Chapter XI: Part III (7)

Reuben came into the room. He looked frightened. “Where has he gone?” he demanded.

Sarah and Nancy hushed him and drew him into their own room. They peered out, and saw the boy, with the stern white face of a man, march in. He held his blue yarn stocking dangling limply. He went up-stairs. They heard his door close. The three went together into the sitting-room. Nancy was almost weeping, Reuben scowled, Sarah’s pale face wore a puzzled expression.

“I did not think he would take it like that,” half sobbed Nancy. Sarah looked accusingly at her brother.

“I don’t see why you did it,” she said.

“You thought it was as good a joke as I did,” retorted Reuben. He shook himself, took his cap from a peg, and went out.

Nancy and Sarah, left alone, stood and stared at each other in dismay. They did not give speech to it, but at that moment both realized that childhood was a land left far behind them. Nancy’s lover had died two years before. Queerly enough, she thought of him now. Sometime he had been a little boy like poor Tommy.

“I s’pose we ought to have known better,” Sarah thought. All she said was, “I guess Grace Roseberry will think we’re heathen.”

“Perhaps he—won’t—tell,” said Nancy hesitatingly.

“Children always tell,” returned Sarah. “Let him tell. It is all Grace’s fault, spoiling Cora and having her put such ideas into Tommy’s head. Come, it’s time to get breakfast. You go in and see how Mother is; if she had a good night.”

“Mother wouldn’t like it,” murmured Nancy.

“She’ll give him some pep’mints and coddle him up when he tells her,” said Sarah.

“Perhaps he won’t tell,” returned Nancy.

“Of course he’ll tell; children always tell. Let him. I’ve done nothing that I’m ashamed of. It was only a joke. It will cure him of being so silly, too. I’ll start the breakfast while you look after Mother.”

Then Tommy was heard on the stairs. He entered the room, clad in his uncouth suit, and went soberly through on his way to the wood-shed. It was his morning task to chop up the kindling wood. Tommy’s face was still white and unchildlike, and the sisters regarded each other with something like fear when he had disappeared.

“All I’ve got to say is, a child as silly as that ought to be taught sense, and I guess it’s just as well it happened,” said Sarah.

“He’s had time enough to tell Mother; but I don’t believe he has.”

“Well, if he has told, Mother has coddled him; but he looked just the same.”

“Maybe we are making too much fuss over nothing,” said Nancy. Sarah went into the kitchen, stepping heavily and quickly, and Nancy entered her mother’s room. The old woman was awake, and she smiled serenely at her daughter.

“He hasn’t told,” thought Nancy with relief. When she joined her sister in the kitchen she said, “Sarah, he hasn’t told Mother. He’s a good boy.”

“He will tell,” returned Sarah grimly, “and he can, for all me.”

But Tommy did not tell, although as time went on he was subjected to a severe ordeal. It began that very morning out in the yard under the cherry trees. The light fall of snow was not enough to admit of sleighing, but enough to make as good an excuse for using a Christmas sled as a child could wish. Out there, on the thin glistening rime of snow was Cora Roseberry, dragging a superfine sled, gaudily painted and named “Snow Bird.” Cora wore a set of furs, although the muff was dreadfully in her way. It was a Christmas present. She also wore a bright red cloak lined with plaid, another Christmas present, and on one hand a kid glove. The other hand was bare, because it was decorated with a gold ring with a garnet stone.

When she saw Tommy she hailed him. “Come here, quick, quick!” she called in her thin sweet voice.

“Oh, Tommy Dunbar, you are _so_ slow!” she cried as he came up. “I want you to just look at my Christmas presents! See my sled, see my furs, see my red cape, see my kid gloves, real kid, the first I’ve had. And oh, Tommy, see my ring! See how it shines!”

Tommy nodded soberly. He was not jealous, but he could not bring himself to show hilarity after his own experience.

“And these ain’t near all,” boasted Cora. “I’ve got two books, a red one and a blue one, with pictures, and a photograph album, and oranges, and candy, and a game, and lots of other things. Say, can’t you come in our house and see them?”

“I guess I can’t just now,” replied Tommy gravely.

“I’ve got a new doll with real hair and a pink spangled dress, and a stereoscope with lots of pictures. Say, Tommy, don’t you want to look at the pictures through my stereoscope?”

Tommy shook his head. He would have liked to own a stereoscope.

“They’re real pretty. They couldn’t all go into my stocking. They were all round it on the floor. Say, Tommy, did you hang your stocking?”

Tommy hesitated just one moment. Then—he had the blood of honest soldiers in his veins—he nodded.

“Oh, Tommy, what did you have in your stockings?”

“Useful things,” replied Tommy gruffly.

“What kind of useful things? Mittens?”

“I said useful things,” replied Tommy with masculine dignity and finality. He walked away with the proud carriage of a victor leaving a hardly won battlefield, while Cora screamed after him. “Tommy Dunbar, I think you are real mean, so there!”

Nancy and Sarah had seen Tommy out in the yard talking to Cora.

“I wonder if Tommy’s telling Cora,” said Nancy uneasily.

“Let him, if he wants to; I’m sure I don’t care. This hanging stockings Christmas and talking about Santa Claus, is silly and heathenish, anyway.”

Nancy still looked uneasy. When Tommy entered she did not hesitate. “What did Cora mean by speaking to you like that? What had you done?” she said.

“I hadn’t done anything.”

“What did she mean?” persisted Aunt Nancy. Aunt Sarah was looking at him; so was his uncle.

The little boy looked at them. In his small face was an expression of scorn so high that it was entirely above all petty, childish resentment. “She said that because I wouldn’t tell her what was in my stocking,” he replied.

“Why wouldn’t you tell her?” inquired his aunt Sarah sharply.

“Because I am ashamed,” said Tommy. “I shall never tell anybody, because I am ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?” demanded Sarah. Her face was flushed.

“Ashamed of you all,” replied Tommy simply.

Then Tommy walked out. Another morning task of his was replenishing the hearth fire and cleaning the hearth in the sitting-room. They heard him about it. The three looked at one another. A dim conception of the nobility of the trust of childhood and the enormity of its betrayal was over them. Nancy whimpered a little.

“We never ought to have done such a thing,” she said unsteadily.

Reuben echoed her. “No, we shouldn’t.”

“Well, what’s done can’t be undone,” said Sarah, but she also looked disturbed.

“Suppose Reuben hitches up, and we go down to the store and get some things for him,” suggested Nancy timidly.

Reuben denied the motion peremptorily. “If you think you can salve over matters that way, with a boy like that, you are mistaken,” said he. “I could tell you that, both of you.”

There was the sharp tinkle of a bell, and Nancy started. “That’s Mother’s bell,” said she.

“I’ll go see what she wants,” said Sarah.

Sarah entered her mother’s room, and the old woman looked up at her from her feather-bed nest. “What did you ring your bell for, Mother?” Sarah asked.

“Is that door shut tight?” asked her Mother.

“Yes, it is.”

“I don’t want Tommy to hear. Sarah, what ails Tommy?”

Sarah was a truthful woman, but she hedged. “What do you mean, Mother?”

“I called him in here a minute ago to give him a pep’mint, and that child don’t look a mite well. Has he been complaining?”

“No, he ain’t.”

“You don’t think he’s et too much sassage?”

“I know he didn’t.” Sarah’s voice gained emphasis. She was relieved at being able to tell the truth without evasion.

“Well, all I’ve got to say is that child don’t look right this morning,” said her mother. “If I was up and about I’d put him to bed and dose him. I’m afraid he’s in for a sick spell. What’s that?”

There had been a sound of a sudden fall in the sitting-room. The grandmother sat up. “I knew it!” said she. “I’m going to get up.”

“You keep still, Mother,” said Sarah, who had turned white.

“Then you run and see, and you leave my door wide open, or I’ll get up.”

Sarah obeyed. On the floor in the sitting-room lay Tommy in a little sprawl of unconsciousness. Over him knelt Nancy and Reuben.

“Stop asking him what the matter is when he’s fainted dead away, and fetch me the bottle of cordial from the top butt’ry shelf, Reuben; and you, Nancy, get the camphor bottle, quick,” commanded Sarah.

After a while Tommy was revived, but he was a sick little boy. He was put to bed in the little room out of his grandmother’s, and the doctor was called. At that date the medical fraternity was not very anxious concerning shocks to the nerves. Tommy swallowed valerian and was afterward comforted with peppermints. He had a hot brick at his feet, and nobody spoke out loud anywhere near him.

“He is a very delicate child,” said the doctor out in the sitting-room with the door tightly closed. “Don’t give him much to eat to-day.”

“A little jelly?” sobbed Nancy, who was quite overcome.

“Oh, yes, jelly and toast and weak tea when he wakes up,” said the doctor.

Tommy slept for hours. He was a delicate child, and his night of rapt wakefulness, his terrible disillusionment, his lack of food, for he had eaten no breakfast, had all been too much for him.

It was after the noon dinner when he awaked and had his tea and toast and jelly. He had just finished it when there was a sound of wheels and horse hoofs in the yard. The snow had all melted and the ground was quite bare. Nancy and Reuben ran to the windows.

“It’s Tom Loring,” exclaimed Nancy. Tom Loring was Tommy’s mother’s brother, his uncle Tom.

Sarah came running out from Tommy’s bedside. “He’s better,” said she joyfully. “He has eaten every mite.”

“Tom Loring has come,” announced Nancy.

“I suppose now there will be a to-do. I suppose that child will tell the whole thing, and we can’t ever make Tom Loring understand,” said Sarah.

“Tommy won’t tell,” said Reuben grimly. He had not eaten much dinner himself, and he looked downcast. He was really fond of Tommy.

Sarah ushered Uncle Tom Loring into the sitting-room. He was a youngish man, stout and rosy. “Where’s Tommy?” he demanded.

“Tommy had a little sick spell just before dinner,” said Sarah entering, wiping her hands on her apron. “How do you do, Tom?”

“Sick spell!” repeated Uncle Tom Loring.

Reuben followed after Sarah. He greeted Tom, who turned to him hopefully. “What do they mean by a sick spell?”

“Fainted dead away,” replied Reuben shortly.

Uncle Tom made an exclamation of dismay. “Why, I came out thinking I would take him back to Boston with me,” he said. “Sister Annie has come to live with me now her husband’s dead and her children are all married; and I thought little Tommy could come and make us a visit, maybe live with us most of the time, if he likes it. And now he’s sick! Annie will be dreadfully disappointed. She’s got a tree all rigged up for him, and a big dinner, and everything.”

“He can go,” Reuben stated firmly.

“Oh, Reuben, do you think he’s well enough?” gasped Nancy.

“Of course he is. What’s a little fainting spell? He can go. The air will do him good. His grandmother will miss him, and we shall, too, but it will do him good to have a change.”

Just then Tommy, who heard his uncle’s voice and got into his clothes, came weakly out. Tom grabbed him and looked at him.

“Say, young man, you do look peaked,” he said.

Grandmother’s voice was heard from her bedroom.

“Tom Loring, you take that child home with you. When I’m up again you can bring him back. He’s all run down.”

“All right, Grandma,” called back Uncle Tom. He shook the boy lovingly. “Well, little Tommy, I’m going to take you back to Boston with me. Your aunt Annie is there, and there’s a great Christmas tree all trimmed with candles. I suppose you didn’t have a tree?”

“No, sir,” said little Tommy.

“Hung up your stocking, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sarah and Nancy were pale, Reuben looked dogged. Then came the question direct.

“Well, what was in the stocking?”

“Useful things,” replied little Tommy.

Sarah was a courageous woman. She was really ashamed of the miserable joke they had tried on the child, but she was quite prepared to face the consequences.

“You tell your uncle what was in your stocking, Tommy,” said she.

Reuben echoed her. “No use beating about the bush,” said he, while Tom looked puzzled. “Go ahead and tell him, Tommy.”

“Useful things,” repeated stanch little Tommy.

Uncle Tom gave a shrewd glance at him. “Well, useful things are very good things to have,” said he; “but I think your aunt Annie has a lot of the other kind for you.”

“You get that child ready right away, Nancy and Sarah,” ordered Grandmother from the bedroom, “and mind you wrap him up warm. It’s a cold ride to Boston.”

“I have a lot of fur robes,” said Uncle Tom. “And we are going to stop in at The Sign of the Lion on our way home, and get some hot milk for him, and anything else he wants.”

In a very short time little Tommy was riding beside his uncle Tom. He was enveloped in furs. He had a hot brick at his feet. He was happy again, but his rapt ecstasy of the night before, which even without the after-shock of disillusionment had been a strain, had settled down into a deep peace of realization.

Nancy and Sarah were in their mother’s room. They had told her. Nancy was sobbing and Sarah looked sober. Reuben stood in the doorway, looking soberer still.

“I wish he would tell,” sobbed Nancy.

“He never will, and we can’t any of us have the comfort of thinking he is anywhere near as mean as the rest of us,” said Reuben gloomily.

“Don’t you make too much of it, Reuben,” said Grandmother. “You didn’t any of you mean any harm. You couldn’t know that what seemed funny to you—and it was sort of funny—would be taken in dead earnest by a child like that. I could have told you.”

After that Christmas, Tommy lived much of the time in Boston with his uncle Tom and his aunt Annie. He spent the summers with his aunts and uncle on the farm. He seemed as fond of them as ever. Nobody mentioned the stocking.

When Tommy and Cora were grown up they fell in love and were married, and lived in Boston. On Christmas Day Cora asked Tommy a question. “Tommy dear, what was in that stocking you were so mysterious about when you were a little boy?” said she. “Tell me now, please.”

Tommy laughed, but he shook his head. “Just something useful, dear,” said he. The man was faithful to his code of honor of childhood.

Cora, however, remained curious. The next summer when she and Tommy were staying at the farm, she asked Sarah to tell her what had been in the stocking.

“Aunt Sarah,” said pretty Cora, “do please tell me what was in Tommy’s stocking that Christmas when he was a little boy. He won’t tell me, and I want to know.”

“You ought to know,” said Sarah. “We have always been ashamed of it, although we meant it to be only a joke, and never realized what we were doing. We did not understand how a child like Tommy might take it. We were doing pig work that Christmas, and”—Sarah laughed a little and colored—“we put in some pigs’ ears nicely wrapped up, and a pig’s tail, and a potato, and a turnip, and two beets.”

“Goodness!” said Cora.

“We were all ashamed of it,” said Aunt Sarah.

Cora went over and kissed her. “Don’t you worry one bit,” said she. “Maybe Tommy’s having such awful things in his stocking, poor little boy, made him better all his life. Perhaps his keeping still and not telling made him so honorable and honest. Aunt Sarah, it can’t have done Tommy much harm, for he is certainly about the best man who ever lived now.”

“He certainly is,” said Sarah, “but if I had to live over again, I wouldn’t try such a way of making him so, for my own sake.”

[18] By permission of the author and the “Woman’s Home Companion.”

THE SAD SHEPHERD[19]

_Henry Van Dyke_

I

DARKNESS

Out of the Valley of Gardens, where a film of new-fallen snow lay smooth as feathers on the breast of a dove, the ancient Pools of Solomon looked up into the night sky with dark, tranquil eyes, wide-open and passive, reflecting the crisp stars and the small, round moon. The full springs, overflowing on the hill-side, melted their way through the field of white in winding channels, and along their course the grass was green even in the dead of winter.

But the sad shepherd walked far above the friendly valley, in a region where ridges of gray rock welted and scarred the back of the earth, like wounds of half-forgotten strife and battles long ago. The solitude was forbidding and disquieting; the keen air that searched the wanderer had no pity in it; and the myriad glances of the night were curiously cold.

His flock straggled after him. The sheep, weather beaten and dejected, followed the path with low heads nodding from side to side, as if they had travelled far and found little pasture. The black, lop-eared goats leaped upon the rocks, restless and ravenous, tearing down the tender branches and leaves of the dwarf oaks and wild olives. They reared up against the twisted trunks and crawled and scrambled among the boughs. It was like a company of gray downcast friends and a troop of merry little black devils following the sad shepherd afar off.

He walked looking on the ground, paying small heed to them. Now and again, when the sound of pattering feet and panting breath and the rustling and rending among the copses fell too far behind, he drew out his shepherd’s pipe and blew a strain of music, shrill and plaintive, quavering and lamenting through the hollow night. He waited while the troops of gray and black scuffled and bounded and trotted near to him. Then he dropped the pipe into its place and strode forward, looking on the ground.

The fitful, shivery wind that rasped the hill-top fluttered the rags of his long mantle of Tyrian blue, torn by thorns and stained by travel. The rich tunic of striped silk beneath it was worn thin, and the girdle about his loins had lost all its ornaments of silver and jewels. His curling hair hung down dishevelled under a turban of fine linen, in which the gilt threads were frayed and tarnished; and his shoes of soft leather were broken by the road. On his brown fingers the places of the vanished rings were still marked in white skin. He carried not the long staff nor the heavy nail-studded rod of the shepherd, but a slender stick of carved cedar battered and scratched by hard usage, and the handle, which must once have been of precious metal, was missing.

He was a strange figure for that lonely place and that humble occupation—a branch of faded beauty from some royal garden tossed by rude winds into the wilderness—a pleasure craft adrift, buffeted and broken, on rough seas.

But he seemed to have passed beyond caring. His young face was as frayed and threadbare as his garments. The splendour of the moonlight flooding the wild world meant as little to him as the hardness of the rugged track which he followed. He wrapped his tattered mantle closer around him, and strode ahead, looking on the ground.

As the path dropped from the summit of the ridge toward the Valley of Mills and passed among huge broken rocks, three men sprang at him from the shadows. He lifted his stick, but let it fall again, and a strange ghost of a smile twisted his face as they gripped him and threw him down.

“You are rough beggars,” he said. “Say what you want, you are welcome to it.”

“Your money, dog of a courtier,” they muttered fiercely; “give us your golden collar, Herod’s hound, quick, or you die!”

“The quicker the better,” he answered, closing his eyes.

The bewildered flock of sheep and goats, gathered in a silent ring, stood at gaze while the robbers fumbled over their master.

“This is a stray dog,” said one, “he has lost his collar, there is not even the price of a mouthful of wine on him. Shall we kill him and leave him for the vultures?”

“What have the vultures done for us,” said another, “that we should feed them? Let us take his cloak and drive off his flock, and leave him to die in his own time.”

With a kick and a curse they left him. He opened his eyes and lay quiet for a moment, with his twisted smile, watching the stars.

“You creep like snails,” he said. “I thought you had marked my time to-night. But not even that is given to me for nothing. I must pay for all, it seems.”

Far away, slowly scattering and receding, he heard the rustling and bleating of his frightened flock as the robbers, running and shouting, tried to drive them over the hills. Then he stood up and took the shepherd’s pipe from the breast of his tunic. He blew again that plaintive, piercing air, sounding it out over the ridges and distant thickets. It seemed to have neither beginning nor end; a melancholy, pleading tune that searched forever after something lost.

While he played, the sheep and the goats, slipping away from their captors by roundabout ways, hiding behind the laurel bushes, following the dark gullies, leaping down the broken cliffs, came circling back to him, one after another; and as they came, he interrupted his playing, now and then, to call them by name.

When they were nearly all assembled, he went down swiftly toward the lower valley, and they followed him, panting. At the last crook of the path on the steep hillside a straggler came after him along the cliff. He looked up and saw it outlined against the sky. Then he saw it leap, and slip, and fall beyond the path into a deep cleft.

“Little fool,” he said, “fortune is kind to you! You have escaped from the big trap of life. What? You are crying for help? You are still in the trap? Then I must go down to you, little fool, for I am a fool too. But why I must do it, I know no more than you know.”

He lowered himself quickly and perilously into the cleft, and found the creature with its leg broken and bleeding. It was not a sheep but a young goat. He had no cloak to wrap it in, but he took off his turban and unrolled it, and bound it around the trembling animal. Then he climbed back to the path and strode on at the head of his flock, carrying the little black kid in his arms.

There were houses in the Valley of the Mills; and in some of them lights were burning; and the drone of the mill-stones, where the women were still grinding, came out into the night like the humming of drowsy bees. As the women heard the pattering and bleating of the flock, they wondered who was passing so late. One of them, in a house where there was no mill but many lights, came to the door and looked out laughing, her face and bosom bare.

But the sad shepherd did not stay. His long shadow and the confused mass of lesser shadows behind him drifted down the white moonlight, past the yellow bars of lamplight that gleamed from the doorways. It seemed as if he were bound to go somewhere and would not delay.

Yet with all his haste to be gone, it was plain that he thought little of where he was going. For when he came to the foot of the valley, where the paths divided, he stood between them staring vacantly, without a desire to turn him this way or that. The imperative of choice halted him like a barrier. The balance of his mind hung even because both scales were empty. He could act, he could go, for his strength was untouched; but he could not choose, for his will was broken within him.

The path to the left went up toward the little town of Bethlehem, with huddled roofs and walls in silhouette along the double-crested hill. It was dark and forbidding as a closed fortress. The sad shepherd looked at it with indifferent eyes; there was nothing there to draw him.

The path to the right wound through rock-strewn valleys toward the Dead Sea. But rising out of that crumpled wilderness, a mile or two away, the smooth white ribbon of a chariot-road lay upon the flank of a cone-shaped mountain and curled in loops toward its peak. There the great cone was cut squarely off, and the levelled summit was capped by a palace of marble, with round towers at the corners and flaring beacons along the walls; and the glow of an immense fire, hidden in the central court-yard, painted a false dawn in the eastern sky. All down the clean-cut mountain slopes, on terraces and blind arcades, the lights flashed from lesser pavilions and pleasure-houses.

It was the secret orchard of Herod and his friends, their trysting-place with the spirits of mirth and madness. They called it the Mountain of the Little Paradise. Rich gardens were there; and the cool water from the Pools of Solomon plashed in the fountains; and trees of the knowledge of good and evil fruited blood-red and ivory-white above them; and smooth, curving, glistening shapes, whispering softly of pleasure, lay among the flowers and glided behind the trees. All this was now hidden in the dark. Only the strange bulk of the mountain, a sharp black pyramid girdled and crowned with fire, loomed across the night—a mountain once seen never to be forgotten.

The sad shepherd remembered it well. He looked at it with the eyes of a child who has been in hell. It burned him from afar. Turning neither to the right nor to the left, he walked without a path straight out upon the plain of Bethlehem, still whitened in the hollows and on the sheltered side of its rounded hillocks by the veil of snow.

He faced a wide and empty world. To the west in sleeping Bethlehem, to the east in flaring Herodium, the life of man was infinitely far away from him. Even the stars seemed to withdraw themselves against the blue-black of the sky. They diminished and receded till they were like pinholes in the vault above him. The moon in mid-heaven shrank into a bit of burnished silver, hard and glittering, immeasurably remote. The ragged, inhospitable ridges of Tekoa lay stretched in mortal slumber along the horizon, and between them he caught a glimpse of the sunken Lake of Death, darkly gleaming in its deep bed. There was no movement, no sound, on the plain where he walked, except the soft-padding feet of his dumb, obsequious flock.

He felt an endless isolation strike cold to his heart, against which he held the limp body of the wounded kid, wondering the while, with a half-contempt for his own foolishness, why he took such trouble to save a tiny scrap of the worthless tissue which is called life.

Even when a man does not know or care where he is going, if he steps onward he will get there. In an hour or more of walking over the plain the sad shepherd came to a sheep-fold of grey stones with a rude tower beside it. The fold was full of sheep, and at the foot of the tower a little fire of thorns was burning, around which four shepherds were crouching, wrapped in their thick woollen cloaks.

As the stranger approached they looked up, and one of them rose quickly to his feet, grasping his knotted club. But when they saw the flock that followed the sad shepherd, they stared at each other and said: “It is one of us, a keeper of sheep. But how comes he here in this raiment? It is what men wear in king’s houses.”

“No,” said the one who was standing, “it is what they wear when they have been thrown out of them. Look at the rags. He may be a thief and a robber with his stolen flock.”

“Salute him when he comes near,” said the oldest shepherd. “Are we not four to one? We have nothing to fear from a ragged traveller. Speak him fair. It is the will of God—and it costs nothing.”

“Peace be with you, brother,” cried the youngest shepherd; “may your mother and father be blessed.”

“May your heart be enlarged,” the stranger answered, “and may all your families be more blessed than mine, for I have none.”

“A homeless man,” said the old shepherd, “has either been robbed by his fellows, or punished by God.”

“I do not know which it was,” answered the stranger; “the end is the same, as you see.”

“By your speech you come from Galilee. Where are you going? What are you seeking here?”

“I was going nowhere, my masters; but it was cold on the way there, and my feet turned to your fire.”

“Come then, if you are a peaceable man, and warm your feet with us. Heat is a good gift; divide it and it is not less. But you shall have bread and salt too, if you will.”

“May your hospitality enrich you. I am your unworthy guest. But my flock?”

“Let your flock shelter by the south wall of the fold: there is good picking there and no wind. Come you and sit with us.”

So they all sat down by the fire; and the sad shepherd ate of their bread, but sparingly, like a man to whom hunger brings a need but no joy in the satisfying of it; and the others were silent for a proper time, out of courtesy. Then the oldest shepherd spoke:

“My name is Zadok the son of Eliezer, of Bethlehem. I am the chief shepherd of the flocks of the Temple, which are before you in the fold. These are my sister’s sons, Jotham, and Shama, and Nathan: their father Elkanah is dead; and but for these I am a childless man.”

“My name,” replied the stranger, “is Ammiel the son of Jochanan, of the city of Bethsaida, by the Sea of Galilee, and I am a fatherless man.”

“It is better to be childless than fatherless,” said Zadok, “yet it is the will of God that children should bury their fathers. When did the blessed Jochanan die?”

“I know not whether he be dead or alive. It is three years since I looked upon his face or had word of him.”

“You are an exile, then? he has cast you off?”

“It was the other way,” said Ammiel, looking on the ground.

At this the shepherd Shama, who had listened with doubt in his face, started up in anger. “Pig of a Galilean,” he cried, “despiser of parents! breaker of the law! When I saw you coming I knew you for something vile. Why do you darken the night for us with your presence? You have reviled him who begot you. Away, or we stone you!”

Ammiel did not answer or move. The twisted smile passed over his face again as he waited to know the shepherds’ will with him, even as he had waited for the robbers. But Zadok lifted his hand.

“Not so hasty, Shama-ben-Elkanah. You also break the law by judging a man unheard. The rabbis have told us that there is a tradition of the elders—a rule as holy as the law itself—that a man may deny his father in a certain way without sin. It is a strange rule, and it must be very holy or it would not be so strange. But this is the teaching of the elders: a son may say of anything for which his father asks him—a sheep, or a measure of corn, or a field, or a purse of silver—‘it is Corban, a gift that I have vowed unto the Lord’; and so his father shall have no more claim upon him. Have you said ‘Corban’ to your father, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan? Have you made a vow unto the Lord?”

“I have said ‘Corban,’” answered Ammiel, lifting his face, still shadowed by that strange smile, “but it was not the Lord who heard my vow.”

“Tell us what you have done,” said the old man sternly, “for we will neither judge you, nor shelter you, unless we hear your story.”

“There is nothing in it,” replied Ammiel indifferently. “It is an old story. But if you are curious you shall hear it. Afterward you shall deal with me as you will.”

So the shepherds, wrapped in their warm cloaks, sat listening with grave faces and watchful, unsearchable eyes, while Ammiel in his tattered silk sat by the sinking fire of thorns and told his tale with a voice that had no room for hope or fear—a cool, dead voice that spoke only of things ended.

II

NIGHTFIRE

“In my father’s house I was the second son. My brother was honoured and trusted in all things. He was a prudent man and profitable to the household. All that he counselled was done, all that he wished he had. My place was a narrow one. There was neither honour nor joy in it, for it was filled with daily tasks and rebukes. No one cared for me. My mother sometimes wept when I was rebuked. Perhaps she was disappointed in me. But she had no power to make things better. I felt that I was a beast of burden, fed only in order that I might be useful; and the dull life irked me like an ill-fitting harness. There was nothing in it.

“I went to my father and claimed my share of the inheritance. He was rich. He gave it to me. It did not impoverish him and it made me free. I said to him ‘Corban,’ and shook the dust of Bethsaida from my feet.

“I went out to look for mirth and love and joy and all that is pleasant to the eyes and sweet to the taste. If a god made me, thought I, he made me to live, and the pride of life was strong in my heart and in my flesh. My vow was offered to that well-known god. I served him in Jerusalem, in Alexandria, in Rome, for his altars are everywhere and men worship him openly or in secret.

“My money and youth made me welcome to his followers, and I spent them both freely as if they could never come to an end. I clothed myself in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day. The wine of Cyprus and the dishes of Egypt and Syria were on my table. My dwelling was crowded with merry guests. They came for what I gave them. Their faces were hungry and their soft touch was like the clinging of leeches. To them I was nothing but money and youth; no longer a beast of burden—a beast of pleasure. There was nothing in it.

“From the richest fare my heart went away empty, and after the wildest banquet my soul fell drunk and solitary into sleep.

“Then I thought, Power is better than pleasure. If a man will feast and revel let him do it with the great. They will favour him and raise him up for the service that he renders them. He will obtain place and authority in the world and gain many friends. So I joined myself to Herod.”

When the sad shepherd spoke this name his listeners drew back from him as if it were a defilement to hear it. They spat upon the ground and cursed the Idumean who called himself their king.

“A slave!” Jotham cried, “a bloody tyrant and a slave from Edom! A fox, a vile beast who devours his own children! God burn him in Gehenna.”

The old Zadok picked up a stone and threw it into the darkness, saying slowly, “I cast this stone on the grave of the Idumean, the blasphemer, the defiler of the Temple! God send us soon the Deliverer, the Promised One, the true King of Israel!” Ammiel made no sign, but went on with his story.

“Herod used me well—for his own purpose. He welcomed me to his palace and his table, and gave me a place among his favourites. He was so much my friend that he borrowed my money. There were many of the nobles of Jerusalem with him, Sadducees, and proselytes from Rome and Asia, and women from everywhere. The law of Israel was observed in the open court, when the people were watching. But in the secret feasts there was no law but the will of Herod, and many deities were served but no god was worshipped. There the captains and the princes of Rome consorted with the high-priest and his sons by night; and there was much coming and going by hidden ways. Everybody was a borrower or a lender, a buyer or a seller of favours. It was a house of diligent madness. There was nothing in it.

“In the midst of this whirling life a great need of love came upon me and I wished to hold some one in my inmost heart.

“At a certain place in the city, within closed doors, I saw a young slave-girl dancing. She was about fifteen years old, thin and supple; she danced like a reed in the wind; but her eyes were weary as death, and her white body was marked with bruises. She stumbled, and the men laughed at her. She fell, and her mistress beat her, crying out that she would fain be rid of such a heavy-footed slave. I paid the price and took her to my dwelling.

“Her name was Tamar. She was a daughter of Lebanon. I robed her in silk and broidered linen. I nourished her with tender care so that beauty came upon her like the blossoming of an almond tree; she was a garden enclosed, breathing spices. Her eyes were like doves behind her veil, her lips were a thread of scarlet, her neck was a tower of ivory, and her breasts were as two fawns which feed among the lilies. She was whiter than milk, and more rosy than the flower of the peach, and her dancing was like the flight of a bird among the branches. So I loved her.

“She lay in my bosom as a clear stone that one has bought and polished and set in fine gold at the end of a golden chain. Never was she glad at my coming, or sorry at my going. Never did she give me anything except what I took from her. There was nothing in it.

“Now whether Herod knew of the jewel that I kept in my dwelling I cannot tell. It was sure that he had his spies in all the city, and himself walked the streets by night in a disguise. On a certain day he sent for me, and had me into his secret chamber, professing great love toward me and more confidence than in any man that lived. So I must go to Rome for him, bearing a sealed letter and a private message to Cæsar. All my goods would be left safely in the hands of the king, my friend, who would reward me double. There was a certain place of high authority at Jerusalem which Cæsar would gladly bestow on a Jew who had done him a service. This mission would commend me to him. It was a great occasion, suited to my powers. Thus Herod fed me with fair promises, and I ran his errand. There was nothing in it.

“I stood before Cæsar and gave him the letter. He read it and laughed, saying that a prince with an incurable hunger is a servant of value to an emperor. Then he asked me if there was nothing sent with the letter. I answered that there was no gift, but a message for his private ear. He drew me aside and I told him that Herod begged earnestly that his dear son, Antipater, might be sent back in haste from Rome to Palestine, for the king had great need of him.

“At this Cæsar laughed again. ‘To bury him, I suppose,’ said he, ‘with his brothers, Alexander and Aristobulus! Truly, it is better to be Herod’s swine than his son! Tell the old fox he may catch his own prey.’ With this he turned from me and I withdrew unrewarded, to make my way back, as best I could with an empty purse, to Palestine. I had seen the Lord of the World. There was nothing in it.

“Selling my rings and bracelets I got passage in a trading ship for Joppa. There I heard that the king was not in Jerusalem, at his Palace of the Upper City, but had gone with his friends to make merry for a month on the Mountain of the Little Paradise. On that hill-top over against us, where the lights are flaring to-night, in the banquet-hall where couches are spread for a hundred guests, I found Herod.”

The listening shepherds spat upon the ground again, and Jotham muttered, “May the worms that devour his flesh never die!” But Zadok whispered, “We wait for the Lord’s salvation to come out of Zion.” And the sad shepherd, looking with fixed eyes at the firelit mountain far away, continued his story:

“The king lay on his ivory couch, and the sweat of his disease was heavy upon him, for he was old, and his flesh was corrupted. But his hair and his beard were dyed and perfumed and there was a wreath of roses on his head. The hall was full of nobles and great men, the sons of the high-priest were there, and the servants poured their wine in cups of gold. There was a sound of soft music; and all the men were watching a girl who danced in the middle of the hall; and the eyes of Herod were fiery, like the eyes of a fox.

“The dancer was Tamar. She glistened like the snow on Lebanon, and the redness of her was ruddier than a pomegranate, and her dancing was like the coiling of white serpents. When the dance was ended her attendants threw a veil of gauze over her and she lay among her cushions, half covered with flowers, at the feet of the king.

“Through the sound of clapping hands and shouting, two slaves led me behind the couch of Herod. His eyes narrowed as they fell upon me. I told him the message of Cæsar, making it soft, as if it were a word that suffered him to catch his prey. He stroked his beard and his look fell on Tamar. ‘I have caught it,’ he murmured; ‘by all the gods, I have always caught it. And my dear son, Antipater, is coming home of his own will. I have lured him, he is mine.’

“Then a look of madness crossed his face and he sprang up, with frothing lips, and struck at me. ‘What is this,’ he cried, ‘a spy, a servant of my false son, a traitor in my banquet-hall! Who are you?’ I knelt before him, protesting that he must know me; that I was his friend, his messenger; that I had left all my goods in his hands; that the girl who had danced for him was mine. At this his face changed again and he fell back on his couch, shaken with horrible laughter. ‘Yours!’ he cried, ‘when was she yours? What is yours? I know you now, poor madman. You are Ammiel, a crazy shepherd from Galilee, who troubled us some time since. Take him away, slaves. He has twenty sheep and twenty goats among my flocks at the foot of the mountain. See to it that he gets them, and drive him away.’

“I fought against the slaves with my bare hands, but they held me. I called to Tamar, begging her to have pity on me, to speak for me, to come with me. She looked up with her eyes like doves behind her veil, but there was no knowledge of me in them. She laughed lazily, as if it were a poor comedy, and flung a broken rose-branch in my face. Then the silver cord was loosened within me, and my heart went out, and I struggled no more. There was nothing in it.

“Afterward I found myself on the road with this flock. I led them past Hebron into the south country, and so by the Vale of Eshcol, and over many hills beyond the Pools of Solomon, until my feet brought me to your fire. Here I rest on the way to nowhere.”

He sat silent, and the four shepherds looked at him with amazement.

“It is a bitter tale,” said Shama, “and you are a great sinner.”

“I should be a fool not to know that,” answered the sad shepherd, “but the knowledge does me no good.”

“You must repent,” said Nathan, the youngest shepherd, in a friendly voice.

“How can a man repent,” answered the sad shepherd, “unless he has hope? But I am sorry for everything, and most of all for living.”

“Would you not live to kill the fox Herod?” cried Jotham fiercely.

“Why should I let him out of the trap,” answered the sad shepherd. “Is he not dying more slowly than I could kill him?”

“You must have faith in God,” said Zadok earnestly and gravely.

“He is too far away.”

“Then you must have love for your neighbour.”

“He is too near. My confidence in man was like a pool by the wayside. It was shallow, but there was water in it, and sometimes a star shone there. Now the feet of many beasts have trampled through it, and the jackals have drunken of it, and there is no more water. It is dry and the mire is caked at the bottom.”

“Is there nothing good in the world?”

“There is pleasure, but I am sick of it. There is power, but I hate it. There is wisdom, but I mistrust it. Life is a game and every player is for his own hand. Mine is played. I have nothing to win or lose.”

“You are young, you have many years to live.”

“I am old, yet the days before me are too many.”

“But you travel the road, you go forward. Do you hope for nothing?”

“I hope for nothing,” said the sad shepherd. “Yet if one thing should come to me it might be the beginning of hope. If I saw in man or woman a deed of kindness without a selfish reason, and a proof of love gladly given for its own sake only, then might I turn my face toward that light. Till that comes, how can I have faith in God whom I have never seen? I have seen the world which he has made, and it brings me no faith. There is nothing in it.”

“Ammiel-ben-Jochanan,” said the old man sternly, “you are a son of Israel, and we have had compassion on you, according to the law. But you are an apostate, an unbeliever, and we can have no more fellowship with you, lest a curse come upon us. The company of the desperate brings misfortune. Go your way and depart from us, for our way is not yours.”

So the sad shepherd thanked them for their entertainment, and took the little kid again in his arms, and went into the night, calling his flock. But the youngest shepherd Nathan followed him a few steps and said:

“There is a broken fold at the foot of the hill. It is old and small, but you may find a shelter there for your flock where the wind will not shake you. Go your way with God, brother, and see better days.”

Then Ammiel went a little way down the hill and sheltered his flock in a corner of the crumbling walls. He lay among the sheep and the goats with his face upon his folded arms, and whether the time passed slowly or swiftly he did not know, for he slept.

He waked as Nathan came running and stumbling among the scattered stones.

“We have seen a vision,” he cried, “a wonderful vision of angels. Did you not hear them? They sang loudly of the Hope of Israel. We are going to Bethlehem to see this thing which is come to pass. Come you and keep watch over our sheep while we are gone.”

“Of angels I have seen and heard nothing,” said Ammiel, “but I will guard your flocks with mine, since I am in debt to you for bread and fire.”

So he brought the kid in his arms, and the weary flock straggling after him, to the south wall of the great fold again, and sat there by the embers at the foot of the tower, while the others were away.

The moon rested like a ball on the edge of the western hills and rolled behind them. The stars faded in the east and the fires went out on the Mountain of the Little Paradise. Over the hills of Moab a grey flood of dawn rose slowly, and arrows of red shot far up before the sunrise.

The shepherds returned full of joy and told what they had seen.

“It was even as the angels said unto us,” said Shama, “and it must be true. The King of Israel has come. The faithful shall be blessed.”

“Herod shall fall,” cried Jotham, lifting his clenched fist toward the dark peaked mountain. “Burn, black Idumean, in the bottomless pit, where the fire is not quenched.”

Zadok spoke more quietly. “We found the new-born child of whom the angels told us wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. The ways of God are wonderful. His salvation comes out of darkness. But you, Ammiel-ben-Jochanan, except you believe, you shall not see it. Yet since you have kept our flocks faithfully, and because of the joy that has come to us, I give you this piece of silver to help you on your way.”

But Nathan came close to the sad shepherd and touched him on the shoulder with a friendly hand. “Go you also to Bethlehem,” he said in a low voice, “for it is good to see what we have seen, and we will keep your flock until you return.”

“I will go,” said Ammiel, looking into his face, “for I think you wish me well. But whether I shall see what you have seen, or whether I shall ever return, I know not. Farewell.”

III

DAWN

The narrow streets of Bethlehem were waking to the first stir of life as the sad shepherd came into the town with the morning, and passed through them like one walking in his sleep.

The court-yard of the great khan and the open rooms around it were crowded with travellers, rousing from their night’s rest and making ready for the day’s journey. In front of the stables half hollowed in the rock beside the inn, men were saddling their horses and their beasts of burden, and there was much noise and confusion.

But beyond these, at the end of the line, there was a deeper grotto in the rock, which was used only when the nearer stalls were full. Beside the entrance of this cave an ass was tethered, and a man of middle age stood in the doorway.

The sad shepherd saluted him and told his name.

“I am Joseph the carpenter of Nazareth,” replied the man. “Have you also seen the angels of whom your brother shepherds came to tell us?”

“I have seen no angels,” answered Ammiel, “nor have I any brothers among the shepherds. But I would fain see what they have seen.”