently they were in the stream of pedestrian traffic on the highway. All Bethsaida, it seemed, was on the march southward, the elderly stabbing their canes into the dusty road as they pegged along intent upon their singular quest, the younger men and women overtaking and passing them, sick people of all ages borne on litters, sightless people being led much too fast for their comfort.
There was very little talk. Apparently no words were suitable to this strange pilgrimage. The urge to hurry was contagious. Esther and Hannah immediately caught it and lengthened their steps. Hurry! The voiceless crowd said, 'Hurry! Something is happening that never happened before and may never happen again! We must not miss this marvel! Hurry!' Esther and Hannah glanced into the strained faces of their companions, and then briefly sought each other's sober eyes, but exchanged no comments. Their throats were dry with the fast travel, the choking dust, the half-frightened anticipation. . . . Yes, this Carpenter—whether he was John's Carpenter or not—was bringing sleepy little Galilee to life, was turning stolid little Galilee upside down, was driving conservative little Galilee stark, staring mad!
No need to inquire the way! A mile south of Bethsaida a freshly made highway veered off sharply toward the west: traversed a grove, riddled a vineyard, toppled a stone fence, muddied a creek, and fanned out into an open pasture swarming with thousands of people.
On a knoll, surrounded by a pressing throng, stood the man they had come to see. Apparently he had but now arrived, for he was not yet speaking. He was waiting, with folded hands and a faraway look in his eyes as if in calm contemplation of the distant mountains. There was no expression of surprise or gratification that so great a multitude had done him honour. Now he had slowly raised his arms. The people grew more quiet. He lowered his arms in a gesture that requested them to sit down. Nobody was willing to obey, for all wanted to see everything that might happen. The gesture was calmly repeated, and the people closest to the front sat down. Then, like a long, incoming tidal wave, the impulse swept the throng until all were seated. The Carpenter held up an outspread hand and there was silence: a peculiar silence—not a mere cessation of sound and confusion, but a vital, unifying silence that made them kin. They did not shrink from the accidental touch of a neighbour's elbow, though the stranger had a ragged sleeve.
When he began to speak, Esther instantly remembered what young Johnny had said about this man's voice. He spoke effortlessly, but his words were clearly reaching to the outskirts of the great assembly. The uncanny thing about the voice was that it was speaking to you! To you alone! There was a tone of quiet entreaty in it. Come—let us talk it over together.
He was speaking about the blessed life, the abundant life. How few had been far-visioned enough to claim that perfect life for their own. A life freed of fear and foreboding, freed of frets and suspicions, freed of the sweating greed for perishable things. This was the life he offered, a life of enduring peace in the midst of the world's clamours and confusions.
Esther's senses yielded to it. All about her she could see and feel the people relax as she herself was relaxing in obedience to the voice. She had never realized before that her body and mind had been continually at tension. The Carpenter's peace invited her spirit. He was defining the terms of it now. Anyone could possess it. It was to be had for the asking, but one must seek for it, work for it; and, if need be, suffer for it. It was like living water, drawn from an ever-flowing spring. Once you had tasted of it, you would never again be satisfied without it. It might cost you many a sacrifice, but it would be worth the price. Esther, dreamily content, felt that any price would be reasonable. Maybe she wouldn't feel this way tomorrow, but it seemed reasonable and attainable now—here—today—under the spell of the quiet voice.
Personal peace, the Carpenter was saying, gave you personal power; not the kind of power that the world had to offer you for ambitious striving, but the peace-power of the Father's Kingdom. If you must let everything go to possess that peace-power, let it go! If an oppressor demands your cloak, give up your cloak—and your coat, too—but keep your peace-power. Do not insist upon justice. There had been much too much talk about justice—and not nearly enough talk about mercy.
'There is an old saying among us,' he went on, 'an old saying that our fathers believed and practised, "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth."'
Esther had been brought up on that ancient adage. Whatever injury another person does to you, simple justice recommended that you repay it in kind. But the Carpenter was saying that we must have done with that eye-for-an-eye justice, in the interest of mercy and peace. Henceforth—if you would possess the blessed life—you must do unto others what you would like to have them do unto you. . . . The blessed life sounded very attractive. Esther was sensing an intimation of its richness. She sighed, shut her eyes, and involuntarily shook her head; for she had an eye-for-an-eye vow to keep.
The Carpenter had ended his speaking now and to the obvious surprise of the multitude he sat down on the grassy knoll, apparently very weary. The crowd shifted its posture a little, straightened its spine, re-crossed its cramped legs, but remained seated. Loosed from her deep reverie, Esther turned inquiring eyes toward Hannah, who drew a long breath and shook her head mystifiedly.
'Esther,' she whispered, 'there never was anyone like him—never—never before—in this world!'
'There's something very queer about all this,' agreed Esther.
Hannah leaned closer and was about to speak again when a stir and a murmur in the densely packed crowd fronting the knoll brought them to attention.
Two little children, a boy of six and a girl of four, had run up the slope and seated themselves on either side of the fatigued Carpenter. Perhaps he had beckoned to them. But no—for now their mothers were hurrying forward to bring them back. The Carpenter was shaking his head, apparently insisting that they let the children remain with him. Now—more little children broke loose from their parents and were clambering up the bank. They huddled closely about him. More and more children joined the party. They sat, blinking and squinting against the sun, seemingly intent upon what he was saying to them, in a low tone inaudible to the multitude.
From throughout the great assembly, scores of children, tugged by some irresistible invitation, were rushing forward, stumbling heedlessly over grown-up legs. One thin-faced little fellow was limping painfully up the slope, leaning his frail body against a crutch. The Carpenter, still speaking, had motioned to the children to open a path for the lame boy, and they edged over to give him room.
Now a spontaneous 'Oh!' went up from the people close enough to see clearly what was happening. Without pausing in his gentle speech, the Carpenter had reached out his hand for the crutch. The boy had hesitated before giving it up, but now he stood on both feet, erect and confident. He took a few experimental steps. Now, apparently overcome by the amazing thing that had happened to him, he knelt down, pressed his face hard against the Carpenter's knee—and cried. And so did everybody else.
Raising his voice to embrace the multitude, the Carpenter spoke.
'These children come to me because, in their innocence, they are of the Father's Kingdom. And if you, too, would be of this Kingdom, you must enter it with the heart of a child.'
He then spoke a final word to the little ones alone and they arose. The boy who had been lame marched down the slope with shining eyes. Intent upon his reunion with his parents, who had pressed forward to meet him, the crowd was not immediately aware of the Carpenter's retreat down the further side of the knoll. The people remained seated, thinking that after he had rested—for he seemed quite spent with weariness—he might return and speak again. But it soon became evident that the day's events had ended. In groups the multitude began to scramble to their feet. There was almost no conversation as the great crowd broke up and strolled back toward the highway.
Hannah and Esther, hand in hand, too deeply moved for any talk, trudged slowly along with the other awe-stricken people who had had a brief, mystifying glimpse into a Kingdom that was not of this world.
Far in advance of them, striding along alone, with slumped shoulders and bent head, was Simon. The women's eyes met diffidently. Nothing was said for a long moment. Then Hannah murmured, 'Now we know what ails him. It's this Jesus.'
* * * * * *
A tall, handsome, self-assured young sentry was pacing back and forth in front of the prison when Esther appeared, next morning, with John's breakfast-tray. He came briskly to attention as she approached, saluted gracefully, and made a candid inventory of her, with brightly approving eyes.
'You have come to feed the prisoner?' he inquired unnecessarily; and when Esther had smiled an affirmative, he said, 'He is a lucky fellow!'
'Yes—isn't he?' drawled Esther. 'Such a nice place to spend these lovely autumn days.'
'Let me have that tray,' said the sentry, putting down his spear and extending his hands. 'I'll give it to him, and while he is eating we will get acquainted. My name is Algerius.'
'And my name is Esther.' She smiled, but held on to the tray. 'And the girl in the kitchen is Claudia, who is expecting you to come and have some honey-cakes while I am giving your prisoner his breakfast.'
'I don't know about that,' demurred the sentry, taking off his heavy helmet and mopping his brow. 'If my captain were to hear of this, I should be flogged. And besides'—his voice lowered conspiratorially—'I'd much rather stay here and talk to you.'
'What about?' she demanded, suddenly cool.
Algerius readjusted his helmet and picked up his spear.
'You say her name is Claudia?'
'Yes—and you needn't hurry back. I will be responsible for the prisoner.'
'Here's the key then.'
'I have one.'
'Sure you aren't afraid?'
'Of the prisoner?—No. He is very respectful.' She put the tray down on the low stone wall.
'And I am not,' grumbled the lingering sentry, with a grin.
'You could be, I think, with a little more practice—and quite a lot of encouragement.'