The Epic of Paul

WILLIAM CLEAVER WILKINSON
Author of "The Epic of Saul"

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
New York and London
1898

Copyright, 1897, by
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
[Registered at Stationers' Hall, London, England]
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS.

      PAGE

Book

I.

Plot and Counterplot 9

Book

II.

Paul and Gamaliel 43

Book

III.

Shimei and the Chiliarch 77

Book

IV.

By Night for Cæsarea 115

Book

V.

Shimei and Young Stephen 147

Book

VI.

Paul before Felix 167

Book

VII.

"

To Cæsar

"

193

Book

VIII.

Shimei before Julius 227

Book

IX.

Paul and Young Stephen 257

Book

X.

Re-embarked 291

Book

XI.

The Last of Shimei 315

Book

XII.

Paul and Krishna 339

Book

XIII.

Shipwreck 363

Book

XIV.

Mary Magdalene 395

Book

XV.

Young Stephen and Felix 425

Book

XVI.

Interlude of Krishna 453

Book

XVII.

The Story of the Cross 485

Book

XVIII.

Krishna 507

Book

XIX.

Baptism of Krishna 537

Book

XX.

Euthanasy 569

Book

XXI.

Arrival 597

Book

XXII.

Drusilla and Nero 625

Book

XXIII.

Nero and Simon 661

Book

XXIV.

The End 691

THE EPIC OF PAUL.

The action of The Epic of Paul begins with that conspiracy formed at Jerusalem against the life of the apostle which in the sequel led to a prolonged suspension of his free missionary career. It embraces the incidents of his removal from Jerusalem to Cæsarea, of his imprisonment at the latter place, of his journey to Rome for trial before Cæsar, and of his final martyrdom.

The design of the poem as a whole is to present, through conduct on Paul's part and through speech from him, a living portrait of the man that he was, together with a reflex of his most central and most characteristic teaching.

PROEM.

Paul, the new man, retrieved from perished Saul, Unequalled good and fair, from such unfair, Such evil, orient, miracle unguessed!— Both what himself he was and what he taught— This marvel in meet words to fashion forth And make it live an image to the mind Forever, blooming in celestial youth, Were well despair to purer power than mine; Help me Thou, Author of the miracle!

BOOK I.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

Paul is arraigned before the Sanhedrim at Jerusalem. He had the day preceding been murderously set upon by a Jewish mob, from whose hands he was with difficulty rescued by a Roman officer, to be held as a prisoner supposed of infamous character. While Paul is thus held, a conspiracy of desperate Jews is formed by Shimei against his life. This conspiracy is fortunately discovered and exposed by Stephen, a young nephew of the apostle, acting at the instance of his mother Rachel, Paul's sister, and under the advice of Gamaliel, Paul's old teacher.

THE EPIC OF PAUL.

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

The Sanhedrim once more, with Saul arraigned, Saul now no longer, and no longer young, Paul his changed name, to note his nature changed.

Confronting frown on him, a prisoner, Paul's colleagues of the days when he was Saul. Shimei, with smile, or scowl, uncertain which, Hatred and pleasure both at once expressed, Pleasure of hatred gratified, with more Hatred than could be wholly gratified— His pristine aspect worse and worse deformed. Sore vexed at heart were all the Sanhedrim That now the victim of their wished despite— Thrice the more hated as erst so beloved, Christian apostate the once zealot Jew!— Stood there but doubtfully within their power; The Roman sway had cited him—and them.

For, yesterday, Paul in the temple-court Had with fierce violence been set upon By Jews who thought the holy place profaned Through his unlawful bringing thither in Of gentile Greeks—had there been set upon And thence dragged forth with blows that purposed death. But, as when Stephen suffered, so again Now intervened the Roman, and this time Forbade the turbulence and rescued Paul— Rescued, but double-bound his hands with chains. Demanding then who was the prisoner, And what his crime, and nothing learning clear Amid the hubbub loud of various charge, The Roman chiliarch was conducting Paul Into the castle, by the soldiers borne— Hardly so wrested from the eager hands Of those enraged who thirsted for his blood, And rent the air crying, "Away with him!"— When calmly to his captor-savior, he Addressed himself and asked, "May I to thee A few words speak?" "Greek understandest thou?" Exclaimed the Roman. "Art thou then not he, Not that Egyptian, who but late stirred up Sedition, and into the wilderness Led out a company four thousand strong Of the Assassins?" "I a Hebrew am," Said Paul, "of Tarsus in Cilicia, Of no mean city citizen. Let me, I pray thee, speak unto the multitude."

Permitted, Paul, upon the castle stairs Standing, stretched forth his hand in manacles Unto the tumult surging at his feet, And, a great silence fallen upon those waves, Spoke in the Hebrew tongue to them and said: "Brethren and fathers, my defence hear ye." (The silence deepened at the Hebrew words.) "A Jew am I, who, though in Tarsus born, Was in this city bred and at the feet Of that Gamaliel taught the ancestral law With every scruple of severity, Burning in zeal for God, as now do ye. And I this Way hunted unto the death, Sparing from chains and from imprisonment Nor man nor woman. This will the high priest Witness, and all the Jewish eldership. By these commissioned, to Damascus I Journeyed, that, thence even, I might hither bring For punishment disciples of the Way. And lo, as, journeying, nigh Damascus now I drew, at noonday round about me shone Suddenly a great light from heaven. To earth Prostrate I fell, and heard a voice that said, 'Saul, Saul, why art thou persecuting me?' 'Thou, thou—who art thou, Lord?' I said. And He: 'Jesus I am, Jesus of Nazareth, Whom thou art persecuting.' Those with me Beheld indeed the light, but to the voice That spake to me were deaf. And I then said, 'What wilt thou, Lord, that I should do?' 'Arise,' Said He, 'and on into Damascus go; What thou must do shall there to thee be told.' Blind-smitten with the glory of the light, Into Damascus guided by the hand I came.

"There, Ananias, a devout Observer of the law, of good renown With all the Hebrew Damascenes, found me. I felt him, though I saw him not, as he Paused standing there before me, and these words Spake: 'Brother Saul, receive thy sight.' And I, That selfsame hour my sight receiving, fixed My eyes on Ananias, when he said: 'The God of our forefathers hath of thee Made choice His will to know and to behold The Righteous One and from His mouth a voice To hear. For, witness shalt thou be for Him To all men of the things thou hast beheld And heard. And now why lingerest thou? Arise And be baptized and wash away thy sins, Calling upon His name.'

"Thereafter I, Unto Jerusalem returned, and here Within the temple praying, into trance Passed, and beheld Him, as to me He said: 'Haste, from Jerusalem to go make speed, For witness will they not from thee receive Concerning Me.' 'But, Lord,' said I, 'they know Themselves how I, of all men I, imprisoned And scourged from synagogue to synagogue Them that on Thee believed. And when was shed Thy martyr Stephen's blood, I, also I, Stood near, consenting, and their garments kept Who slew him.' But the Lord to me replied: 'Depart, for I will send thee forth far hence In mission to the Gentiles—"

To this word The throng to Paul gave patient ear, but now— At sign and instigation, ambushed erst In waiting for the moment meet to spring, And springing pregnant from the ready wit Of Shimei, when that hateful hint was heard Of mission to the Gentiles through a Jew— Rose an uproar of voices from the crowd, As when winds mingle sea and sky in storm. "Away with such a fellow from the earth!" They cried; "it is not fit that he should live."

A wild scene, for with outcry wild was mixed Wild gesture; the whole madding multitude Rent off their raiment, and into the air Dust flung in cloud as where a whirlwind roars. Astonished stood the chiliarch at the sight, Nor doubted that some monster was the man Against whom such a storm of clamor raged. He bade bring Paul within the castle, there Bade scourge him that he might his crime confess. Already they had bound him for the thongs, When Paul to the centurion standing by Said, "Is it lawful for you then to scourge A man that is a Roman—uncondemned?" This the centurion hearing, straightway he Went to the chiliarch and abrupt exclaimed: "What is it thou art on the point to do? For this man is a Roman." Then to Paul Hastens the chiliarch and, perturbed, inquires: "Tell me, art thou a Roman?" "Yea," said Paul. Surprised, incredulous half, the chiliarch cried: "I with an ample sum that franchise bought." "But I," calmly said Paul, "was thereto born."

At that word from their prisoner, the men Who ready round him stood the lash to ply Instantly vanished, and the chiliarch too Was panic-stricken—now in doubt no more That Paul a Roman was, whom he had bound For stripes, against a law greater than he, Nay, sacred as the sacred majesty Itself of the Republic—ancient name Disguising empire!—law forbidding stripes On any flesh that Roman title owned.

Paul slept, in Roman chains, the Christian's sleep, That night, but ill at ease the chiliarch tossed In troubled slumbers. He, with early morn, To council called the Jewish Sanhedrim, Set Paul unbound before them, and so sought The truth to know of what on him was charged. With calmly steadfast eye Paul faced his foes, But Shimei smiled in confidence of guile; Whatever the accused might seek to say, Affront should meet him and torment his pride. Paul, his fixed eyes pointing his moveless aim Full in the faces of the elders, said: "Brethren, in all good conscience have I lived In loyalty toward God unto this day." On such a claim from such a prisoner, Angry the high priest Ananias cried, "Smite him upon the mouth!" to those near by. Paul flamed in answering righteous wrath, and said, Flashing a lightning from his eyes on him: "Smite thee shall God, thou whited wall! And thou, Sittest thou here to judge me by the law, And, the law breaking, biddest me be smitten?"

The bolted word had flown and found its mark, And Paul stood quivering with the stern recoil. But the bystanders, tools of Shimei, In chorus of well-simulated zeal Of reverence toward authority, cried out: "The high priest, then, of God revilest thou?" Tempting the outraged man to further vent Volcanic of resentment at his wrong. But Paul had tutored down his rebel will; Meekly he said: "Brethren, I did not know That he the high priest was, for it is writ, 'Of one that rules thy people speak not ill.'"

Through such self-recollection and self-rule, Paul, master of himself once more become, Became likewise master of circumstance. Marking that Pharisee and Sadducee Made up the assembly, he, with prudent choice, As Pharisee to Pharisee appealed. "Brethren," he cried, "a Pharisee am I, From Pharisees descended; for the hope And resurrection of the dead it is That I this day am judged."

Discord hereon Arose of Pharisee with Sadducee, Which atwain rent the whole assembly there. For Sadducee no resurrection owned, No angel, and no spirit; Pharisee These all confessed. A hideous clamor grew, And certain scribes, who with the Pharisees Sided, rose and, contending stoutly, said: "No evil find we in this man; and if, And if so be indeed, there hath to him A spirit spoken, or an angel—" Thus A hot dissension waxing, and afraid Become the chiliarch lest his prisoner be In sunder torn, the soldiery he sent To pluck him from amidst the wrangling crowd, And lodge him in the castle.

The next night The Lord stood in theophany by Paul, And said: "Be of good cheer; as thou of me Hast witnessed in Jerusalem, so must Thou also yet witness in Rome." And Paul Was of good cheer in glad obedience, And slept a sleep so leavened with happy dream.

But night-long lonely vigil Shimei kept, Stung from repose to study of revenge. At dawn, his hatch of hell, quick by the heat Of brooding hatred in that patient breast, Was ready to come forth and stalk abroad. 'Death to apostate Saul!' his public word, 'Death to that hated man!' was Shimei's thought.

Thought not so much, as law to him of thought, Which formed and fixed the habit of the mind; His thought was simply, 'How to get Paul slain,' His feeling was a hatred bent to slay; Now, bent to slay; once, but to torture bent. This, partly because hatred is like love Herein, that it, by only being, grows— Until, at last, usurping quite the man, It overgrows him like a polypus; And partly because plot and act of hate Sting to find hateful more the hated one, Hate against whom is so self-justified. But Shimei's hate of Paul, antipathy At first, deep, primal, irreversible, A doom born in him when himself was born, And thence—from that time forth when in the hall Of council Saul disdained and flouted him— A conscious, fostered, festering grudge become— This hate, now grown by but persisting long, And much more grown through long self-exercise, Had yet, beyond the private argument, Its public ground of warrant for itself. Mocker though Shimei was, not less was he, To his full measure of sincerity, Sincerely in his mockery a Jew; His nation's scorn of Jesus was his scorn, And who loved Jesus for that cause he hated. Buoyed and supported by the spirit rife, The common conscience, of his countrymen, Nay, conscious of approval and acclaim Without him, as of genius blithe within Him, prompt to indirection and deceit, Shimei, far more than clear and confident, Felt also something of the fowler's joy In cunning, as for Paul his toils he spread.

All this; yet all was not enough to fire The hate that burned sevenfold in Shimei's breast. With all, there was an alien element Infused, Tartarean fuelling from beneath, A breath of hell to blow his hate so hot. No merely human hatred crucified The Lord of glory and the Lord of love! No merely human hatred followed Paul On his angelic errand round the world, With scourge, with ambush, with imprisonment, And mouth agape to drink that holy blood!

Forty fanatic Jews were quickly found To bind themselves by a religious oath Of dreadful imprecation on their heads Neither to eat nor drink till Paul was slain. Prompt chance to slay him Shimei promised them; He would procure that, on the morrow morn, The chiliarch should desire to quit his doubt Concerning his strange prisoner, by one more Test of his cause before the Sanhedrim. Then, while from the near tower Antonia, Saul At leisure to their council-hall was brought, So large a number of sworn arms in league Might easily, with rash violence, breach their way To him amid his guard of soldiery, And, far too suddenly for these to fend, Spill his life-blood like water on the ground— Whence could not all the power of Rome again Gather it up to store his veins withal.

So Shimei plotted, with the guile of hate; But, with a wiser guile, the guile of love, There counterplotted a true heart for Paul.

Rachel that ministry of grace had plied For Ruth by Saul imprisoned, and for those Of Bethany bound with her—where, meanwhile, She for Ruth's children happy kept their home— Month after month, with inexhaustible Sweet patience and bright heart of hope and brave, Until, the soul of persecution slain In Saul converted, they were all let go Beneath their wonted roofs at peace to dwell; Rachel first welcoming Ruth safe home once more, And Ruth then welcoming Rachel still to bide.

But Lazarus, toward Rachel, to and fro Daily seen moving, with that punctual truth To tryst so beautiful, more beautiful In her who was herself so beautiful, Whose every step, look, gesture, and least speech, Or very silence, seemed a benison— Toward Rachel, such beheld—a crescent dawn Brightening upon him to the perfect day, Apocalypse of lovely—Lazarus, In secret, more and more felt his heart drawn, Through all the dreaming hours he passed in prison. Released at last, he told his heart to her, And Rachel learned to yield him love for love; So, Saul consenting gladly, they were wed.

The eldest-born of Rachel now was grown A stripling youth, in face and person fair, Fair spoken, with a winning gift of grace In manner, and a conscious innocence, Becoming conscious virtue, written free In legend over all his lineaments, Where beamed likewise a bright intelligence, Alert, beyond such years, with exercise; For Rachel's had been long a widow's child, And long that widow's only, as her first. Stephen they had named their boy—for memory.

It still was dark, deep dark before the dawn, When Rachel rose from wrestling sleepless dream To rouse her son from happy dreamless sleep. "Stephen," said she, "my son, my heart divines Danger nigh imminent for one we love."

"But, mother," said the son, "mine uncle Paul, If him thou meanest, is safe in citadel. Those Romans, heathen though they be, and void Of pity as the nether millstone is, Are yet in their hard way, and heathen, just. They have the power, as they have shown the will, To keep thy brother hedged from Hebrew hate."

"From Hebrew hate, but not from hellish guile," Rachel replied; "and hellish guile, my son, Thy mother's heart, quickened with sisterhood, And, from some sad experience of the world, Suspicious—nay, perhaps, through deep divine Persuasion by the Holy Spirit wrought, Intuitive of the future, and on things Else hidden, inly privileged to look— Yea, hellish guile, my heart, somehow advised, Insists and still insists she knows, she feels, This hour at work against my brother Saul. Haste, get thee quickly to Gamaliel— Brief his sleep is, and he will be awake, For, with his gathering years, now nigh five score, Lighter and lighter grow his slumbers, ever Broken and scattered by the first cockcrow— Greet him from me with worship as beseems, And, telling him my fears, entreat to know If aught that touches his old pupil Saul, Haply an issue from the brooding brain Of Shimei to Saul's hurt, have reached his ear. Be wise, be wary, Stephen, whet thy sense, Fail not to see or hear whatever sign Glimpses or whispers, smallest hint that may Concern the safety of thine uncle Saul. How knowest thou but thy scouting walk this morn Shall rescue to the world, in need so deep, Yet many a year of that apostleship? Besides, with such a sun quenched from our sky, What then were day prolonged but night to us? Go, and thy mother here meanwhile will pray: 'Lord, speed my son, make him discreet and brave!'"

Brave and discreet the boy had need to be; For, as he went, amid the rear-guard dense Of darkness undispersed before the dawn, Steering his flying steps along the street, And watching wary, with tense eye and ear, To every quarter of the dim dumb world— A sudden thwarting ray that disappeared! He paused on tiptoe, leaning forward, stood One instant, with his hand behind his ear, To listen, while his noisy heart he hushed; And heard, yea, footsteps, with a muffled sound Of human voices sibilant and hoarse. What meant it? Nothing, doubtless, yet well were To be unseen, and see—if see he might— And hear unheard, until his way were sure. With supple swift insinuation, he Slipped him beneath the slack ungathered length Of a chance-left rolled tent-cloth at his feet. Two men—one bore a lantern, darkened deep Behind the outer garment that he wore— Drew nigh, and Stephen held his breath to hear The name of Saul hissed out between the twain. Slow was their gait, and ever and anon, Halting, they checked their words, and seemed to list, As if for comrades lingering yet behind. They against Stephen halted thus, and he Lay breathlessly awaiting what might fall. First having paused, as hearkening from afar— To naught but silence—the two men sat down Upon that roll of tent-cloth, thus at ease To rest them, till the waited-for appeared. At Stephen's very ear, he in duress And forced to hear them, there those two ill men, Complotters in the plot to murder Paul, Unfolded in free converse all their scheme.

Fiercely the listening boy forbade to cry The aching heart of eagerness in him, That almost rived with its desire of vent. Fear for himself could not have held him mute; Horror and hatred of that wickedness Swelled swiftly in his breast, so huge and hard, There must have sprung from out his lips a cry, Sharp like an arrow cleaving from its string, Had not great love been instant, stronger yet, Binding his heart to burst not, and be dumb. So there he lay as dead, so deathlike still, Until at length—the waited-for come up— They all went forward thence their purposed way. Then Stephen lithely to his feet upsprung And, sped as with his anguish, his disdain, His indignation, to be silent—force Pent up in him from all escape but speed— Swift, like the roe upon the mountains, ran To find Gamaliel, where that ancient sage Sat on his dewy roof expecting morn.

"Rachel my mother sends Gamaliel hail, And bids me haste to bring thee instant word!" So Stephen, with quick-beating heart that broke His words to pulses of sobbed sound, began: "She says—but I, in hither coming, learned More than my mother charged me with to thee. Lo, wicked men of our own nation plot This day to shed my mother's brother's blood. They will desire the Roman to send down Mine uncle Saul before the Sanhedrim, To be by these examined once again; But they will set upon him while he comes, And so, or ever he can rescued be, Make of mine uncle Saul a bloody corpse. O Rabbi, master of mine uncle Saul, Beseech thee, speak, bid me, what must I do?"

The old man bent upon the boy his brow, And, slowly rousing without motion, said: "The world grows gray in wickedness, my son; What the Lord God of all intends, who knows? Most wise is He, but deep, in many ways, Past human finding out. Thine uncle Saul Is hated for himself by Shimei Yet more than for his cause. And Shimei Is doubtless the artificer of this." With inward adjuration then, a hand Uplifted as in gesture to repel, Gamaliel deeply added, "O my soul, Into the secret of such man come not!"

Wherewith the aged tremulous lips were mute, Though mutely moving still, as if the words Said themselves over, again and yet again, Within him, of that ancient fending spell. Stephen, well-schooled in awe of the hoar head, Stood an uneasy instant silent, then Yielded to his untamable desire Of action and impatience of delay. "O Rabban," he importunately cried, "But thy young servant's soul already God Into the secret of this man has brought— Doubtless to baffle him—knew I but how!"

"Yea, verily, Stephen; also that might chance," Gamaliel answered with benignity; He almost let grave admiration breathe, Through softly-lighted look and gentle tone, A kind of benediction on the boy, As he, unhastened, felt the youthful haste That made the stripling Stephen beautiful; "For David was a shepherd lad, when he Was chosen of God to lay Goliath low. Who knows but thou shalt save thine uncle Saul? I loved him long ago—when thou wast not; He went his way, and I abode in mine, Ways widely parting, but I love him still. And I would see him yet before I die. Tell him, Gamaliel would see Saul once more. Perhaps, perhaps, I might dissuade him yet. Thine uncle, lad, was ever from a youth Headstrong to think his thought and will his will. No man might bend him from his own fixed bent; If any man, then I; he honored me, And hearkened reason from Gamaliel's lips. Yea, send Saul hither, I would prove if I Have not still left some saving power for him."

Gamaliel spoke half as from reverie, Lapsed in oblivion of the present need. "Rabban Gamaliel," bold upspoke the boy, "Thy saving power I pray thee now put forth To pluck mine uncle from the jaws of death. I promise gladly then to bring thee Saul, If so I may, when, by thy counsel, I Have set him safe from those that seek his blood. These have their mouth agape already now, Their throat an open sepulcher for him. I see, I see them spring upon their prey— O master, master, must he die like this?"

The passionate pleading boy dropped on his knees, And the knees clasped of the thus roused old man. "Yea, I remember," now Gamaliel spoke; "Weep not, my boy, but haste, my bidding do." Therewith Gamaliel clapped his aged hands, When instantly a servant to his call Stood on the roof with, "Master, here am I." "An inkhorn and a pen, with parchment; speed!" Shot from Gamaliel's lips, so short, so sharp With instance, that the man not went, but flew. "Make thou a table of my knees, and write," Gamaliel to forestalling Stephen said; "Write: 'I, Gamaliel, send this lad to thee; I know him; he will tell thee what concerns Thy hearing; thou canst trust him all in all.' There, so is well; now superscribe it fair: 'To the chief captain of Antonia.' Run, carry this—stay, I must sign it first With mine own hand for certainty to him. Up, haste thee to the castle, ask for Saul, Him tell what thou hast learned, and show him this; Saul will to the chief captain get thee brought, And thou hereby shalt win believing heed. No thanks, and no farewell, but thy feet wing!"

So sped, but of his own heart better sped, Stephen quick got him to the castle gate, Where, with Gamaliel's seal displayed—his truth, Patent in face and voice, admitting him— He gained prompt privilege of speech with Paul. Paul heard the tidings that his nephew brought And, summoning a centurion, said to him: "Pray thee, to the chief captain take this youth; He has a matter for his private ear."

So the centurion, taking Stephen, went To the chief captain, and thus spoke to him: "The prisoner Paul bade me to him and asked That I would bring this youth to thee, who has A certain matter he would tell thee of."

The chiliarch looked at Stephen glowing there Before him in the beauty of his youth, A beauty that was more than beauty now, Touched and illumined into nobleness By the pure ardor of the soul within Kindling upon the face in flames of zeal— The Roman, on the boy ennobled so Feasting his eye a moment in fixed gaze, Caught the contagion of that nobleness. A waft perhaps of reminiscence waked Blew soft and warm upon his heart from Rome; Clear in the mirror of the Hebrew boy Shining in sudden apparition so, Fairer than fountain of Bandusia, There swam perhaps an image to the eye Of that stern Roman father, dear with home; Perhaps he thought of a young Claudius, Who, far away beneath Italian skies, Was blooming crescent in a grace like that, His father exile in Jerusalem!

However wrought on, Claudius Lysias, Touched somehow to a mood of gentleness, Took Stephen by the hand and went with him Apart a little into privacy, And said: "And now, my pretty Hebrew lad, What matter is it thou hast hither brought?" "O, sir," said Stephen, with half-downcast face Of beautifying shame that he must bear Such witness unto Roman against Jew, "There are some Israelites not of Israel; Pray thee, judge not my race by this that I Must tell thee of my wicked countrymen. Forty vile men have in Jerusalem, By one the vilest who knows all the vile, Been found to bind themselves by oath in league Together all, under a dreadful curse, Neither to eat nor drink, till they the best, The noblest, of their countrymen have slain Thy prisoner Paul. These presently will ask, Or others speaking for them will—high climbs, Sir, and wide spreads, this foul conspiracy Of evil against good, among the Jews— They soon will ask that thou to-morrow bring Thy prisoner before the Sanhedrim As of his cause to certify thyself. But, while he comes, those base complotters will, Lying in wait for this, upon him fall Too quickly for the soldiers to forefend, And slay him as beneath thy very eyes. O, sir, do not thou give them their desire."

"Thou lookest truth, my boy," the chiliarch said; "But a mad bloody plot thou warnest me of. Thou knowest these things? But how these things knowest thou? And how shall I know that thou knowest these things? How, too, that thou speakest truly as thou knowest?'

"My mother is Paul's sister," Stephen said, "And she, all in her secret heart, divined Some mischief that impended over him, And bade me hasten to the wise and good Gamaliel, counsellor to her and all, And ask if he knew aught, or aught advised, That touched the safety of her brother; he Was once Gamaliel's pupil well-beloved. It came to pass, as I devoured my way Through the deep dark before the earliest dawn, Whetted to heed whatever might be sign Of import to the purpose I would serve, That a low noise of voices, and a ray, Shot, so it after proved, athwart the night From out a lantern, for an instant bare, That some one carried underneath his robe, And, by pure hap, or haply for a hint From far to comrade, or to light his course, Let shine that moment through the parted folds— It chanced, I say, that such a sudden sign— For sign I found it—made me haste to hide Where I, unmarked, might mark, both eye and ear. O, sir, God sent those wicked twain so nigh Me I could plainly hear them, every word, Unfold the counsel of their wickedness. As soon as freed by their departure, I Flew to Gamaliel, told him all, from him At last received instruction and strict charge To hasten hither, seek out Paul, access Secure through him to thee, and in thine hand Give this, Gamaliel's word, for proof of me."

Stephen stood silent, and the chiliarch read; "Aye, as I thought," he slowly, musing, spoke; "I did not doubt thy truth, my boy, before, I myself did not, though the chiliarch did, As by his office bound to scruple deep, And ever doubt, till doubt by proof be quelled. This well agrees with the wild, heady way Of the whole restless, reckless race of Jews. They count no cost, of peril, or of pain, Loss, labor, naught; impossibility Is but temptation to attempt—in vain. Was never city like Jerusalem, Menace of mob in every multitude! Well, well, my lad, I trust thee, go thy way, Say naught of this to any one abroad; I will take care no harm shall happen Paul. Thou hast well done to bring this word to me; I should have felt it for a vexing thing Had thus a Roman in my custody Disgracefully been slain with violent hands. But thou it seems lovest thy kinsman Paul; Now for thy youth, and for thy comely face, And for the service thou hast wrought for me, I give thee thy request, what wilt thou have? Be prudent, so that I need not repent, And, so that thou need not repent, be bold. Ask widely, wisely, for thine uncle Paul."

"I thank thee, sir, for this thy grace to me," Said Stephen; "but for Paul I nothing ask, Sure as I am he has what he desires; For he has learned in whatsoever state He be, therein to be content—so I Have heard mine uncle say, in telling what, Strange hap and hard to me it often seemed, Has him befallen in wandering through the world. Still, if I might two things in one desire, Though not for Paul, yet partly for his sake, I this would crave from thee, that I may here Bide with mine uncle, or with, him go hence, If hence thou sendest him; that is one thing; And this the other is, that I may bid Gamaliel hither, here to visit Paul. Gamaliel wishes to see Paul once more, And Paul I know would gladly yet again Greet his belovéd master face to face. Doubtless the last time it will be to them; For he, Gamaliel, waxes very old, Almost five score the tale is of his years."

"Thou askest little; all is granted thee," The Roman said, and that centurion charged: "Let this lad come and go, unchecked, at will, Or bide companion with the prisoner Paul." "And thou, my little Hebrew," added he, Apart, "behooves thou know the time is short For Paul to tarry in Antonia. This very night, I send him forth with haste To Cæsarea from Jerusalem; Both for his safety, and my quiet, this. Thou shalt go with him, if thou choose to go. Remember that I trust thee, and be dumb."

Benignantly dismissed thus, Stephen first Home hied him to his mother Rachel, her Told what had fallen and comforted her heart; Then to Gamaliel bore the chiliarch's word, Bidding him freely come to visit Paul.

BOOK II.

PAUL AND GAMALIEL.

The aged Gamaliel has his wish and enjoys a prolonged interview with the prisoner Paul in the castle where the latter is confined—young Stephen being present. The result is Gamaliel's conversion to Christianity; but this is followed by the old man's peaceful death on the couch where he had been resting while he talked. So peaceful is the death that, in the darkness of the late evening, Paul and young Stephen are not aware that it has occurred.

PAUL AND GAMALIEL.

His eye now dim, as too his natural force Abated—for the long increase of years, Each lightly like a gentle white snow-shower Descending on his shoulders scarcely felt, Grew a great weight at length that his tall form Stooped, and his steps made gradually slow— Gamaliel, stayed in hand by Stephen, walked, Gazed on of all with worship where he passed Gathering the salutations of the street, Meet revenue of his reverend age and fame, Until he entered at Antonia gate. Paul met his master with a welcoming kiss, Then led him forward to a couch, whereon The aged man his limbs to rest composed. There kneeling by him, Paul upon his neck Wept in warm tears the pathos of his love.

"O great and gentle master of my youth, Rabban Gamaliel, Saul, in many things Other than he was erst, is still the same In his old love and loyalty to thee!" Such words Paul found, when he his heart could tame From inarticulate passion into speech.

"Yea, changed, my son, in many things art thou," Gravely Gamaliel framed reply to Paul, "In many things changed, and in some things much. Thou too, my son, art older grown, like me— Nay, like me, not. Thou art but older; I, Past being older, now am truly old. Yet old art thou beyond thy proper years; Life has been more than lapse of time to thee, To bleach the youthful raven of thy locks To such a whiteness as of whited wool; And all thine aspect is of winter age, Closed without autumn on short summer time. It should not grieve me, but indeed it grieves, To see thee thus before thy season old. I could have wished to live myself in thee, Hereafter, a long life of use again, As that good Hillel lived—not worthily— Again in me, Gamaliel, hastening hence, I now, less happy, none inheriting me. As my soul's son, O Saul, I counted thee, Thee, chosen of all my pupils to such kin; That thou, of all, shouldst separate thyself From the good part, and from thy father's side, To choose thy lot with aliens and with foes! What ruin of what hope! Already now, The prime, the flower, the glory, of the strength Unmatchable for promise that was Saul, Spent, squandered, irrecoverably waste! Nor this even yet the worst; for, worse than waste, Saul has all used to rend what was to mend, To scatter what to gather need was sore, And what asked wise upbuilding to pull down. O Saul, Saul, Saul, my son, what hast thou wrought! O Israel, O my people, this from Saul!"

The old man shook, ceasing, with tearless sobs, And in hands trembling hid his face from Paul. Paul silently a moment bowed himself— Like blinded Samson leaning hard against The pillars of the palace of the lords Philistine, so Paul bowed himself against The pillars of Gamaliel's house of trust, In one great throe and agony of prayer; Then said: "O thou hoar head most reverend, My master, how those words of thine pierce me! Far, far more easily have I born all ills, Though many and heavy, that on me have fallen, Than now such words I hear of pained reproach, Thrice grievous as thus gracious, from thy lips. How shall I find wherewith to answer thee? I think thou knowest, my master, that I love My nation, and a thousand times would die To save from death my kindred in the flesh. Not willingly do I seem even to rend The oneness of my people so asunder. Scatter I do not, if I seem to scatter: I sift and choose, and cast the bad away; That is not scattering, it is gathering rather. Nor is it I do this, but by me God. Reprobate silver still some souls will be, And rightly so men call them, for the Lord, He hath rejected them, the judging Lord. This is that word of Malachi fulfilled— Whom also thou, O master, once, inspired Perhaps, beyond our dreaming, from the Lord, Recalledst, when our seventy elders sat Consulting how most prudently they might Slay those apostles of the Nazarene. Thou warnedst us more wisely than our hearts Were meekly wise enough, enough to heed. For, 'The Lord cometh,' saidst thou then, and, 'Who Of us,' thou askedst, 'who of us shall bide The day of that approach?' 'Not surely he,' Thou answeredst, prophet-wise, 'surely not he, Then found in arms against God and His Christ.' And did not Malachi foretell that He, The Angel of the covenant, should sit As a refiner and a purifier, To purge the sons of Levi of their dross? So sits He now, attending in the heavens, Until appear a people purified, Israel gathered out of Israel, A chosen peculiar people for Himself.

"Thou knowest how I hated once this name, And persecuted to the death His church. I raged against Jehovah; mad and blind, On the thick bosses of His buckler rushed. But He, Jehovah, met me in the way With His sword drawn and slew me where I stood. One stroke, like living lightning, and I fell; Saul was no more, but in his stead was Paul."

Paul therewith paused, awaiting; for he saw A motion change the listener's attitude. Gamaliel turned toward Paul, and looked at him, A grave, a sad, inquiry in the gaze. "What dost thou mean?" almost severely he, With something of his magisterial wont, Inveterate, in the gesture of his eye And in his tone expressed, now said to Paul: "What dost thou mean? Thou riddlest thus with me. The Lord slew thee, then made alive again Not thy slain self, but some new other man! Meet is it thou shouldst speak in parable Thus to thy master in his hoary age? Plain, and forthwith, what meanest thou, son Saul?"

"I would not vex with darkened words thine ear, My master," gently deprecated Paul; "But otherwise how can I, than in words Dark-seeming, frame of things ineffable Shadow or image only? God revealed His Son in me; thenceforth no longer I Lived, but Christ in me. I am not myself. The self that once was I, was crucified With Jesus on that cross, with Jesus then Was buried, and with Jesus rose again, To be forever other than before.

"I journeyed to Damascus glorying, In my old heart, the heart thou knewest for Saul, Against the name, and those that owned the name, Of Jesus, to destroy them from the earth. But Jesus, in a terror of great light, Met me and smote me prostrate on the ground. A voice therewith I heard, the voice was wide, And all my members seemed one ear to hear That voice, which shone too, like the light around Me that had quenched the midday sun; it pressed At every pore with importunity So dreadful that the world became a sound: 'Saul, Saul, why art thou persecuting me?' 'Who art thou, Lord?' my trembling flesh inquired. 'Jesus I am whom thou dost persecute,' I heard through all my members in reply.

"I cannot tell thee, master, how my soul, All naked of its flesh investiture, Lay quivering to the touch of sight and sound. Into annihilation crushed, my pride, My pride, my hate, the fury of my zeal, The folly and the fury of my zeal Against God and His Christ, were not, and I Myself was not, but Christ in me was all. Thenceforth to me to live was Christ, and Christ None other than that Man of Calvary, The Jesus whom we crucified and slew. Rabban Gamaliel, then knew I that God Had visited His people otherwise Than we were used to dream that He would come, In glory, and in splendor, and in power, To overwhelm our enemies, and us To the high places of the earth lift up. Yea, otherwise, far otherwise, than so, Had our God visited His people—hid That glory which no man could see and live— Sojourning in the person of one born Lowly, to teach us that the lowly place, And not the lordly, is for us to choose. Whoso the lowly place shall choose, and, prone Before Jehovah humbled to be man In Jesus Christ of Nazareth, fall down To worship, and, believing, to obey, Him will the Lord God show Himself unto, Since unto such He can, such being like Himself and able to behold His face."

Silence between them, silence filled to Paul With intercession of the Spirit, He In groanings that could not be uttered praying; And to Gamaliel silence filled with awe.

A pride not inaccessible to touch From the divine, and not incapable Of moments almost like humility, Was nature to Gamaliel that sometimes Renewed him in his spirit to a child. He lay now like an infant tremulous That feels the motion of the mother's breast, But other motion, of its own, has not. The awful powers of the world to come, Benign but awful, brooded over him; Eternity a Presence watching Time!

Such breathless silence of the elder twain Left audible the breathing of the boy, Young Stephen, who, worn weary with his hours Of over-early anxious walk and watch, Had found the happy haven, ever nigh To youth and health and innocence o'erwrought, And dropped his anchors in the sounds of sleep. Thus then stretched out remiss upon the floor, As if unconscious body without soul, Lay Stephen slumbering there, beside those two So wakeful that each might in contrast seem Soul only, without body, soul disclad. A blast, not loud, of trumpet sudden blown For signal, and a clangor as of stir Responsive from the mailéd feet of men, Broke on the stillness from the court without. Gamaliel, rousing from his reverie, Gazed deep on Paul, who met his master's eye— Gazed long and deep with slow-perusing look.

"Look on me, Saul, and let me look on thee," At length Gamaliel said, "look on thee still; Steady thine eye, if that thou canst, my son, And my look take, unruffled, like a spring Sunken beneath the winging of the wind; Stay, let me sound within thee to the deeps, And touch the bottom of thy being, there At leisure with mine eye the truth explore. Be pure and simple, if thou mayest; cloud not My seeing with aught other than sincere, Nor cross with baffling thwart perversity."

Gamaliel, leaning on his elbow, fast His aged vision, like an eagle's, fixed On Paul, and through the windows of his soul, Wide open, as into a crystal sky Gazing, beheld his thoughts orbed into stars. Half disappointed and half satisfied, The gazer slowly let the look intense Fade from his eyes, and pass into a deep Withdrawn expression, as of one who sees, Unseeing, things without, and wraps his mind In contemplations of an inward world.

"No conscious falseness," murmured he, aloud, Yet inly, as communing with himself; "No conscious falseness there, the same clear truth That ever was the character of Saul; No falseness, and no subtle secret flaw, Unconscious, in the soundness of the mind; The same sane sense that marked him from of old. He has been deceived; how could he be deceived? That light which fell around him at mid-noon, Who counterfeited that? It might have been Force from the sun that smote him in the brain, As he was smitten whom Elisha healed, That son of promise to the Shunammite— Nay, that had made a darkness, and not light, To him, and dulled his senses not to hear, And dulled his fancy not to feign, such voice As that which spake so dreadfully to him. Astounding voice, that uttered human speech And yet, like thunder, occupied the world! Did Saul discern the tongue in which it spake? Perhaps some mere illusion of the mind, Whimsical contradiction to the thought That had so long been uppermost therein, Imposed itself upon him for the truth; Perhaps some automatic stroke reverse Of overwrought imagination made A momentary, irresponsible Conceit of fancy seem a fact of sense; Perhaps, not hearing, he but deemed he heard. If he distinguished clearly what the tongue Was of the voice that spake, then—I will ask And see. Those words, Saul, which thou seemedst to hear, What were they, Greek or Hebrew? Didst thou heed So as to mark the manner of the speech, Or peradventure but the meaning take?"

"Hebrew the words were, master," Saul replied; "If ever it were possible for me To lose them from my memory, mine ear Would hear their haunting echo evermore. Such light, such sound, forsake the senses never. O master, when God speaks to man, doubt not He finds the means to certify Himself. Let Him now certify Himself to thee, Through me, me the least worthy of such grace, To be ambassador of grace from Him!"

Paul's words were not so eloquent as Paul. He to such conscious noble dignity Joined such supreme effacement of himself; Burned with such zeal devoid of eagerness; A manner of entreaty that was his, Not for his own, but all for other's sake, Made such a sweet chastised persuasiveness, From self-regarding purpose purified; Meekness of wisdom such clothed on the man With an investiture of awfulness; While, fairer yet, a most unworldly light, A soft celestial radiancy, diffused, Self-luminous, illuminating all, The light divine of supernatural love, Upon him from a sacred source unseen Flung such a flush, like sunrise on some peak Of lonely height first to salute the sun; That Paul, to whoso had beholding eyes, Shone as a milder new theophany.

Gamaliel had not eyes for all he saw. He slowly from his leaning posture sank Relapsed upon the couch, clasping his hands. Half to himself and half to Paul, he spoke: "My mind is sore divided with itself. It is as if the heavenly firmament Were shifted half way round upon its pole, And east to west were changed, and west to east; All things seem opposite to what they were. Strange, strange, incomprehensible to me! But strangest, most incomprehensible, Thou, what thou art to what thou wast, O Saul! Thou wast, though ever not ungentle, proud Ever, the proudest of the Pharisees. I loved thee, I admired thee, for thy pride. Pride did not seem like arrogance in thee, But meet assumption of thy proper worth; Rather, such air in thee, as if thou woredst A mantle of thy nation's dignity, Committed by the suffrages of all Unto the worthiest to be worthily worn. And now this Saul, our paragon of pride, Through whom our suffering nation felt herself Uplifted from the dust of servitude, In prophecy by example, to her true, Long-forfeited inheritance, to be One day restored to her, of regal state— This Saul I see beside me here a gray Old man humbling himself, humbling his race, In abject posture of prostration bowed Before—whom? Why, nobody in the world! Before—what? Why, the phantom of a man Led through low life to malefactor's death! Impossible transformation, to have passed Upon that proud high Saul whom once I knew; Impossible perversion, baffling me! Impossible, but that with mine own eyes, But that with mine own ears, I witness it."

In simple helpless wonder and amaze More than in wroth rejection scorn-inspired, Gamaliel thus had uttered forth his heart. Paul had his answer, but he held it back, Respectfully awaiting further word Seen ripe and ready on Gamaliel's lips. A question, still of wonder, soon it came: "Tell me, what hast thou gained, in all these years Of thy most strange discipleship, my son?"

A pathos of compassion tuned the tone With which Gamaliel so appealed to Paul. Paul, with a pathos of sweet cheerfulness, In dark and bright of paradox replied: "Gained? I have gained of many things great store; Much hatred from my erring countrymen; Much chance of thankless service for their sake; Stripes many, manacles, imprisonments, Beatings with rods, bruisings with stones, shipwrecks, A night and day of tossing in the deep; Far homeless wanderings up and down the world; Perils on perils multiplied, no end, Perils of water—wave and torrent flood— Perils by mine own countrymen enraged, Perils from heathen hands, perils pursued Upon me, ceasing not, wherever men In city gather, or in wilderness; In the waste sea, still perils; perils still Among false brethren; these, and weariness With painfulness, long watchings without sleep, Hunger and thirst endured, oft fastings fierce, Cold to the marrow, shuddering nakedness. Such things without, to wear and waste the flesh, And then beside, the suffering of the spirit In care that comes upon me day by day For all the scattered churches of the Lord. I have not missed good wages duly paid; Gain has been mine in every kind of loss."

Paul's answer turned Gamaliel's sentiment Into pure wonder, pity purged away. Deeper and deeper in perplexity Sank the old man, the more in thought he strove; As when the swallow of a quicksand sucks Downward but faster one who writhes in vain. Silent he listening lay, and Paul went on: "I have thus counted as the vain world counts, Summing the gains of my apostleship. I myself reckon otherwise than thus. For, what was gain to me, in that old state Wherein thou knewest thy disciple Saul, This count I now but only loss and dross, Yea, all things count but dross, all things save one, To know Christ Jesus, and be known of Him. That knowledge is the one true treasure mine; True, for eternal; mine, for not the world, Nor life, nor death, nor present things, nor things To come, nor height, nor depth, nor aught beside Created in the universe of God, Can from me wrest this one true good away. I have had sorrow, but amid it joy; Pain has been mine, but hidden in it peace; Rest, deeper than the weariness, has still My much-abounding weariness beguiled; Immortal food my hunger has assuaged, And drink of everlasting life, my thirst. I have sung praises in imprisonment, At midnight, with my feet fast in the stocks, And my back bleeding raw from Roman rods; So much the spirit of glory and of power Prevailed to make me conqueror of ill. Tossed in whatever sea of bitterness, Wide as the world, and weltering with waves, A fountain of sweet water still I find Fresh as from Elim rising to my lips. A parable in paradox, sayest thou, But—"

Stephen here his eyes wide open laid And looked a look of simple love on Paul. His sleep had sudden-perfect been, as night At the equator instantly is dark; And now, as day at the equator dawns Full splendor, and no twilight of degrees, So Stephen was at once and all awake. He straight, without surprise, remembered all, Or, needing not remember, recognized. Paul caught his nephew's upward look of love, And sheathed it in the light of his own eyes, Which, downward bent a moment on the boy, Gave him his gift with usury again. "Behold," said Paul, "my parable made plain By parable not dark with paradox. A sea of bitterness was yesterday Poured round me in that madding multitude That tossed me on the shoulders of its waves; But here is this my loving nephew, Stephen, A fountain of sweet water in the sea— Art thou not, Stephen?—whence to drink my fill. But this is parable of parable; No more—for what I mean is still to speak. Know, then, there is no earthly accident Of evil that has happened me, or can Happen, nay, and no swelling flood of such, Of any power at all to touch with harm The peace that passeth understanding, fixed By Jesus in my inward firmament; The sea less vainly might assail the stars."

"If this thou meanest," Gamaliel, groping, said, "That when the angry people yesterday Bore thee headlong and menaced death to thee, Then thou wert calm at heart, feeling no fear— What else were that than boasting, 'I am brave,' Which but such vaunt of it could bring in doubt?"

"Nay, master," Paul said, "braggart am I not, As justly thou hast signified no brave Man can be; and the peace whereof I speak Is not the calmness that the brave man drinks Out of the cup of danger at his lips. That also I perhaps have sometimes known; But this is other, and a mystery Even to myself, who only have, and not The secret of the having understand— Save that I know it no virtue, but a gift Renewed forever from the grace of Christ."

Gamaliel listened deeply, with shut eyes; He listened, and kept silence, and then sighed, A long, considerate sigh, and unresolved. His struggling reason could not right itself; It staggered like a vessel in the sea That cuff and buffet of the storm has left A hulk, dismasted, rudderless, forlorn, Wedged between waves rocking her to and fro, And threatening to engulf her in the deep; So there Gamaliel swayed, with surge on surge Of thought and passion sweeping over him, Till now he trembled on the point to sink. Paul saw the old man's state, and, pitying him, Knew how to shed a balm upon the waves. With a low voice, daughter of silence, he Slowly intoned a soft, melodious psalm: "'Not haughty is my heart, O God the Lord, Nor do mine eyes ambitiously aspire; In great affairs I exercise me not, And not in things too wonderful for me. Yea, I have stilled and quieted my soul; As with its mother a new-weanéd child, So is my soul a weanéd child with me. O Israel, hope thou, in Jehovah hope, From this time forth and even forevermore!'"

The mood, all melting, of that monody— Less monody, than sound of sobbing ceased— Its cradling gentle lullaby to pride, Went, subtly permeant, through Gamaliel's soul, And mastered it to sympathy of calm. Paul saw with pleasure this effect, and wished The too much shaken old man venerable Might taste the soothing medicine of sleep. Not pausing, he, with ever softer tone Verging toward silence, over and over again Crooned like a cradle melody that psalm; Till, as that vexing spirit in Saul the king Once yielded to young David's harping, so Now even the fluttering of the aged flesh Owned a strange power reverse to cancel it, Hid in the vibrant pulsing of Paul's voice, Its flexures and its cadences, that matched The meaning with the music; lulled to rest, Gamaliel lightly, like an infant, slept.

"Hist! Haste!" So Paul to Stephen signed and said; "Hence, and bring hither quickly bread and wine, Wherewith to cheer Gamaliel when he wakes; He sleeps now, weary with unwonted thought."

Shimei saw Stephen from the fort come out And bear purveyance back of bread and wine; So, earlier, he had seen Gamaliel pass, Led by the hand of Stephen, through the gate, Presumably to visit Paul within. For he, as ever when some crime he teemed, Uneasy till the full-accomplished birth, Was like the hungry hunting hound denied Access to his wished prey, known to be near— Though thus from touch, as too from sight, withdrawn, And only by the teaséd nostril snuffed— Who cannot cease from patient jealous watch, On haunches sitting, or on belly prone, Lest somehow yet he miss his taste of blood— So that ill spirit all day had scented Paul, Shut up within the castle out of reach, And sedulously studied, at remove, Whatever might be token of attempt, Other's or his, the morrow's doom to cheat. The very thought, 'Should he slip through our hands!' Was anguish, like a goad, to Shimei, Who now was sure he had the hope divined That Paul was harboring—an escape by night! 'Paul, in the darkness, stealing out disguised As old Gamaliel, would, with meat and drink Supplied him, safety seek in distant flight.' Filled with such thought, the tireless crafty Jew, Colluding with the sentry at the gate, There sat him down the sentry's watch to share; Paul should by no such stratagem avoid The vengeance that next morrow waited him.

But Paul and Stephen, guileless, of the guile Imputed dreamed not; they with happy thought Contented them until Gamaliel woke. Then when Gamaliel woke, they gave him wine, Pure from the grape, so much as heartened him, And bread that strengthened him, from fasting faint. Discourse then followed, eased with many a change From theme to theme, from mood to mood diverse, Until the long daylight was waned away, And twilight deepened round them talking still.

Gamaliel, in whatever various vein Of converse with his outward mind employed, Was ever, in his deeper inward mind, Resistlessly drawn backward to the doubt, The question, the perplexity, the fear, 'Saul—is he right? And is Gamaliel wrong? And have I missed to know the Christ of God?' He gazed abstractedly on Paul, beheld So different; less in outer aspect changed— Although therein, too, other—than in act, In gesture and in attitude of soul, The spirit and the motive of the man, Transfigured from the pride that once was Saul. "I do not know thee, Saul," at length he said; "Nay, nay, not Saul—I should not call him Saul, This is some different man from him I knew, In other years long gone, and called him Saul! Such difference in the same the sameness makes Impossible. Impossible, but that The sameness still in difference survives Persistently. The impossible itself I must believe—when I behold it."

"Yea," Paul said, "and more, the impossible become, When God so wills it; as for me He willed! My life these many years, my self, has been One contradiction of the possible. The reconcilement of all things in Christ Is God the Blessed's purpose and decree. For God delights in the impossible."

Gamaliel did not heed, but murmuring spoke, In absent deep communion with himself: "Saul, Paul, the same still, and so changed, so changed! And cause of change none other than that stroke, That lightning-stroke he tells of, launched on him From out a cloudless sky at blazing noon! Whence, and what was it, that stupendous blow! Would He have lied Who flashed it blinding down? Or suffered any liar to claim it his? And the dread Voice made answer: 'It is I, Jesus of Nazareth, the Crucified.' Lo, my whole head is sick, my whole heart faint, Turned dizzy with the whirl of many thoughts— Thoughts many, and too violently strange, For a worn-weary aged mind like mine! I feel I am too feeble to abide Much longer all this tumult of my heart; I shall myself cease, if it does not cease. And peradventure cease it would, could I Stop striving, and give up to be a child. A child once more! Ah, that in truth were sweet, To find some bosom like a mother's, where I might lay down my aching head to rest, This head, so hoar, the foolish think so wise! Old, but not wise, not wise indeed though old; In weakness—would it were in meekness too!— A child, leaning, with none to lean upon— Such is Gamaliel in his hoary age!"

Besides his words, the old man's yearning look Bore witness to the trouble of his mind. Paul spoke—so gently that the sense he gave Seemed to Gamaliel almost his own thought: "'Come unto Me,' Messiah Jesus said, 'Come unto Me,' as Who had right, said, 'ye That labor and are heavy-laden, all, Come unto Me and I will give you rest. My yoke upon you take, and learn of Me; For meek am I in heart, and lowly; so Shall ye find rest unto your souls."

From Paul No more; for, all as if he naught had heard, But only was remembering what he heard, Gamaliel went on musing audibly: 'Rest'—comfortable word! But he was young That spake thus, young, and in the law unlearned; And of a yoke spake he, 'My yoke,' he said. Surely I am too old to go to school, Too reverend-old, my neck so late to bend, A sign to all the people—stooped to take Meekly that youngster Galilæan's yoke! Beware, beware! I tremble at the words I speak. I feel the dreadful presence here, More dreadful, of the power that shook me so, When those apostles of the Nazarene Stood up before our council to be judged. If I should now, this last time, err through pride!"

The murmur of Gamaliel's musing ceased; But ceased not the strong crying without words In Paul's heart for his master so bestead. The solemn silence of that prison cell, Less broken than accented by the tread Monotonous and measured heard without Of the dull sentry pacing to and fro His beat along the way before the door More like mechanic pendulum than man; The darkness of the place now utter, night Full come, no lamp; the awe, the dread suspense Unspeakable of such an issue poised, Eternity in doubtful balance there A-tremble on a razor-edge of time— This even on Stephen's bright young spirit cast As if a shadow from the world to come; He parted with it after nevermore The vivid certainty, that moment seized, Of an Unseen, more real, beyond the Seen.

But presently Gamaliel yet again Mused audibly in murmur as before: "I fear me I shall fail, and not let go Betimes the hold I have, the hold has me, Say rather, this fierce hold upon myself And mine own righteousness so dearly earned, To take the fall proposed, the shuddering fall, Through emptiness and that waste waiting deep Of nothing under me, in hope to reach At last—what rescue, or what landing-place? Rest in the arms once pinioned to the cross! He draws me with His heavenly-uttered 'Come'! This is God's voice; God's voice I must obey— Yea, Lord, thy servant heareth, and I come. I say it, but I do it not. Too late? What if at last I prove to hold too hard Upon myself, and not undo my hand, Grown stiff with holding long, until too late! These are my last heart-beats, and with the last, The very last, what would I do? Resist? Resist, or yield? Oh, not resist, but yield; Lord, help me not resist, but yield, but yield—"

The faltering utterance failed, suspended; then, To a new key transposed, went faltering on:

"This peace within my breast, the peace of God! Jesus, Thou Son of Blesséd God Most High, I know Thee by the token of Thy peace! Thine is this peace, not given as by the world. Thou wast beforehand with Thy servant; I Had not known Thee, hadst Thou not first known me, And hastened to be gracious, ere I died. Thou art most gracious, and I worship Thee. What was it Simeon said?—'Now lettest Thou Thy servant hence depart in peace,' for I— In peace, in peace, even I—yea, for mine eyes, Mine also, most unworthy, have beheld The light of Thy salvation, O my God! Oh, peace ineffable! It seems to steal Through all my members and dispose to rest. I think that I will sleep; I am at peace. My heart has quieted itself, peace, peace—"

The words died into silence audible; Soft, like a wavelet sinking, ceased his breath, And there Gamaliel lay, a breathless peace.

Paul joyful, knowing that his aged friend Had found peace in believing, did not dream That it had been the last of life for him, The first of life indeed, Paul would have deemed; But thinking, 'He has fallen asleep once more,' Gave silent thanks to God and himself slept, With Stephen then already safe asleep.

When, with the earliest dawn, four elders came, Gamaliel's equals, to Antonia, In reverent wise to bear him thence away, They found the many-wrinkled brow that was, Smoothed out most placid fair, and on the cheek A bloomy heavenly hue, as if of youth Revived, or immortality begun.

But Paul and Stephen, summoned to depart, The sleeper's sleep were minded not to break; There in the dead and middle of the night, They knelt to kiss the forehead in farewell, And were surprised to feel the touch was cold.

BOOK III.

SHIMEI AND THE CHILIARCH.

Paul, accompanied by young Stephen, is started at about midnight, under strong military escort, for Cæsarea. At the gate of the castle, Shimei, lurking there, is arrested, and brought before the chiliarch, Claudius Lysias by name. A conversation ensues, in which Shimei, for a time with some success, practises on the chiliarch his characteristic arts of deception. At last, the chiliarch, denouncing him for what he is, and putting him under heavy bonds to respond in person, whenever and wherever afterward commanded by the Roman authorities, dismisses him from presence, chagrined and dismayed.

SHIMEI AND THE CHILIARCH.

Ere midnight, had reveillé to those twain Sounded, and from brief slumber rallied them. They passed from the surprise of that farewell Kissed on the coolness of Gamaliel's brow— He his reveillé waiting from the trump Of resurrection, tranced in happy sleep!— From this passed Paul and Stephen to the court Without, where stood, made ready in array, Five hundred Roman soldiers, foot and horse, Filling the place with frequence and ferment. Armed men, and horses in caparison, And saddled asses thick together poured— All was alive with motion and with sound. There was the stamping hoof of restless steed, The rattling bridle-rein, the bridle-bit Champed hoary, the impatient toss of head Shaking the mane disheveled, and with foam Flecking the breast, the shoulder, and the flank, Eruptive snort from nostril and from lip, The ass's long and melancholy bray, Horse's salute of recognition neighed To greet some fellow welcomed in the throng, Therewith, voices of men, scuffle of feet— All under bickering light and shadow flung From torches, fixed or moving, fume and flame.

To Paul and Stephen sharp the contrast was Between that quietude and this turmoil, Sleeping Gamaliel and these urgent men! But Paul his peace held fast amid it all, Peace, yet a posture girded and alert; While Stephen, hanging on his uncle's eye, Caught the contagion of that heedful calm.

The natural pathos of one fond regret Ached in the heart of Paul, a hoarded pain— His wish, denied him, to have given in charge, Before he went, Gamaliel's lifeless form, If to the keeping of his kindred not, At least to Roman care and piety; Amid the hurly-burly of the hour, No chance of speech, with any that would heed, For Jewish prisoner hurried thence by night! But Paul's reveréd friend, safe fallen asleep In Jesus, beyond care or want was blest; Yea, and the human reverence of great death, Toward one in death so reverend great as he, Well might be trusted, for such clay to win, Through kindred care, the sepulture most meet. Yet Paul, come to Antipatris, and there Left with the horsemen only thence to ride, A needless careful message touching this Gave to the chief of the returning foot. When to the chiliarch's ear such word was brought, That captain deeply mused it in his mind— To find it throw a most unlooked-for light On certain dark alternatives of doubt That had meanwhile his judgment sore perplexed.

Lowly upon an ass they seated Paul, And Stephen, likewise mounted, ranged beside. Then those appointed to prick forth before, Out through the two-leaved gate at sign withdrawn, Were issuing on the street in order due, When the proud prudent steed that led the way Swerved, and, with mighty surge of rash recoil, Had nigh his rider from the saddle thrown. He, his fine nostril wide distended, snuffed Suspicion on the tainted wind, and, dazed His eyes with darkness from the glare just left Of torchlight in the court, uncertain saw, To the right hand beside the open port, There on the ground, as ambushed at his feet, A motion, or a shadow, or a shape, Which to his careful mind portended ill.

"Halt!" rang abrupt the startling stern command; "Seize him!" the leader of the vanguard cried, And pointed to the skulking figure near. Darted three soldiers from the rank of foot, With instant light celerity—a flash Of movement from the serried column sent Inerrant to its aim, like lever-arm Of long bright steel by some machine flung forth To do prehensile office and fetch home— Darted upon the man in hiding there, And brought him prisoner to the chiliarch.

"Knowest thou this man?" the chiliarch asked of Paul. "Shimei his name, an elder of the Jews," Responded Paul; turning, the chiliarch then Said: "Thou—Stephen, I think they call thee—speak. Thou toldst me yesterday, not naming him, Of one all-capable of crime, the head And chief of a conspiracy to slay; Answer—thou needst not fear—is this the man?" Stephen flushed shame; "The same, my lord," he said; He dropped therewith his eyes, and head declined.

"Thou stayest," the chiliarch said to Shimei; "On, and with speed!" he to the soldiers said. To a centurion, then, attending him: "Relieve the sentry set outside the port, And hither bid the man released to me."

"What wast thou doing at thy sentry-post, That miscreant such as this should sit him there Unchallenged? Sleeping? Soothed perhaps to sleep With chink of gold sweet-shaken in thine ear?"— A perilous frown dark on his imminent brow, The chiliarch thus bespoke the sentinel. But with full steady eye, the man replied: "I crave thy pardon, if, through ignorance I erred, but I nowise forgot myself, Or failed my duty of strict challenging. Indeed, sir, if the man in presence be Aught but a loyal, honest gentleman, Then am I much deceived, and punish me; But not for slackness or base traitorhood. As I my oath and office understand, I was true soldier and true sentinel."

'Sound heart, if addle head,' the chiliarch thought, "Thy oath and office, my good sentinel— Thou needest to understand them better," said.

The sentry, fain to clear himself, began: "He told me"—

"Doubtless some amusing tale," Smiling an easy scorn, the chiliarch said.

Surging with zeal and conscious honesty, The sentinel again his part essayed: "He said, sir"—

"Aye, I warrant thee he did, If but thou hearkenedst," said the chiliarch; "Tongue seldom lacks, let ear be freely lent. Sharp question and short answer, there an end— That is the wisdom for the man on watch. Words are a master snare, beware of words, Thine own or other's, either equal fear; No parley, is the sentinel's safe rule. Whet up thy wits, my man, but this time—go!"

The sentry thus dismissed, retiring, shot Into the chiliarch's ear a Parthian word: "Beseech thee, sir, prejudge nor him, nor me; Wait till thou hear the gentleman explain."

"Thou hast bewitched him well," to Shimei Turning, the chiliarch said; then, with cold eye Regarding and repelling him, exclaimed "Hoar head, thou lookest every inch a rogue!"

Shimei had marked with a considering mind The chiliarch's manner with the sentinel; In dilatory parry, he replied: "Not what we look, but what we are, we are."

"But what we are, conforms at length our looks," Surprised, amused, in doubt, but dallying, matched The Roman his rejoinder. Then the Jew, Adventuring on one more avoidance, said: "Well dost thou say 'at length'; for it might chance That looks were obstinate, requiring time."

"Coiner of wisdom into apothegm! An undiscovered Seneca in sooth, Where least expected, seems I meet to-night! But spare to bandy sentences with me." With change to chilling dignity from sneer, The Roman so rebuffed the cringing Jew; Who, cringing, yet was no least whit abashed, But answered: "Pardon, sir, thy servant, who Has missed his mark in his simplicity. I thought, 'If I might spare my lord his time!' And dutifully thereto spared my words. The farthest was it from my humble aim To mint my silly thought in adages. Forgive me, if, unconsciously set on By thy example of sententious speech— True wisdom closed in fitting words and few— I seemed to match my worthless wit with thine. I have a helpless habit of the mind, A trick of mimicry that masters me; When I observe in them what I admire, I can not but my betters imitate. I fear me I have compromised my cause; Had I been deeper, I had less seemed deep! I lack the art to show the artless man That in my own true self, sir, thou shouldst see. With my superiors, I am not myself; I take on airs, or seem to, copying them. Quite other am I with my proper like; I feel at home, and am the man I am. Ask that plain-spoken, honest sentinel— He now was my own sort, I never thought To strain myself above my natural mark With him; we were hail fellows, he and I, And talked the harmless wise that such know how. With thee—oh, sir, myself I quite forsook, And slipped into a different Shimei. Pity my weakness, I am sick of it; To ape the great is folly for the small— But small may hope forgiveness from the great!"

The chiliarch listened, unconvinced; yet charmed, Like the bird gazing by the serpent charmed. "Pretend that I am of thy kind," said he, "And show me how thou with the sentry talkedst."

Now Lysias nursed a proudly Roman mind Disdainful of all nations save his own— Disdainfully a Roman but the more, That he by purchase, not by birth, was such; The nation that he ruled he most disdained. Child of the high-bred fashion of his time, By choice and culture he a skeptic was. Skeptic, he yet was superstitious too, Open and weak to supernatural fears; He easily believed in magic powers, Charms, sorceries, witchcrafts, incantations, spells, And all the weird pretensions of the East. His habit of disdain and skepticism Made him a cynic in his views of men; Whereby he oft, wise-seeming, was unwise. He took upon himself laconic airs In speech, in action airs abrupt, as who Bold was, and strong, and from reflection deep— The manner, rather than the matter, his. To any chance observer of his ways In use of office and position, these Could but have seemed comportable and fair. Accesses too of gentleness he had, Wherein a strain of kindly in the man Opened and gushed in flow affectionate, Or well-becoming courtesy and grace.

This Roman chiliarch, Claudius Lysias, now Found himself much at leisure and at ease, Rid of that worrying case of prisoner strange; Unconscious satisfaction with himself Warmed at his heart, a pleasurable glow— He had so neatly got it off his hands! He was quite ready, mind acquitted thus, Heart buoyant, to disport himself. He saw That in the man before him he had met No dull mere mediocrity, but one Who, besides being ruler of the Jews, As Paul pronounced him, had a quality, An individual difference, all his own. Claudius might test this man, get him to talk— An interesting study, learn his make. Besides the pleasure to his appetite For piquant knowledge of his fellow-man, It might in some way, indirect the better, Give him a point or two of policy To guide the conduct of his rulership Among a people difficult to rule. In such mood, idle, curious, partly wise, This half-wise man, unwise through cynicism, Gave himself leave to say to Shimei: "Pretend that I am of thy kind, like him, Let me hear how thou with the sentry talked."

Hardly could Shimei, through the mask he wore Of feigned simplicity, help leering out, Confessed the mocker that he ever was, In that sardonic grin, as he replied: "Pretense, of whatso sort, be far from me— Save when my betters wish it of me; then, I think it right to put my conscience by; Or rather place it at their service—that, The dearest thing the poor good man can claim! I reason in this way, 'Why should I presume To scruple, where those wiser far than I Are clear?' That sure would be the worst pretense— Pretending to be holier than the saints. My will, thou seest, is tractable enough; But how, with thee, to feel sufficient ease To do what thou desirest, go right on And talk and chatter as we simple did!

"First, then, perhaps I said: 'This is dull work'— And no offense to thee, sir, that I said it— 'Dull work,' said I, 'to stand, or pace, and watch, Long hours alone, and nothing like to happen That makes it needful thou shouldst thus keep watch!' 'Aye,' grunted he; I thought him stupid like, But I had something I could tell him then That might rub up his wits and brighten them. 'There is a plot,' said I. 'Aye, plots enough,' Said he. 'And something thou shouldst know,' I said. 'I doubt,' said he; and added: 'Soldiers should Know nothing but their duty, how to watch, March, dig, fight, slay, be slain, and no word speak. Thou hadst better go,' said he, like that, more frank Than courteous, thou mightst think—he meant no harm, But only like a loyal soldier spoke. I did not go, but said: 'The plot I mean Is of escape from prison.' But he replied: 'Nobody can escape these times from prison; The emperor has a hundred million eyes, That never wink, because they have no lids, And never sleep, because they never tire, And these run everywhere and all things see; The emperor's arms are many, long and strong, East, west, north, south, they range throughout the world. Oh, he can reach thee wheresoever hiding, And pluck thee thence and fetch thee safely home; The world is all his prison, the emperor's.' 'Thou thinkest that?' said I. 'No doubt,' said he. 'But captives still,' said I, 'might try to escape?' 'Oh, aye,' said he, 'that is quite natural.' 'And should they try,' I said, 'with thee on watch, And should they somehow skill to get by thee, Then—and although they be thereafter caught— How fares it then with thee?' said I to him— 'Yea, how with thee that lettest them go by?' 'Then there would be,' he said, 'account to give, And I should wish I had not been on watch.' 'Nay, better wish, man, thou hadst better watched,' Said I, 'and thyself caught the fugitive.' 'Aye, that were something better yet,' said he. 'Why, yea,' said I, 'that, laid to thy account, Might win thee prompt promotion out of this.' 'I never dream,' said he, 'of anything To lift me from the common soldier's lot.' 'Dreaming is idle, yea,' said I to him, 'But waking thought and action need not be. For instance, now,' I then went on and said"—

The subtle Hebrew, drawing out his tale, Mock-artless long, of gossip with the watch, Had never intermitted an intent, Considerate, sly, solicitous regard Fixed on the chiliarch's face, therein to read The reflex of the phases of his thought; And now he marked with pleasure how their mere Indifferent or incredulous cold scorn Was fading from the haughty Roman's eyes, Merged in a dawn of curious interest. Disguisedly, but confidently, glad— His course seen smooth before him to his goal— Shimei thence eased that tension of the will To simulate simplicity of speech, As, more directly, his ambages spared, He almost blithely, in his natural vein Of fondness for the false and the malign, Slid on, in fabrication of report, Or in report of fabrication, thus: "Inside those castle walls there is a man, A Jew, one Paul, I know him very well, Prisoner for crime that richly merits death. The outraged people yesterday were fain To wait no longer, but at once inflict, Themselves, with righteous hands, the penalty. The gentle chiliarch rescued him from them, Not knowing, as of course how could he know? What a base wretch he plucked from doom condign. So here Paul is in Roman custody, Safe for the moment, but full well aware, As he deserves to die, that die he will, Whenever once he shall be justly judged. He therefore schemes it to attempt escape, This very night, from his imprisonment. He has his tool, tool and accomplice both, In that young fellow thou hast seen pass by, Entering and issuing through the castle-gate. 'Aye, I have seen him plying back and forth,' The sentry said, 'a likely Hebrew lad; I challenged him, but he had documents. Wicked, ungrateful!—that good chiliarch Had shown such grace to him for his fair looks.' 'Well, I will stay,' said I, 'and watch with thee, And help thee foil their game, and thy chance mend. But let us have two stout young fellows ready, I can provide them, hidden nigh at hand— No call for us to spend our breath in running!— To give the prisoner chase, should need arise. Arise it will not, if my guess is right, And I know Paul so well, I scarce can miss. Paul stakes his hope on craft, and not on speed; Still, it is good to be at all points armed, And should craft fail, there will be test of speed, No doubt of that, since Paul would run for life, And life is prize to make the tortoise fleet. Paul is no stiff decrepit—far from such; Old as his look is, he is light of heel. Running, however, only last resort, The desperate refuge of necessity; Paul's main reliance is on something else, To wit, a pretty ruse and stratagem. A wary fellow Paul, and deep in wiles!"

Shimei was entered on a mingled vein Of true and false reflection of his thought, Wherein himself could scarce the line have drawn To part the fabrication from the fact. Partly, he thought indeed that Paul was such As he was now describing him to be, In image and projection of himself; Partly, he painted an ideal mere, Conscious creation of malicious mind. He did uneasily believe, or fear, That Paul would somehow cheat the malice yet Of those who hated him; perhaps contrive Escape by night from prison. His restless mind, Hotbed of machination, equally Was hotbed of suspicion and surmise. His mere suspicion and surmise became, To his imagination, certainty; Or else he took, himself, for certainty, At length, what he for certainty affirmed, Swearing the false till he believed it true.

He thus the story of his talk prolonged: "'Now hark thee, friend, and hear me prophesy,' So to the worthy sentinel I said, 'Thou sawest Paul brought in, and he was Paul— Tell me, was not he Paul, when he came in? Aye, Paul he was, thou sayest. Well, what I say— And this now, mark it, is my prophecy— Paul will come out, not Paul, but some one else; In short, will hobble forth—Gamaliel! Gamaliel, thou must know, I said to him, 'Is the old man that lad this morn led in; Making, forsooth, a touching sight to see, So tenderly and gingerly the lad Guided and stayed the steps of that old man. A pretty acted piece of loyalty To venerable age from blooming youth! Watch, thou shalt see it acted over again To-night, with haply some improvement made On the rehearsal, when he leads out Paul. Paul's hair and beard will not need dusting white, Being as white as old Gamaliel's now; But edifying it will be to mark The careful studied totter of the step, The tremble of the hand upon his staff, The thin and querulous quaver of the voice, The helpless meek dependence on his guide, And all the various aged make-believe, Wherewith that subtle master of deceit, That natural, practised, life-long actor, Paul, Will put the guise of old Gamaliel on. 'He-he!' I chuckled to the sentinel, 'To me the spectacle will be as good And laughable, as I should guess a play, A roaring one, of Plautus were to thee!'"

Shimei was venturing to let lapse his part Of mere reporter to a talk supposed Betwixt himself and the dull sentinel— This to let lapse, or, if not quite let lapse, Mix and confound with his own proper part, Inveterate, unassumed, of scoffer free; He saw the chiliarch sink so deep immersed In hearing and in weighing what was said, He deemed he might thenceforward trust his speech, With scant disguise of indirection, aimed As frankly for a keen intelligence— The chiliarch's own, and not the sentinel's— To snare his listener's now less warded wit. Paul was clean gone indeed, gone otherwise Than through the guile that he had dared impute; But he, meantime, would such a chance not miss, A golden chance that might not come again, To prepossess the chiliarch's captive mind With pregnant ill surmise concerning Paul. There yet was unexhausted circumstance Suggestively at hand, seed that but sown Would a fine harvest of suspicion spring.

Point-blank his aim shifted to Lysias now, He said: "Why did Gamaliel stay so long? Why, indeed, come at all, but, having come, Why so long tarry, wearing out the day? Where is Gamaliel now? What did it mean That that officious Hebrew youngster—he Who, at Paul's wish, Gamaliel hither brought, Who back and forth has flitted through the gate All day, carrying and fetching as he liked— What did it mean, I ask, that he bore in Flagons of wine and loaves of bread? What mean? Why, this, provision got to serve Paul's need, When, issuing in Gamaliel's vesture, he Should shuffle forth, Gamaliel, on the street, To try the fortune of a runaway, A hopeless runaway in Cæsar's world. The clement chiliarch never would be hard On an old dotard of a hundred years, Found aider and abettor in such wile, Where left behind in ward to take his chance; Or, possibly, Gamaliel might not know, Much more, not share, the stratagem of Paul. It would be easy to put him to sleep And strip him of his raiment, unawares, For the exchange, unbargained-for, with Paul. Paul has much travelled everywhere abroad And freely commerced with all kinds of men. He has the skill of many magic arts, The virtue knows of many a mighty drug; He can compound thee opiate drinks to drown Thy thought and senses in oblivion. He could compose thee in so deep a sleep, Fair like an infant's, that not all the blare Of all Rome's trumpets loud together blown Could rouse thee ever from that fixéd sleep. A dangerous wicked man to wield such power!"

The chiliarch stood suspended in fast gaze On Shimei, not perusing him, but lost In various troubled and confounded thought. 'Had he indeed been tricked? Was Paul such knave? Had that young Hebrew, with his innocent Bright look of truth and faith and nobleness, Had he been hollow, false, base, treacherous, And played upon a Roman father's heart To rid a rascal out of custody? Gamaliel—was that reverend-looking man, That image of a stately-fair old age, Was he a low complotter of deceit? Or, if not that, had nameless turpitude Abused such dignity into a tool, Helpless, unwitting, of ignoble wile?' Thought, question, doubt, suspicion, guess, surmise, Tumbled, a chaos, in the chiliarch's mind. Shimei paused, watching, with delight intense; He felt the chiliarch fast ensnared, his prey.

Wary as was his wit, and ill-inclined Ever to take a needless risk, or dip His feet in paths wherein, once entered, he Perforce must fare right forward, no retreat— Though such in temper, such in habit, yet— Either that instant suddenly resolved That his true prudence was temerity, Or trusting his resourceful craft to pluck Desperate advantage from the jaws of chance— Shimei dared interrupt the Roman's muse: "Will not my lord the chiliarch now think well To call Gamaliel into presence here? Well frightened, the old man perhaps might tell What passed in his long interview with Paul, Something to help thee judge betwixt us twain, Which it were well to credit, Paul or me."

The chiliarch started from his reverie; "Go bring that Hebrew ancient here," he said. Then neither Jew nor Roman uttered word, Each busy with his own unsharéd thought, Till the centurion from his quest returned, Alone, and serious, no Gamaliel brought. "I found"—but scarcely the centurion, Faltering, had so essayed to make report, When the wroth chiliarch snatched the word from him: "Was not he there? Did he refuse to come? The more loth he, the more to be required! Gray hair will not atone for stubbornness; Thou shouldst have brought him, though by greater force. Something lurks here lends color to the tale This hoar-head Jew has filled my ear withal. I will Gamaliel see and learn from him—" "But, sir," spoke up the loth centurion, "Nothing from that old Hebrew wilt thou learn, For—" "I will hear no 'fors,'" the chiliarch said, "But, hark thee, have the man before me straight!"

Mute, the centurion, left no option, turned, And, with four soldiers bidden follow him, Went to the lodgment where Gamaliel slept.

Those five men, used to death in many forms, Yet in the presence of such death were awed. The four in silence took the sleeper up, Motionless, with the couch whereon he lay, And bore him, as to honored burial, Into the court beneath the starlit sky, And set him down before the chiliarch.

Like one of those gray monuments in stone, Oft seen where church or minster of old days, In secret vault or holy chapel dim, Gathers and wards its venerated dead— Marmoreal image of some man, supine, Deep sunken, in marmoreal down, to sleep, Safe folded in marmoreal robes from cold, The meek, pathetic face upturned to heaven, And thither-pointing hands forever laid Together on the breast, as thus to pray For the shriven spirit thence to judgment fled— So, stretched upon his couch amid the court, White with his age, yet purer white with death, An unrebuking, unrebukable Reminder of the nothingness of time, Unheeding who beheld or what was spoke, Silent, and bringing silence touched with awe, There in marmoreal calm Gamaliel lay.

The simple presence of the living man, In native majesty august with age, Would have subdued who saw to reverence; But the ennoblement and mystery Of death, now added, wrought a mightier awe, And almost breathless made the hush wherein The chiliarch for the moment from the spell Of Shimei's woven words was quite set free, Seeing things true by his simplicity. Breaking that hush, while never once his gaze Unfixing from the features of the dead, "Thou shouldst have told me this," said Lysias To the centurion, gently chiding him. But the centurion understood aright That his superior's words were less as blame Than as atonement meant for fault his own In that his late too peremptory air— This the subaltern knew, and answered not.

Shimei, alone not capable of awe, Coolly had used the interval of pause, To take the altered situation in, And to his own advantage fit his part. Two points of promise to his profit he Saw, and at once to seize them shaped his course: First, to release himself from duress there, And, further, still to sow the chiliarch's mind With seed of foul suspicion against Paul. "Gamaliel mute," said he to Lysias, "Might, peradventure, if but understood, Even better witness to thy purpose prove Than should he waken from his swoon to speak."

The sleight of tone with which was uttered "swoon"— No emphasis, insinuation all, Subtle suggestion, naught to be gainsaid, Since naught was really said, however much Without the saying got itself conveyed— This well subserved the wish of Shimei. For, like a sovereign solvent, that, with soft Assiduous chemistry insensible, Some solid to a fluid form breaks down, There stole from Shimei's speech an influence in, Which, by degrees not slow, dissolved the charm Shed from the solemn spectacle of death Upon the chiliarch's mind; his childlike mood Vanished, his simple wise credulity! Lysias reverted to his cynicism, And, unawares lured on by Shimei, Followed false lights to a conclusion vain. Once more he overweened to be astute, And, with astuteness recommencing, fell From the brief wisdom reverence brief had brought. His faith in human virtue undermined, He doubted and believed exactly wrong; There where he ought to have believed, he doubted, And where he should have doubted, there believed— The captor fallen into the captive's snare. Lysias resumed to do what Shimei wished; The tissue of sophistication set Already well aweaving in the loom Of fancy and false reason and unfaith, Which had before been humming in his brain— This to piece out, and make a finished web.

"'Swoon,' sayest thou?" To Shimei, Lysias thus; "That is not death, thou thinkest, but a swoon?"

"It looks indeed like death," the crafty Jew Responded; "yea, it looks like death indeed. It was not meant, but death it sure must be."

"What wilt thou say?" said Lysias. "'Was not meant!'— Thy words conceal thy meaning; speak it out."

"Why, sir, I have no meaning to conceal," The Jew replied, "no meaning to conceal. I only thought, I could but only think— Why, see, Paul was Gamaliel's pupil once, And loved his master, so as such can love; At least I thought so. Paul, for sure I know, Gamaliel like a doting father loved."

"Thou dost not thus explain, 'It was not meant'; Out with thy thought, sir Jew," the chiliarch said. "What was not meant? By whom not meant? Forsooth, Not by Gamaliel meant that he should die? Except the suicide, none means to die; And death like this is not the suicide's."

"Oh, nay, sir," Shimei said, "no suicide Was our Gamaliel; far the heinous thought! A good old man, whom all the people loved, Paul even, yea, Paul—I thought—till now—but now— But I will not believe so base of him, Even him; he did not mean it, did not mean Worse than to make Gamaliel deeply sleep. Paul's drug belike was stronger than he thought, Or weaker waxed Gamaliel with his age. Paul would himself repent it, now, too late— Particularly since of no avail, Thy wise forestalling plan defeating his, And fruit none from it ripening to his hand!"

"This is too foully base!" said Lysias, And Shimei's heart misgave him with a fear. 'Too foully base insinuation mine, Does Lysias mean?' he closely asked himself; But calmly, with deep candor, said aloud: "Yea, even for Paul, beyond belief too base! Paul never meant it, I shall still insist. He meant at most such sleep as should prevail Over Gamaliel's scruple to take part Willingly in his surreptitious flight. And such a master of his arts is Paul, I shrewdly doubt if here his mark he missed. Were Paul but now at hand to try his skill, I should not wonder yet to see this swoon Yield to some potent drug of counter force, And good Gamaliel wake to life again. Once, as they say—in Troas, I believe— Where he all night was lengthening out harangue, After his manner, in an upper room, A youngster, tired to death of hearing him, And sensible enough to go to sleep, Not sensible enough to seat him safe, Fell headlong out of window, whence he sat, A good three stories' fall—which finished him. Stay, not so fast—thou reckonest without Paul! Yea, Paul performed some sort of magic rite Over the body of the luckless lad, Which, presto, brought him round as brisk as ever! A mighty master in his kind, that Paul!"

"Perish thy Paul with his accurséd craft!" Burst out the chiliarch in indignant heat. "Would I but had him back here safe in thrall!— I should have let them rend him limb from limb!"

A sudden hope beyond the bounds of hope Flourished up rank, gourd-like, in Shimei's breast. Were it but possible to have Paul back, To take that walk yet to the judgment-hall! The forty faithful should not fail their task!

"Might I propose if it be yet too late?" With timid daring, Shimei inquired. "A fleet-foot horse should overtake the troop, If so thou choose, and turn them hither back. And thou couldst cause that Paul exert his power To lift this corpse into a living man— Which were a famous spectacle to see! Besides that then thou mightst assure thyself, Through counsel of our Sanhedrim, what crimes Worthy of death are proved upon this Paul."

"Thou art a superserviceable Jew," The chiliarch frowned and said. A choleric man, He choleric now, through self-expression, grew. Exasperate thus, he added: "'Ruler' thou Of thine accurséd nation—as I hear— Me too thou fain wouldst rule, with thy advice Officiously advanced unsought. Know, then, That I confound thee with thy race, and curse Ye all together, pestilent brood—not less Thee than thy fellows, whom thou rulest, forsooth, Worthy to rule those worthily so ruled! Like ruler to like people, vipers all! If I believe thee of thy brother Paul, It is no wise that I suppose thee true Rather than him; but only that I reckon One rascal feels another by mere kin, And can, and, if so be he hates him, will, Into his own soul look and paint him that— Making a likeness apt to two at once! Nay, nay, thou wretched, reptile Jew, all thanks! I would not have Paul back upon my hands. I am well rid of him, and now hence thou! Go tell thy fellow-elders of the Jews That here Gamaliel lies, dead or aswoon, And bid them haste to bear him hence away. Go, not one further word from thy foul mouth, Lest whole thou never go!"

Red with his wrath, Abruptly on his heel turned the wroth man And disappeared within. The Jew so spurned— Though disappointed, imperturbable— With wry grimace hugging himself, made speed To use the freedom thus in overplus Thrust on him, and incontinently went. Scarce was he well without the castle gate, When a brusque message from the chiliarch Summoned him back. He came, with supple knee Cringing his thanks and deprecations dumb. "So act thy abject language, if thou will, But no word speak, edging thine ear to hear," The chiliarch, from his heat of passion passed To a grim mood of resolution, said; "I will that—no delay—thou hither bring Large satisfaction from thy countrymen— Just measure of their estimate of thee!— That thou wilt duly bide within command The suddenest from this castle, and appear, Whenever I may call for thee, to go Whithersoever I shall bid thee hence, Whether to Cæsarea or to Rome, Whether now presently or hereafter long, Accuser meet and witness against Paul. Count it that thou thus much at least hast gained, Through thy this night's adventure, chance, to wit, Assuréd chance, thy famished grudge to glut Upon thy brother rogue and countryman— Be he, that is, the wretch thou paintest him, And, mark it well, be thou his overmatch In lying eloquence to make appear Likeliest whatever best thy turn shall serve. Perhaps twin rascals, of each other worthy, Will, both at once, and each the other, prove Just to be what they are, and earn their doom!" "Send with this worthy," thus the chiliarch, To his centurion turning, said, "some man Who knows, if nothing more, thus much at least, How to be adder-deaf and death-like dumb— To dog him hence about and hither back!" "I wish thee pleasure of thy evening walk!" To Shimei, in mock courtesy, he said.

With pleasantry as bitter as his own The mocker found himself a second time, And now to discomposure worse, dismissed. Of his own will he gladly would have gone From east to west as wide as was the world, To weave the meshes of his witness false About Paul's feet, or still to ambush him With instant bloody death at unawares; But thus to go, a lasso round his neck Held in the hand of Rome—it irked him sore. His heart misgave him heavily; he felt: 'And here perhaps is destiny for me, Perhaps, who knows? at last, at last, for me! On mine own head do I Paul's house pull down?'

Strange, but, born with the boding sense thus born Of unguessed danger for himself, there crept Into that case-hard heart, long exercised To plot of mischief for his fellow-man, A softness, that was nigh become remorse, A kind of pity from self-pity sprung, Toward whoso was endangered, yea, even Paul! It was the slow beginning of an end— Slow, liable to be quenched like smoking flax, Yet not so quenched to be—with Shimei. Meanwhile, from this to that there stretched much road, And Shimei still had demon's work to do.

BOOK IV.

BY NIGHT FOR CÆSAREA.

The narrative returns to Paul riding with young Stephen, under escort of Roman soldiers, toward Cæsarea. The uncle and nephew (at sufficient remove from the cavalry before them and the infantry behind them) after an interval of silence, engage in conversation on a subject suggested by young Stephen's quoting against Shimei one of the imprecatory psalms. This conversation is prolonged till Antipatris is reached, from which point young Stephen comes back to Jerusalem with the returning foot-soldiers, while Paul goes on with the horse to Cæsarea.

BY NIGHT FOR CÆSAREA.

Clanging their armor and their arms alight In doubtful glimmer from the torches blown, Forward into the silence and the dark, Through the strait street, out from the city gate, Along the ringing highway stretched in stone To Cæsarea from Jerusalem, Rode vanguard in that order of array The turm of horse—in count three score and ten, But many fold to seeming multiplied Under the shadowy light that showed them half, Half hid them, and amid the numerous noise And movement of their massive martial tread. The centuries of foot the rear composed, While midst, between the horse and infantry, And double-guarded so from every fear— Before, behind, commodious interval— Those Hebrew kinsmen, Paul and Stephen, rode.

A league now measured under the still heaven— Quiet, they twain, as the beholding stars— And Stephen heard the silence at his side Softly become the sound of a low voice. As when the ground parts and a buried seed— Quickened already in that genial womb, But viewless—steals from darkness into light, So, with such unperceived transition, now, Melodious meditation in Paul's heart Grew out of secret silence into song. Stephen, who, from his very cradle taught, The holy lore of Scripture had by heart, Knew the subdued preamble that he heard For echo from the music of a psalm. 'Mine uncle of Gamaliel muses!' he Felt from the moment that thus Paul began: "Yea, so He giveth His belovéd sleep! Blesséd be God, who such a gift gave him! Blesséd be God, who yet such gift from me Withholds, gift longed for, but awaited still With patience—till His pleasure to bestow! Blesséd be God! He doeth all things well! It may be I shall wake until He come! But if I sleep, I still shall sleep in Him, For so He giveth His belovéd sleep! Sweet gift, and sure the way of giving sweet, Since it will be in Him, in Him, in Him— However long hence, and however harsh, The lullaby may be that brings the sleep, At last, at last, the sleep will be in Him! To wake to Jesus, or in Him to sleep, Whichever lot for me He choose, I choose. His choice I do not know, but He knows mine; My will, he knows, is His, for Him in me To choose with, or His will is mine, for me In Him to choose with, now and evermore." "Amen!" Paul murmured, with such voice as if The prayer he uttered turned to sacrament.

Stephen a little lingered, and then said: "Thou and thy voice, O honored kinsman mine, Commend to me whatever thou mayst say Or sing; that inner-sounding melody, Most sweet, which never other makes save thee, But oft thou makest as to thyself alone When thou alone art, or, as now, with whom Thou lovest, and so trustest, utterly, It seems—this I have heard my mother say, Who loves it, as I love it, taught by her— It seems to pass the hearing sense unheard; The deeper, if I hear it not, I feel; My heart feeds on it with her inner ear. Yet, and however so commended, yet Thy choice awakens no desire in me. Sleep, to thy nephew, uncle, seems not sweet, Or less sweet seems than waking is to him. To lie, like reverend dear Gamaliel there, Still, stirless still; cold, marble cold; deaf, dumb; Calm, yea, too calm, for ever, ever calm; No pain, no fret, but joy, but pleasure none; Nor action, nor endeavor, nor attempt, Nor strife, nor aspiration, nor desire; No glorious exultation in emprise, Or rally of reaction from defeat; Fear none indeed, but never, never hope; No change, no chance of any change, the same, The same, continuance without end prolonged; Of life—nothing, but only dull, dull death And apathy—O uncle, such a state, And though thou call it sleep in Jesus, yet— Shall I confess it, uncle, to my shame?— It has no charm for me, I wish to live; I love life, motion, and the sense of power. Hebrew I am, in spirit as in blood, Yet Greek withal enough, if Greek it be, To dread the drear, dark, sunless underworld, Hades or Sheol, and to choose instead This cheerful upper air and joyousness, The brightness of this sun-enlightened earth. And I should like to see what I with life Can do; something, I trust, besides to live, Some worthy, noble, arduous end to serve, To wrestle with the world and overthrow!"

Paul thought within himself: 'Along this road, This very road, some score of years ago, Saul, in the early dawn of that spring day, Rode for Damascus from Jerusalem, Nursing such thoughts—fair thoughts they seemed to him! And I was then nigh double my Stephen's age— Ah, and not half his bright young innocence!'

"It is thy youth," to Stephen Paul replied, "Thy youth and health, the fountain fresh of life Unwasted, springing up for flow in thee; Life is the secret of the love of life. My song of sleep I did not sing for thee, But for a weary older man than thou, Who has already lived, already seen What he could do with life! Weary am I— With living weary, though of living not— And, God so willing, I should gladly rest."

The sweetness of the pensiveness of this, From such an one as Paul the aged, smote On Stephen with a stroke as of reproof— Unmeant, to him the less resistible— And touched to recollection and remorse. He said: "O uncle, be my fault forgiven, That I so lightly thought but of myself! This ride to thee is added weariness, Which to me were exhilaration pure, Could I forget again, as I cannot, The need my uncle has of rest instead. I slept, while thou wert waking, through that long Farewell talk with thy friend, and I am fresh From slumber, as thou art with waking worn— Besides that I am young and thou art old."

"Nay, thou wert right, my lad," said Paul to him; "'Rejoice thou,' so that ancient preacher cried, And so cries God Himself within the blood, 'Rejoice thou, O young man, in thy fair youth, And let thy heart in thy young days cheer thee.' I were myself the egotist thou blamest, Were I to hang my heavy age on thee And with it weigh thy blithesome spirits down; Besides that I should suffer loss deserved, Who, in the midmost of my spirit, spring With answering pulse to pulse of youth from thee. Go on, my Stephen, for Paul's sake be glad, Thou canst not be more glad than gladdens me. Now glad we both are surely in one thing, That thou hast saved thine uncle from that death. Let us together sing a gladsome psalm."

Then softly they in unison began, Softly, with yet their accent jubilant:

"'Had it not been Jehovah on our side, Let Israel now'—let us as Israel—'say, Had it not been Jehovah on our side, When men, together sworn, against us rose, Then had they truly swallowed us alive, When sore their wrath against us kindled was; The waters then had overwhelmed us quite, Over our soul the rushing stream had gone, Over our soul the proud exulting waters. Forever blesséd be Jehovah Lord, Who did not give us to their teeth a prey! Escaped our soul is, like unto a bird That is escaped from out the fowler's snare; The snare is broken, and escaped are we. Our help is in the Lord Jehovah's name, In His name is, who fashioned heaven and earth.'"

They ceased, but presently Paul's voice alone: "How those great words, which God the Holy Ghost Spake by the mouth of men of old, elect To be His earthly oracles—how they Fill yet the mouth of him that utters them, And fill the ear of him that hears them uttered, And the heart fill of him that makes them his— Fill, and, enlarging ever, ever fill! They satisfy the soul, not as with food That sates the hunger, to cry out, 'Enough!' But as with hunger's self, and appetite That never ceases crying, 'More! And more!' Forever greater growing, and sweeter far Than could be any stay to such desire! According as the Lord Himself once spake Pronouncing blesséd those whose hunger is For righteousness, and promising to them Fulness. Fulness without satiety Their blesséd state! State blesséd, sure—to be If only with that heavenly hunger filled!"

To Stephen half, but half in ecstasy Of pure abandonment to worshiping High passion and communion rapt above, Paul so his heart disburdened of its praise.

"Yea," Stephen said, "it is a noble psalm, Triumphal in its gladness at escape Like thine from evil and from evil men. With all my heart I sang it thankfully— At least, if joyfully be thankfully; Yet have I thoughts not uttered through that psalm."

The elder and the wiser well divined, From something in the manner of the speech Of Stephen, as too from the words themselves He spoke, what was the spirit of those thoughts Within him, which the chanted psalm left dumb. Paul safer judged it for his nephew's health Of heart and conscience, that the heat and stir Of natural thought untoward in him find Issue in utterance, than sealed shut to be. "And what, then, nephew, were those thoughts of thine?" In gentle serious question he inquired.

"How is it, uncle," swerving, asked the youth— For a fine tact to feel what other felt, Unspoken, unbetokened, though it were, Was Stephen's, and this power of sympathy Now gave him sobering sense of check from Paul— "How is it, so thou deemest me meet to know, I never hear thee speak of Shimei?"

"Ah, Stephen," Paul replied, "we lack not themes To speak of, promising more food to thee For sweet and gracious thought and feeling. Yet I think of Shimei, and to God I speak Of him in prayer, often, not without hope. I never will abandon him to be Himself, the self that now is he. Too well, Too bitterly, I remember what I was, I myself, once, as rancorous as he! If guileful less, that was the grace of God, Who made us differ from each other there. Hateful to him I needs was, from the first, But I was hateful more than needed be; I helped him hate me by my scornful pride. Would from his hate I could that strand untwine! Hating Paul less, he less might Jesus hate; Only to pity Shimei am I clear."

"Thy patience and thy meekness make me fierce With anger, with ungovernable wrath Most righteous," Stephen cried, "against those men Who, hating, hunt mine uncle to the death! I hate them, and I wish them—what themselves Wish thee; dogs of the devil that they are! I know a psalm that I should like to sing— But I should need to roughen hoarse my voice, And a tune frame well jangled out of tune, To sing it as I would, and as were meet. Thy pardon, but my rage surpasses bound; To think of what thou art and what they are! Some spirit in me, right or wrong, too hot For any counsel, even thine own, to cool, Forces unto my lips those wholesome words Of hearty human hatred, God-inspired, Most needful vent and ease to wish like mine; I lift to God the prayer Himself inbreathed: 'Hold not thy peace, thou Lord God of my praise! Who hath rewarded evil still for good, And hatred still for only love returned, Set thou a wicked one lord over him, And Satan ever keep at his right hand. When he is judged, then let him guilty prove, And let his very prayer turn into sin. Few let his days be, and his office let Another take. His children fatherless, His wife a widow, be. Nay, vagabonds His children, let them beg from door to door. All that he hath, let the extortioner Catch, and let strangers make his labor spoil. Let his posterity be utterly Cut off, and in the time to come their name Be blotted out. Let the iniquity Of his forefathers still remembered be In the Lord's presence, and his mother's sin Not blotted out: because he persecuted The poor and needy man, and those that were Already broken-hearted sought to slay. Cursing he loved, and cursing came to him; In blessing he delighted not, and far From him was blessing. He with cursing clothed Himself as with his garment, and it sank Soaking into his inward parts like water And penetrating to his bones like oil. Amen! Let cursing be forevermore As if the raiment wherewith he himself Covers, and for the girdle of his loins About them belted fast forevermore!'"

Stephen felt blindly that the eager ire With which he entered, flaming, on that strain Of awful imprecation from the psalm, Faltered within his heart as he went on— Insensibly but insupportably Dispirited toward sinking by the lack Of buoying and sustaining sympathy Supplied it from without; as if the lark, Upspringing, on exultant pinion borne, Should, midway in his soaring for the sun, Meet a great gulf of space wherein the air Was spun out thinner than could bear his weight. He ended, halting; and there followed pause, Which ponderable seemed to Stephen, so Did his heart feel the pressure of that pause. At length Paul said, with sweetest irony, That almost earnest seemed, it was so sweet: "Yea, nephew, hast thou, then, already grown Perfect in love, that thou darest hate like that?"

It was not asked for answer, Stephen knew, And answer had he none he could have given, No answer, save of silence, much-ashamed. Paul let the searching of himself, begun And busy in the spirit of the youth, Go on in silence for a while; and then In gravest sweet sincerity he spoke: "Hating is sweet and wholesome, for the heart That can hate purely, out of utter love. But who for these things is sufficient—save God only? God is love, and He can hate. But for me, Stephen, mine own proper self, I dare not hate until I better love. When, as I hope, hereafter I shall be Perfect in love, then I may safely hate; Till then, I task myself to love alone."

There was such reverence in Paul's gravity, Reverence implied toward him as toward a peer, Not peer in age, but peer in human worth— Toward him, so young, so heady, and so fond— That Stephen, in the sting of the rebuke Itself, shaming him, though so gracious, felt A tonic touch that made him more a man. Uplifted, while abashed, he dared to say: "Perhaps I trespassed in my vehemence; But, uncle, did not God inspire the psalm?"

"Doubtless, my Stephen," Paul replied; "but not, Not therefore, thee inspire to use the psalm. Sound thine own heart now, nephew, and tell me, Which was it in thy heart that prayed the prayer— True vehemence in sympathy with God, Or vehemence against thy brother man? A sentiment of sympathy with me Thou canst not say, for I have no such wish As that thou breathedst, touching any man."

"Though not in sympathy with thee, at least For thy sake," Stephen said, "mine anger burned."

"For my sake, yea, but not acceptably Even so," said Paul; "since neither did it serve My cause, nor please me, if I speak the truth. I know thy love for me and hold it dear; All the world's gold were no exchange for it. So, doubt not, Stephen, that to what degree Love for thine uncle prompted that thy prayer, Thine uncle thanks thee for it from his heart. But let us, thou and I together both, To our own selves severely faithful be. Shall we not say that that love faulty is, Which less desires to please the one beloved, Than to indulge itself, have its own way? And knowest thou not it would have pleased me better— Since, for the present, question is of me— To see my nephew altogether such As I myself am, lover of all men, Hater of none, not even mine enemy? Thou didst not love me well enough for that!

"Thy love though precious and though well-refined Had yet alloy in it of selfishness— Of specious, almost lovely, selfishness, I grant thee; yea, according to the world, That loves its own illusions, lovely quite— Of such a selfishness alloy enough To take its counsel of itself, not me, Blindly abandoned to its own excess."

"The art of love thou makest difficult!" Stephen, with chastened deprecation, said.

"Not 'difficult,' impossible," said Paul, "Save to whom Jesus makes it possible. I wish that I could bring thee to perceive How, severed from Him, thou canst not love at all, Right love, I mean, the one safe sense of love, Love with the gift of immortality, Since pure and perfectly-proportioned love! Left to ourselves, we love capriciously; Ever some form of fond self-love it is, Which in disguise of love to other masks. If thou in Jesus truly hadst loved me Then hadst thou loved me as I would be loved, To absolute effacement of thyself Through whole replacement of thyself with me. Enormous claim seems this of selfishness In me? But I describe ideally The love that I myself to Jesus bear. In Him I lose, and find again, my self, And the new self I find again, is—He! It is but as united thus with Him— My wish, my will, become the same as His— That I dare make exaction for myself Of love that seems to blot another out, Or merge him in a new and different self. I ask thee—not my will, but Christ's, made thine— To love me with the love that pleases Him."

"All this," said Stephen, "must be true, I feel— I feel it better than I understand."

"I also," Paul said, "in this mystery Am wiser with my heart than with my mind, I feel it better than I understand; Although I understand it better too Than I can make it plain in any words."

Whereon in silence for a space they rode, While their thoughts ranged diverse in worlds apart.

Then Stephen: "That distempering heat in me, O uncle, is clean gone from out mine heart, Slaked by the overshadowing of thy spirit, Like the earth cooled with overshadowing night. I am calm enough, I think, to learn, if not Thy difficult high doctrine touching love, Something at least about those psalms of hate. Hate is the spirit of the psalm I said, Is it not, uncle?"

"As thou saidst it, yea, Or I mistook the meaning of thy voice," Said Paul; "whatever meant the holy words, The tones, I felt, meant that and nothing else."

"Could then those words themselves mean something else?" Asked Stephen.

"Yea," said Paul, "for words are naught But empty vessels that the utterer fills With his own spirit when he utters them; The spirit is the lord of utterance."

"What was the spirit with which the Spirit of God Breathed these into the soul of him elect Among the sons of men to give them voice? Did not God hate whom He so heavily cursed?" Stephen inquired; and Paul at large replied: "God hates not any, as wicked men count hate— And men not wicked may, in wicked mood— Nor wills that of the souls whom He has made Any should perish; rather wills that all Come to the knowledge of the truth and live. But look abroad upon the world of men; What seest thou? Many souls resist the will, The blesséd will to save, of God. Of these, Some will hereafter yield—thou knowest not who, But some—and let themselves be saved. Again, Some will to the end resist—thou knowest not who; But some—and obstinately choose to die; Choice is the fearful privilege of all. Now, toward the man incorrigibly bad, Who evil loves and evil makes his good Forever, without hope of other change Than change from worse to worse forevermore— Toward such a man, what must the aspect be Of the Supreme Eternal Holiness? What but of wrath, or as of wrath, and hate? Canst thou imagine other face of God Than frown and threat aflame implacable Against implacable rebellion set, And sin eternal, to eternal sin Doomed, for self-doomed through free unchanging choice? One flame burns love toward love, and hate toward hate— Toward hate that utmost love cannot subdue, The hate that, like the stubborn diamond-stone Amid the fiercest fires rebellious, bides Still, in love's sevenfold-heated furnace, hate. That flame is the white flame of holiness— Which God is, and whose other name is love."

"God is a dreadful thought," said Stephen. "Yea," Said Paul; "such Jacob felt it when he cried, 'How dreadful is this place!' and Bethel named The place where God was and he knew it not. God is a dreadful thought, dreadful as sweet— The sweetness and the dreadfulness are one. But never was the dreadfulness so sweet, The sweetness never yet so dreadful shown, As then when Jesus died on Calvary! Shroud thyself, Stephen, from the dreadfulness, Felt to be too intolerably bright, In the cool, shadowing, sheltering thought, so nigh, Of mercy, mercy, still in judgment sheathed."

"I feel the buoyance of my spirit sink, Oppressed by the great weight of these thy thoughts," Said Stephen; "and my heart is very still. I wait to hear what God the Lord will speak."

"Hearken," said Paul. "Those fearful words of curse Which late thou nigh hadst turned to blasphemy, Daring to lade them with thy personal spite Against a neighbor man, whom we must love, Until we know hereafter, which God fend! That he bides reprobate, self-reprobate— Those maledictions dire, through David breathed, Express not human hate, but hate divine, Revealed in forms of human speech, and, too, Inspired in whoso can the height attain To side with God, and passionlessly damn, As if with highest passion, any found— Whom, known not yet, even to himself not known, Much less to thee or me, but known to God, And to be known, in that great day, to all— Fixed in his final choice of evil for good. Henceforward, Stephen, when thou sayest that psalm, Say it and tremble, lest thyself be he, The man thou cursest in its awful curse!"

"If it were right," said Stephen, after pause Prolonged in solemn chiding of himself, "If it were right and seemly, things profane To mingle with things sacred so—I think Perforce now of a certain tragedy I read once by that Grecian Sophocles, Wherein a Theban king, one Œdipus, Denounces on a murderer frightful doom, Dreaming not he—though every reader knows— The murderer he so curses is himself. I shudder when I think, 'Were it to be That the fierce blasting I invoked to fall Upon another's head, I drew on mine: "Cursing he loved, and cursing fell on him!"' Forefend it God, and Christ with blessing fill This heart of mine, too hasting prone to hate!" "Amen!" said Paul, "thou prayest for me and thee!"

Out of the depths of the long hush that then Followed between those midnight travellers, Emerging, like a diver of the sea That brings up dripping pearl from sunken cave And, gladdened, lifts it flashing to the sun, So, to his young companion speaking, Paul— Not turning while he spoke his countenance Toward him, but fixed right forward keeping it, Intent, as on an object not of sight, Before him held with unmaterial hand, An unmaterial treasure passing price, Imagined fair by the creating soul— Said, with such cheerful rally in the voice As one invites with, some delight to share: "Wilt thou hear, Stephen? I have been revolving In form a kind of hymn concerning love, Which, in a letter, some twelve months ago, I wrote the church in Corinth. There was need, For they were sore at strife among themselves, Vying with one another to outdo In divers showy gifts miraculous, Or outward deeds that daze the eyes of men: Tongues, prophecies, the keys of mysteries, High knowledges, sublime degrees of faith, Almsgivings to impoverishment, stout heart To brave devouring flames in testimony— All these things, but for lowly love small care!

"My soul was worn and anxious with my pain At such distractions of the church of Christ; I found my peace at last in this thought, 'How Love would heal all, would gently join from schism, And in one bind the body of the Lord!' A wish ineffable seized me to make Love lovely to those loveless ones. I had, With the wish born, and of the wish perhaps, A sudden vision that entranced me quite. I saw love take a body beautiful And live and act in most angelic wise; It was as if a heavenly spectacle Let down before me by a heavenly hand— Not to be viewed with unanointed eyes; I touched my eyes with eyesalve and beheld. Then a Voice said, 'What thou beholdest, write.' I took my pen and sought to catch the grace Of being and behavior shown to me, And fix it, as I could, in form and phrase, For those Corinthians and all men to see. A living picture, and a hymn, there grew.

"Hymn I may call my eulogy of love, Then written, for indeed it seemed to sing Within me, as I mused it, and the tune Still to the hearing of my heart is sweet. I felt, and feel, a kind of awe of it, Myself that made it, for I did not make It wholly, I myself, I know quite well; A breath divine, breathed in me, purified My will to will it, and my soul to sing.

"My Stephen will not think it strange that thus Our talking of an hour ago on hate Set me to dreaming counterwise of love. I build of love a refuge for myself, Whither to run for rest and sanctuary From thoughts of hatred thirsting for my soul. Love is my house, and there the air is love— My shelter round about, the breath I draw. No castle is there like my house of love, Charmed not to let footstep of evil in; And what will quench the Wicked's fiery darts Like love drawn round one for an atmosphere? Himself gasps breathless with but love to breathe; Yea, I am safe from him if I can love. And love I can, through Christ who strengthens me, Whatever natural force I feel to hate. I love to love, it is my chief delight; I triumph by it over all my foes. The harder these my triumph make to win, The more, since I must win it still by love, To love they drive me, and increase my joy. My triumph is my love, and my love's joy. But thou my poem hear in praise of love: With men's tongues speaking, and with angels', yet, Love lacking, I am sounding brass become, Or clanging cymbal. Prophecy though mine, And mysteries all to grasp, and knowledge all, And mine though be all faith so as to move Mountains, I yet, love lacking, nothing am. And though I lavish all I own in alms, And though I yield my body to be burned, Yet I, love lacking, am naught profited. Love suffers long, is kind, love envies not, Love does not vaunt herself, is not puffed up, Deports herself in no unseemly wise, Seeks not her own, is not provoked, imputes Not evil, at unrighteousness no joy Feels, but her joy has with the truth, bears up Against all things, all things believes, all things Hopes, undergoes all things. Love never fails; But whether there be prophecies, they will Be done away, tongues whether, they will cease, Whether there knowledge be, it will have end. For we in part know, and we prophesy In part; but when that which is perfect comes, Then that which is in part will pass away. When I a child was, as a child I talked, I did my thinking as a child, I used My reason as a child; since I a man Have grown, the child's part I have put aside. For now we darkly, through reflection, see, But face to face then. Now I know in part, But then shall I know fully, even as I Also am fully known. And now these three Bide, faith, hope, love; but of these chief is love.'

"Stephen, how little Shimei guesses," Paul Said, having thus his hymn of love rehearsed, "The secret triumph ever over him I celebrate, in loving him, despite His hating me, and seeking to destroy! Who knows but God to love will win him yet?"

A certain gentle humor exquisite Enlivened and commended this from Paul. But Stephen answered not; indignant love Swelled in his heart, and choked within his throat The way of words, and dimmed his eyes with tears.

Thus at Antipatris arrived, they halt: Here Stephen, nursing other purpose not Disclosed, disclosed to Paul a wish he had To go back with the infantry returning, And reassure his mother that all was well. Paul sped his nephew with his benison; And, after rest had, and refreshment meet, Himself thence, with the escort cavalry Safeguarded, on to Cæsarea rode, Not lonely, though alone, and prisoner.

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BOOK V.

SHIMEI AND YOUNG STEPHEN.

Stephen, having returned, goes at once to the chiliarch, his secret purpose being to convict Shimei of his crime, through certain evidence which he thinks he can bring to bear on the case. To the youth's disappointment and chagrin, he is received coldly and repellently by the chiliarch now much out of humor as a sequel to his disagreeable interview with Shimei. Dismissed crestfallen to go, Stephen is suddenly confronted at the door by Shimei, at that moment arriving in obedience to a summons from the chiliarch. The mutual encounter has the effect on the chiliarch observing it, to change his attitude toward Stephen, making it favorable again. Shimei is sent to Cæsarea under suspicion; where Felix, the governor, plans a hearing for the prisoner Paul.

SHIMEI AND YOUNG STEPHEN

At Cæsarea soon the Sanhedrim, By deputy and advocate, appeared Before the bar of Felix governor, To implead the prisoner Paul.

The high-priest brought The weight and dignity of rulership Supreme among his people, to impress On Felix fitting sense of the grave cause Now come before him to be judged. Thin veiled Beneath the decent fair exterior show Of only public and judicial aim And motive in that ruler of the Jews (The high-priest Ananias), deep there wrought A leaven of personal vindictiveness Twofold, sullen resentment of affront, And, added, that least placable, that worst Hatred, the hatred toward a brother wronged. Whom he, from his own judgment-seat—profaned Thus by his profanation of the law— Had wantonly commanded to be smitten Upon the mouth, this outraged man must now Be proved, forsooth, a wretch unmeet to live.

But Shimei, as prime mover, was left, too, To be prime manager, of all. Far less Festive, than his old wont, in exercise Of that exhaustless wit his own in wile, Serious he now, yea even to sadness, seemed.

And reason was. For Claudius Lysias Had summoned him to presence in the fort; And there, hap not to have been imagined, he, Besides the haughty Roman chief, had met Another face more welcome scarce than his.

Young Stephen's purpose, not revealed, had been To move some action against Shimei. This gentle Hebrew youth inherited Large measure of the wilful spirit high That in the blood of all his kindred ran. Of his own motion he, without advice, Nay, headstrong, in the teeth of thwart advice, Which, though he sought it not, he full well felt In current counter to his wish—self-moved Thus, and self-willed, Paul's nephew had resolved To try what might to him be possible— By putting in the place of the accused Instead of the accuser's, that base man, His uncle's foe—to free his uncle's state, Once and for all, from danger and annoy Due to the restless hate of Shimei. The friendly chiliarch was his first resort.

In one swift glance, which more was of the mind Itself, perceiving as it were without Organ, than of the eye with which it saw, Stephen that night, upon the point of time When Shimei was arrested and brought in, A glimpse had caught of two receding forms Of men upon the street, flying as seemed; Whom instantly he knew to be the same With that pair of conspirators to slay, Whose whispers had revealed their plot to him: These were the stout young fellows Shimei set To lie in wait for the escaping Paul. The moment they beheld their master seized, They quickly had betaken them to flight; But Stephen's mind flew faster than their feet, And with intangible tether had them bound. This his new observation of the twain Made him secure of recognizing them Whenever or wherever seen again. With so much clue as this, no more, in hand, To guide him in the quest of testimony That might his crimes bring home to Shimei— Supposed still safe in keeping at the fort— Stephen his audience with the chiliarch sought.

The bright hope that he brought in coming, sprung From grateful recollection of the grace He found, that morning, in the Roman's eyes, Was promptly damped to deep dejection now. The chiliarch met him with a cold and sour Severity of aspect that repelled, Beyond the youth's capacity—unbuoyed, For this occasion, with approving sense Of well-advised attempt at least, if vain— To front it with unruffled brow. Abashed He stood, confused; the blood rushed to his face; His tongue clung to his mouth's roof; and in all He less looked like that youthful innocence Which won the Roman so in his soft mood, Than like the conscious guilt, uncovered now, In Shimei's slant insinuation shown. The chiliarch by reaction was relapsed Into his sternest temper of disdain Embittered by suspicious cynicism; Apt sequel of the interview prolonged With Shimei, and the final passionate Ejection of that Hebrew from the fort. He now awaiting Shimei, summoned back Once more, to be to Cæsarea sent, Here was that Stephen—despicable he Too, doubtless, like his despicable race! Such was the prompt involuntary set, Inhospitable, of the chiliarch's thought, For welcome of the youth before him there.

To Stephen's stammering words about those men, And how they might be made to testify Of Shimei's desperate plot to murder Paul, Thus bringing Shimei to deservéd doom, The Roman tartly said: "Aye, aye, young sir, I think it like, seems altogether like. You Jews could, all of you, I doubt not, swear Of one another, brethren as ye be, Things damnable enough to crucify Ye all, and, what is more, for just that once, Swear true! But thanks, lad, I have had my fill At present of these proffered services."

The manner was dismissory, more even Than were the words, and Stephen bowed to go. But his own manner in thus bowing changed, Although he spoke not, to such dignity, Recovered from his discomposure late, So instantly recovered, and so pure— Adulterate in no trace with hardihood— A dignity comportable with youth, While eloquent of virtue and high mind, And, like a robe, so beautifully worn Over a person and a gesture fair, That Claudius Lysias, cynic as he was That moment, seeing could not but admire.

He, on the point to bid the youth remain, Wavering, not quite persuaded,—at the door, Bowing his different bow, stood Shimei; That sight and contrast fixed his wavering mind. "Stay thou, my lad," abruptly he exclaimed— Wherewith another fall the countenance fell Of Shimei, cringing, to his footsteps glued. "Look ye on one another, ye two Jews," The chiliarch in a sudden humor said; "I have a fancy I should like to see How two reciprocal accusers such As you are, rogues both—though one young, one old, In roguery—if your mutual witness hold— I say, the fancy takes me to observe How two accusers of each other, like Yourselves, confronted in close quarters thus, Will severally enjoy each other's stare."

An indescribable something in the tone Of Claudius Lysias speaking thus, or look Perhaps, couched in the eye or on the face Playing, signified clear to Shimei That the same words were differently meant To Stephen and to him; spoken to him In earnest, in but pleasantry to Stephen. Stephen's high air, in proud sense of his worth Wronged by misdoubt, had Shimei led astray. He saw it as a sign of prosperous suit— Doubtless against himself—just finished there. Already tuned to fear, his conscious mind, Quite disconcerted by this fresh surprise Of some detection that he could not guess, Suddenly wrote abroad on all his mien A patent full conviction of himself. As more and more his heart misgave him, worse Ever and worse his brow was discomposed.

The lively opposite of Shimei's change Was meantime making Stephen's face more fair. He, at the chiliarch's mating of himself With Shimei, though in veriest raillery meant, Felt all the soul of manliness in him Stung to its most resistant; as he turned, Obedient to the chiliarch's word, and looked At Shimei, such transfigurement there passed Upon him that he stood there glorified. An infinite repellence seemed to ray From out his eyes, and put impassable Remove between him and that other, while Ascendance, as peculiar to a race And rank of being wholly different, Endued him, like a natural right to reign. Such kingly to such servile seen opposed, Surprised the chiliarch into altered mood. "Enough," said he; and, writing while those stayed, He gave to Shimei what he wrote to read. It was a letter Shimei should himself Convey to Felix governor; it ran: "Who brings this is a rascal, as I judge; He comes to accuse the Jewish prisoner Paul. Detain him, if thee please, to see the end; The end should be perhaps a cross for him!" Wincing, the miscreant read; he, reading, felt Draw, from Rome's hand, the coil about his neck. Choking for speech, he, ere he found it, heard The chiliarch say, with voice hard like a flint: "Thou hast thine errand; tarry not, but go. Nay, bide a moment; let the youngster see What message I have given thee to bear; Then, if so chance thou lose it on the way, He can supply thy lack of carefulness!"

His air that of the miser who, compelled, Gives up gold hoarded, like his own heart's blood, Shimei, with griping pangs, in sick recoil Of grudging overmastered to submit, Yielded, as if he were withholding it, The hateful letter into Stephen's hand. Stephen, as one not daring otherwise, Deigned a reluctant look, that, seeking not, Yet seized, the sense of that which Shimei showed; Softened, he gave the parchment back to him.

Prodded with such oblique sarcastic spur To heed of sinister commission such, Shimei withdrew, a miserable man.

The chiliarch then to Stephen—who, at once Pity of Shimei's utter wretchedness, Shame of his utter abjectness, conceived— Said, with changed tone: "My lad, I think thee true; That miscreant vexed me into petulance. Thou hast not altogether missed thy mark In coming hither now, although I thus Seem to let Shimei for the present slip. Follow him, if thou wilt, to Cæsarea. With letter of Bellerophon in charge, He carries his own sentence thither hence; Watch it—if slow in execution, sure!"

Sobered by triumph, and not triumphing, Made pensive rather, Stephen went away.

Forth from the hour when Shimei, so dismissed, Shrank out of presence at Antonia Collapsed in spirit as in mien and port, He to the end was seen an altered man. Dejected, absent, like a criminal Convicted of his crime, sentenced to die, Though day of death unfixed, imprisoned not, Nay, moving, as if free, about the world, To view not different from his fellow-men, Yet with a sense forever haunting him Of doom uncertainly suspended still Above him, that at any moment might In avalanche descend upon his head— So he lived joyless, the elastic spring Broken that buoyed him to his wickedness. But loth he had to Cæsarea gone, Where, with wry looks and deprecation vain, He gave the letter to the governor; Had he, to ease his case, dared fail the trust, The failure would have failed his case to ease, Nay, rather, would have harder made his case, Since Stephen could report what he did not, And could besides report his negligence. But Shimei dared not fail; he knew offence, Added, of disobedience, would but draw Speedier the dreaded danger ruining down.

Joy is to some a spring of energy, Which failing, all their force for action fails— They having in themselves no virtue proof Against the palsying touch ill fortune brings; Of such was Shimei. In his broken state, His measures he took feebly, without hope. The wish—which with the expectation joined Would have made hope—yea, even the very wish, That life and strength of hope, was well-nigh dead In him; for he no longer now desired The thing he wrought for still, under constraint Of habit, and that strange necessity Which sense of many eyes upon him fixed To watch him working the familiar wont Of Shimei, bred within this wretched man, Forcing him like a fate.

Fit tool he found In one Tertullus—hireling Roman tongue, Or function mere, not organ—who, for price, Spoke customary things accusing Paul To Felix, for the Jews; these joined their voice In sanction of the truth of what he said. But Paul denying their base charges all, Denying and defying to the proof, The governor postponed them for a time. Paul he remanded into custody, But bade with courteous ways distinguish him; Whereof the secret cause was, not a sense In Felix of the righteousness of Paul, With therefore sweet magnanimous desire To grace him what in loyalty he could— Of no such height was Felix capable— The cause none other was than Shimei; Who Paul however served not, but himself.

For Shimei dreaded what he seemed to seek, The sentence "Guilty," at the judgment-bar Of Felix on this prisoner Paul pronounced; Dreaded it, lest appeal therefrom be claimed By Paul to the imperial ear at Rome. He himself, Shimei, then might be compelled To go likewise the same unwelcome way, Though witness and accuser only named, Yet labelled target for suspicious eyes, Where eyes suspicious oft portended doom. So he to Felix—less with words than signs, Mysterious looks and reticences deep, As of a man who could, if but he would, And were it wise, tell much that, left untold, Might well be guessed from things kept back, yet thus, And thus, and thus (in Shimei's pantomime) Winked with the eye and with the shoulder shrugged— Hint signalled that there hid a gold mine here, For who, with power like his, conjoined the skill To make it yield its treasure to demand; This Paul had wealthy friends who gladly would Buy at large price indulgences for him. Let Felix hold out hopes, deferring still, Suffer his friends to come and visit Paul, Give hearings to his case, but naught decide, Weary him out, and them, with long delays— Till a realm's ransom woo his clutch at last.

Now Shimei thus consummately contrived; For Felix was a mercenary soul, Who governed in the spirit of a slave. He, therefore, doubting not that Shimei (Confessed the player of a double part, Pander to him, accuser for the Jews) Was all the rascal that the chiliarch guessed, Yet deemed he saw his profit in the man. He could use Shimei to his own behoof, In winning what he coveted from Paul; Meantime remitting not his hold on him For final expiation of his crimes. The two, well fitted to each other, thus Played each his several sordid game with each, And neither by the other was deceived, Both equally incapable of trust, As equally unworthy to be trusted— Until, two years accomplished, Felix fell From power at Cæsarea; when, his greed Long disappointed of its glut of gain From Paul, he left him there in prison. He hoped The dreaded accusation of the Jews For his abuse of power, surpassing bound, Might less fierce follow him to Rome, should he, By that injustice added, in their eyes His thousands of injustices atone.

Moreover Felix hated Paul, as hates The upbraided ever his upbraider, when, The conscience yielding, yet the will withstands. For, during the imprisonment of Paul, And that prolonged delay of trial due Him, this base freedman—basely raised to be A ruler—as a pleasure to his wife, Devised a feast of eloquence for her. She was a Jewess, beautiful as vile, And as in beauty brilliant, so in wit; She would enjoy it, like a spectacle, To sit, in emulated state, a queen Beside her husband in his judgment-hall, And there, at ease reclined, her lord's delight, In her resplendent and voluptuous bloom, Disport herself at leisure, eye and ear Tasting their satisfaction to the full, To see and hear her famous countryman Expound his doctrine and defend his cause. Not often, in his rude Judæan seat Of government in banishment, could he Proffer the stately partner of his throne An equal hope of entertainment rare.

So, royal in their pomp of progress, came, One day, the lustful Felix with his bride, Adulterous Drusilla, guilty pair! And, on his throne of judgment seating him, Bade Paul before them, in his prisoner's chain, To burn the splendors of his oratory In pleading for the faith of Jesus Christ— Fresh pastime to the cloyed and jaded sense For pleasure those voluptuaries brought! Uncalculated thrills, not of delight, That lawless Roman ruler had purveyed Himself, to chase each other in their chill Procession through the currents of his blood, And, shuddering, shoot along his nerves, and freeze His marrow!—conscience in him her last sign Making perhaps that day.

But will he heed? Or will the terrors of the world to come Vainly appal him with the eternal fear?

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BOOK VI.

PAUL BEFORE FELIX.

Paul discourses solemnly before Felix and his queen Drusilla, treating the topics of righteousness, self-control, and impending judgment. The effect is to make Felix show visible signs of discomposure on his judgment-seat. Drusilla, apprehensive of consequences disastrous to herself from her wicked husband's awakened remorse and fear, invokes the intervention of Simon, that Cyprian Jewish sorcerer who had at first been instrumental in bringing the guilty pair together. Simon plays upon the superstition of Felix with his pretended magic arts.

PAUL BEFORE FELIX.

The power of the Most High, descending, fell On Paul, as, led of soldiers, he came in, Bound, at the mercy of the governor, And took his station in that presence proud. At once, but without observation, changed Became the parts of Felix and of Paul. Paul, from a prisoner of Felix, now To Felix was as captor and as judge; And Felix was as prisoner, bound, to Paul.

Paul his right hand in manacles stretched forth, As if it were a scepter that he swayed, And said: "Most excellent lord Felix, hear, And thou, Drusilla, unto Felix spouse! Obedient, at thy bidding, I am come To make thee know the faith in Jesus Christ, And wherefore I obey it, and proclaim. Know, then, that Jesus, He of Nazareth, The Crucified of Calvary, is Christ, The Christ of that Jehovah God Most High Who by His word created heaven and earth, And Him anointed to be Lord of all. God was incarnate in Him here on earth, To reconcile the world unto Himself; And I beseech men—I, ambassador From Him, as if the Lord God did by me Beseech—beseeching them, 'Be reconciled To God.'

"For all men everywhere are found By wicked works God's enemies; on all, God's wrath, weight insupportable, abides; A message this, that down from heaven He brought, That Christ of God, that Savior of the world. But His atonement lifts the load of wrath, Which down toward hell the sinking spirit weighed, Lifts, nay, transmutes it to a might of love, Which bears the spirit soaring up to heaven. 'Believe in Jesus, and be reconciled To God'; that is the gospel which I preach. Obey my gospel, and be saved—rebel, And pray the mountains to fall down on thee To hide thee from the wrath of God, and hide Thee from the wrath, more dreadful, of the Lamb. For Lamb was Jesus, when on Calvary In sacrifice for sin He died; but when, Resurgent from the tomb, above all height Into the heaven of heavens He rose, and sat On the right hand of glory and of power With God, then the Lamb slain from far before The world was founded, by His blood our guilt To purge, as capable of wrath became, As He before was capable of love. He burns against unrighteousness, in flame Which, kindling on the wicked, them devours. There is no quenching of that fearful flame, As ending none is there of what it burns; The victim lives immortally, to feed The immortal hunger of that vengeful flame. It swifter than the living lightning flies, To fasten on its victim in his flight; No refuge is there in the universe For fugitive from it. Thou, Felix, knowest No hider can elude the ranging eyes, No runner can outrun the wingéd feet, No striver can resist the griping hands, That to the emperor of the world belong; Whom Cæsar wishes, Cæsar has for prey."

Paul fixed his gaze point-blank on Felix while These things he said, not as with personal aim— Which might have been resented, being such, Resented, and thereby avoided quite— Rather as if, through body, he beheld His hearer's soul, and set it with his eyes Far forward into the eternal world, And there saw the fierce flame he spoke of, fast Adhering or inhering, burn that soul, With burning unescapable by flight Or refuge through the universe of God. Paul's vision was so vivid that his eyes Imprinted what he saw upon the soul Of Felix, that almost he saw it too. He stared and listened, with that thought intense Wherewith sometimes the overmastering mind Will blind the eyesight and the hearing blur.

A sense of insecurity in power, Bred in him by his consciousness of crime, With dread, too, of the moment, then perhaps Already nigh! when that omnipotence, That omnipresence, that omniscience, Rome's, Might beset him, to cut him off from hope— This feeling blindly wrought the while beneath, Like struggling earthquake, to unsettle him; Thus weakened, half unconsciously, his will Fell childlike-helpless in the power of Paul. Now fear hath torment, and to Felix, prey Of fear with torment, Paul still added fear; Perhaps his fear intolerable grown Might save the sufferer from the thing he feared! Paul further said: "O Felix, Cæsar's sway Over this world, inevitable thus, Subduing all, is yet but image pale Of the supreme dominion absolute Which to Christ Jesus in the heaven belongs. The captives of the emperor need but wait Patient a while and sure release arrives; Since death at least, to all, or soon or late, Comes, one escape at last from Cæsar's power, Who owns no empire in that world beyond. But of that world beyond, no end, no bound, Whither we all must flee in fleeing hence, Still the Lord Christ abides eternal King; Death is but door to realm of His more wide. Here, the sheathed sword of His avenging ire Will sometimes touch, undrawn, with blunted edge, The wincing conscience of the wicked man That knows himself a criminal unjudged. Those touches are the mercy of the Lord That would betimes the guilty soul alarm; Those pains of conscience are the smouldering fires Which, quenched not now in sin-atoning blood, Will, blown to fury, by and by burst forth, And, fuelled of the substance of the soul, That cannot moult its immortality, One inextinguishable vengeance burn.

"'Be wise now, therefore, O ye kings, be ye Instructed, judges of the earth;' so God Cries in our Scriptures in the ears of men. 'Kiss ye the Son,' He says, 'in homage kiss The Son of Mine anointing, Christ the Lord, Kiss Him lest He be angry, and His wrath Ready to be enkindled you devour. But in the living scriptures of the soul Itself, the holy word of God in man, The selfsame admonition beats and burns— If men would read it and would understand! The raging of desire not satisfied, The sickness of the surfeit of desire, The ravages of passion uncontrolled, And waste of being, by itself consumed, To bury or deface what else were fair— Like lava spouted from the crater's mouth Of the volcano burning its own bowels To belch them torrent over fertile fields— These things, O Felix, in the conscious heart, Are muffled footfalls of oncoming doom."

Peculiar commination seemed to flame, Volcanic, in Paul's manner as he spoke. One might have felt the figure prophecy— For some fulfilment in this present world Impending to be symbol of his thought— His likening of the self-consuming soul, Disgorging desolation round about, To a volcano its own entrails burning, And in eruption pouring them abroad; So real, so living, so in imminent act, Paul's speaking made his fiery simile. Drusilla, when, long after, with her son Agrippa, born to Felix, overwhelmed In that destruction from Vesuvius Which under ashen rain and lava flood Pompeii rolled with Herculaneum, Like Sodom and Gomorrah whelmed again!— Drusilla then, despairing, for one fierce Fleet instant—instant endless, though so fleet— Saw, as from picture branded on her brain, Heard, as from echo hoarded in its cells, The very image of the speaker's form, His posture, gesture, features in their play, These, and the tones, reliving, of the voice Wherewith, in Cæsarea judgment-hall, He fulmined, yea, as if this self-same wo!

But Paul, no pause, immitigably said: "Belshazzar, Babylonian king of old, Once in a season of high festival Held in his palace with a thousand lords, Saw visionary fingers of a hand Come out upon the palace walls and write. Then that king's countenance was changed in him, In answer to the trouble of his thoughts; The very jointings of his loins were loosed, And his knees, shaken, on each other smote. In language that he did not understand, But prophet Daniel told the sense to him, Belshazzar had his own swift ruin read. Thus, O lord Felix, in our hours of feast, Oft, MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN, Dread warning to us that the end is come, That we have been full proved and wanting found, That now our vantage must another's be— Appalling words of final doom from God, In lurid letters live along the walls Of the soul's pleasure-house—for who will heed! Remorses, doubts, recoils, forebodings, fears, And fearful lookings for of judgment nigh, Previsions flashed on the prophetic soul Refusing to be hooded not to see— These are handwritings on the wall from God; They, syllabling the sentence of His ire, Spell MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN, For pleasure-lovers lost in lust and pride. Well for Belshazzar, if betimes he heed!"

Had Felix been alone, deep in the dark, And a wide waste of solitude around, A comfort it had seemed to him to loose One mighty agitation of his frame And shiver his blood-curdling terror off; Or, in one wanton, wild, voluptuous cry, Shriek it into the startled universe. But, seated there upon his throne of power, Drusilla by his side regarding him, To tremble, like a culprit being judged, Before a culprit waiting judgment! He, With last resistant agony of will, Kept moveless his blanched lips, and on his seat Sat stricken upright, and so stared at Paul.

There Paul stood tranquil, choosing thunderbolts, And this the thunderbolt that last he launched: "Hearken, O Felix. In the clouds of heaven, Attended by the angels of His might, The Lord Christ Jesus I behold descend. The trumpet of the resurrection sounds, And sea and land give up their wakened dead; These all to judgment hasten at His call: The books are opened and the witness found; All the least thoughts of men, with all their words And deeds, all their dumb motions of desire, Their purposes, and their endeavors all, Are written in the record of those books. They blaze out in the light of that great day. Like lightning, fixed from fleeting, on the sky; Deem not one guilty can his guilt conceal. A parting of the evil and the good; The good at His right hand He bids sit down, The awful Judge, omnipotent as just; The evil, frowning, bids from Him depart. Swift, them departing—who would not know God, And not obey the gospel of His Son— He, taking vengeance, follows in their flight With flaming fire and dreadful punishment, Destruction everlasting from His face, From the Lord's face, and glory of His power!"

The shudder that had slept uneasy sleep Within the breast of Felix lulling it, Woke startled at these minatory words Spoken as with the voice of God by Paul. That couchant shudder from its ambush broke, And openly ran wantoning over all The members of the terror-stricken man. But the cry clamoring in him for escape, To ease the anguish of his mortal fear, Felix found strength to modulate to this, In forced tones uttered, and with failing breath: "Go thy way this time, Paul; at season fit Hereafter I will call for thee again."

The soldier duly led his prisoner out, And Felix was full easily rid of Paul; Of Paul, but of Paul's haunting presence not The image of that orator in chains, The solemn echo of the words he spoke, Swam before Felix, sounded in his ears, So real, the real world round him seemed less real.

Drusilla, to her discomposure, found Her husband strangely alien from his spouse; The blandishments so potent with him late Lost on an absent or repellent mind. The awe of Felix under Paul's discourse She had remarked with unconcerned surprise. She now recalled it with a doubt, a fear. The jealous thought woke in her: 'If my lord Should, overwrought in conscience, cast me off! What byword and what hissing then were I, Stranded and branded an adulteress! I, who the scion of a kingly house, Haughty Antiochus Epiphanes, Haughtily spurned as suitor for my hand, Because he would not for my sake be Jew; Who wedded then Azizus, eastern king, Willing to win me at the price I fixed; Who next with scandal parted from his bed, To snatch this dazzle of a Roman spouse— I to be now by him flung to the dogs! All at the beck of an apostate Jew, Arraigned a culprit at his judgment-bar! Drusilla, rouse thee, say, It must not be! Drusilla, arm thee, swear, It shall not be!'

She summoned straight that Cyprian sorcerer who Had played the pander's part between herself And Felix, when they twain at first were brought In guilt together. "Simon, know," she said, "I with cause hate this Jewish prisoner Paul. He, insolence intolerable, is fain To come between my Roman lord and me. Withstand him, and undo his hateful spell."

"His hateful spell, O stately queen, my liege," Said Simon, "I far rather would assay Unbinding from thy spouse's soul enthralled, Than him withstand, the binder of that spell, Meeting him face to face. At Paphos once, Of Cyprus, Elymas, a master mind In magic—at the court proconsular Of Sergius Paulus, regent of the isle, Wielding great power—withstood this self-same Paul. But Paul denounced a curse deipotent Against him, and forthwith upon his eyes A mist fell and a darkness, that he walked Wandering in quest of one to lead him, late Redoubtable magician, by the hand. This conjuration on the conjurer, Himself proconsul Sergius Paulus saw, And, overpowered with wonder and with fear, Roman and governor as he was, became Fast docile dupe and devotee to Paul.

"Perhaps indeed there was a cause for this Older in date than such a feat of Paul's. Long years before, when Paul and he were young, By chance they fared together on the way Damascus-ward out of Jerusalem, When, nigh Damascus, of a sudden, Paul On Sergius tried a novel magic trick. In broad noon, with unclouded sun ablaze Above him, burning all that tract of sand, He flashed a sheen of mimic lightning forth, With stage effect of thunder overhead Muttering words. Thereon as dead fell Paul, Yet to that unintelligible voice From heaven intelligible answer made, Pretending dialogue with some unseen High dweller in the upper air, with whom Colluding, he thenceforth his spells of power Might surer, deadlier, fling on whom he would. Sergius was then too full of youth to yield; The lusty blood in him fought off the spell; But somewhat wrought upon, no less, was he, And secretly, in mind and will, prepared To fall in weaker age a prey to Paul. A potent master Paul is in his kind, Owning some secret from us others hid, That makes our vaunts against him void and vain. I would not needlessly his curse provoke By too close quarters with him front to front. His spell on Felix I may hope to solve, Let me but have thy husband by himself, In privileged audience safe apart from Paul; I will see Felix, but Paul let me shun."

So Simon to his moody master went, And, well dispensing with preamble, said: "What will mine excellent lord Felix please Command the service of his servant in?" "Unbidden thou art present," Felix frowned. "So bidden I retire," the mage replied. "Nay, tarry," with quick wanton veer of whim, Said Felix, "tarry and declare to me, If with exertion of thy skill thou canst, What is it that this hour perturbs my thought? Answer me that, pretender to be wise, Or own thy weird pretensions nothing worth. No paltering, no evasion, doubling none In ambiguity like oracle, But instant, honest, simple, true reply; Else, I have done with all thy trumpery tricks, Haply, too, with some certain fruits thereof That thee buy little thanks, as me small joy."

"My master pleases to make hard demand, In couple with condition hard, to-day," The sorcerer, with dissembled pleasure, said. Simon full ready felt to meet his test; For, in an antechamber to the hall Of judgment, he, with Shimei too, had lurked, And, overhearing Paul's denouncement, marked The trepidation of the judge's mien. "Lord Felix suffers from an evil spell Cast on him by a wicked conjurer;" So, with deep calculation of effect, The sorcerer to the sovereign firmly said. "A hit—perhaps," said Felix, some relief Of tension to his conscience-crowded mind Welcoming already in the hint conveyed; "Repeat to me," he added, keen to hear, "Repeat to me the phrasing of the spell; That I may know it not a groping guess, But certain knowledge, what thou thus hast said."

That challenge flung to Simon's hand the clue He needed for his guidance in the maze. He sees the Roman's superstitious mind In grapple with imaginative awe Infused by recollection of those words Barbaric—of comminatory sound, Though understood not, therefore dreaded more— Which Paul, two several times, in his discourse, Had solemnly recited in his ear. "The spell," he said, "O Felix, that enthralls Thee was of three Chaldæan words composed; But one word was repeated, making four. I dare not utter those dire syllables In the fixed order which creates the spell. My wish is to undo, and not to bind."

Felix was frightened, like a little child Told ghostly stories in the dead of night; He watched and waited, with set eye intense. The conjurer, standing in struck attitude, Made with his voice an inarticulate sign Intoned in tone to thrill the listening blood. Thereon, in silence, through the opening door, With gliding motion, a familiar stole Into the chamber, which now more and more, To Felix's impressionable fears, As if a vestibule to Hades was. That noiseless minister to Simon gave Into his master's hand a rod prepared. "Hearken, lord Felix," low the conjurer said, "Hearken and heed. Well needs it thou, with me, Fail now in nothing through a mind remiss. Hear thou aright, while I aright reverse The order of the phrasing of that spell. Beware thou think it even no otherwise Than as I give it, weighing word and word. I turn the sentence end for end about, UPHARSIN, TEKEL, MENE, MENE, say; All is not done, still keep thy mind intent, And, with thine eyes now, as erst with thine ears, Watch what I do, and let thy will consent."

Therewith his wizard wand he waved in air, As who wrote viewless words upon the wind. A hollow reed the wand he wielded was, With secret seed asleep of fire enclosed. This, at the end that in his hand he held; Powder of sulphur at the other end Was hidden in the hollow of the reed. The sulphur and the fire, unconscious each Of other, had, though neighboring, since apart, Slept; for the sorcerer's minion brought the rod, As first the sorcerer held it, levelled true. But with the motion of the magian's hand, The dipping virgule sent the ember down The polished inner of its chamber-walls, And breath let in to blow it living red, Until it touched the sulphur at the tip. Issue of fume there followed, edged with flame, And wafting pungent odor from the vent, Which, woven in circlet and in crescent, seemed To knit a melting legend on the air. "So vanish and be not, thou hateful spell, And leave this late so vexéd spirit free!" With mutter of which words, the sorcerer turned To Felix, and thus farther spoke: "Breathe thou, Lord Felix, from that bond emancipate. Yet, that thou fall not unawares again Beneath its power, use well a countercharm I give thee, which, both night and day, wear thou A prophylactic to thy menaced mind. Gold—let the thought, the motive, the desire, The purpose, and the fancy, and the dream, Not leave thee nor forsake thee till thou die. The sight, the sound, the touch, the clutch, of gold Is sovereign absolution to a soul Beset like thine with fear of things to be Beyond the limit of this mortal state; But, failing that, the thought itself will serve. The thought at least must never absent be, If thou wouldst live a freeman in thy mind."

'Freedman,' he would have said, but did not dare; He had dared much already in his word, 'Freeman,' so nigh overt allusion glanced At the opprobrious quality of slave, Out of which Felix sprang to be a king. To that, contempt and hatred of a lord Served but from hard self-interest and from fear Had irresistibly pressed Simon on Beyond the bound of calculated speech. Therewith, and waiting not dismissal, both, The sorcerer and his minion, silently Slid out of presence, and left Felix there To rally as he might to his true self. But, not too trustful to his sorcery, Simon thought well to follow and confirm The influence won on Felix through his art, With worldly wisdom suited to his end. He bade Drusilla open all access Ever for Shimei to her husband's ear, And even from her own treasure help him ply Felix's avid mind with hope of gold— Assured to him through earnest oft in hand— An ample guerdon in due time to come From Paul's rich friends to buy release for Paul.

At Cæsarea, in the judgment hall That day, a solemn crisis of his life, To Felix, he not knowing, there had passed. Successfully, with sad success! he had Resisted conscience in her last attempt, Her last and greatest, to alarm a soul Sufficiently to save it from itself. At length, with the still process of the days Dulled, and besides with opiate medicines drugged, That conscience, so resisted, sank asleep, Sank dead asleep in Felix, to awake Never again. He indeed sent for Paul Afterward oft, and talked with him at large; But always only in that sordid hope— Blown to fresh flame with seasonable breath, That never failed, from Shimei, prompt in watch To play on his cupidity—the hope Of princely ransom from his prisoner won.

Such hope, so kept alive, led this bad man— Although he hated Paul for shaking him To terror, and to open shameful show Of terror, in his very pitch of pride— To palter with his prisoner, month by month, Until the end came of his long misrule. Then, hope deferred, defeated hope at last, Let loose the hatred that in leash had lain Of avarice, in the kennel of that breast, And Felix found a sullen feast for it In leaving Paul at Cæsarea bound.

[192] [193]

BOOK VII.

"TO CÆSAR."

Paul, in preferred alternative to being judged, as was proposed, by his murderous fellow-countrymen, appeals to Cæsar. He is in consequence embarked on a ship for Rome. With him sail certain kindred and friends of his, young Stephen among them. Fellow-voyagers with him are also Felix and Drusilla, fallen now from power and under cloud at Rome. Shimei and Simon the sorcerer are of the company. The voyage is described, together with some of the notable prospects of the coasts along which the vessel sails. Shimei plots against the life of Paul. His plot is thwarted by young Stephen, and the culprit is thrown into dungeon in the hold under chains.

"TO CÆSAR."

During the years of his captivity Under that wanton hand at Cæsarea, Paul's sister, with her Stephen, brought their home Thither, and there abode, for love of Paul; That they might minister to him, and be Ministered to by him in overflow Of his far more exceeding rich reward. Thither came also others of the Way, Drawn by like love, to serve the same desire.

Of these was martyr Stephen's widow, Ruth, A stately lady, with the matron's crown Of glory in her wealth of silver hair, And with the invisible pure aureole Of living saintship radiant round her brow. With her, a daughter, left to Ruth alone Among her children—wedded all beside. Her youngest-born, and fairest, was this one, Eunicé named; a gift from God to Ruth After her husband's martyrdom bestowed. Euníce bore her father's image, lined Softer with girlhood and with yielding youth, Both in her features and her character. The light that in her lovely countenance Shone lovelier, was not playful, did not flash, But sat there tempered to an equal beam, Selené-like, that one might look upon, From far or near, dwelling however long, With sense of rest and healing to the eye; You seemed to gaze upon the evening star In sole possession of a twilight sky. It was as if the father's zeal intense— Which, kindling on his way to martyrdom, Shone into brightness dazzling like the sun— Descended to the daughter, were suffused So, and so qualified, with woman's love, That it undazzling like the moon became. Eunicé, such in queenly womanhood, Already to young Stephen was betrothed; They waited only till the years should bring Full ripeness, with meet circumstance, to wed.

Mary of Magdala kinswoman was To Ruth. She, long afflicted, from before Her marriageable season, with the haunt In her of evil spirits vagabond From the abyss, had, then to woman grown, Met Jesus in His rounds of doing good And been by Him delivered from her woe. Seven demons, at His word, went forth from her, Foul inmates of a mansion passing fair. Mary to her Divine Deliverer gave Her life thenceforth one long oblation up. With other women, like herself in love Of Him, she followed that Immanuel Whithersoever He went about the world, And of her treasure lavished on His need. She stood bewailing when they crucified Her Lord, and, after, at His sepulcher The earliest, ere the breaking of the morn, Saw two fair-shining angels clothed in white, One at the head, the other at the feet, Sit where the body of the Lord had lain. These talked with Mary, who then turning saw, But knew not, Jesus, face to face with her. But Jesus to the weeping woman said: "Mary!" and, in the hearing of her name, She forthwith knew the voice that uttered it. In her delight of love, she would have touched His person, to assure still more her mind, Save that again that voice, forestalling, gave Enough assurance for such faith as hers. Mary refrained her hand, but full well knew No fleeting phantom, no dissolving show, No spirit only, angel of the dead, Stood there before her in the form of Him; But her Lord Christ Himself, His flesh and blood.

This Mary Magdalené, in such wise First to such joy delivered from such woe, Then witness of so much theophany, Thenceforward lived, unwedded to the end, A life of watching for her Lord's return, True to His promise, in the clouds of heaven; Not idle watching, watching unto prayer And unto almsdeeds to His glory done. In the due sequel of the days, she came, Bidden by her kinswoman Ruth, to share Her widow's home with her and help her peace. Thus then, the much-experienced Mary, meek With wisdom and with holy meekness wise (Her sorrow all to cheerful patience turned) Unnoticed, not unfelt, as light, as strength Unconscious, from the Source of strength, of light Daily renewed, for guidance and support To all within her happy neighborhood— She also, Mary Magdalené, came To Cæsarea, yoked in fellowship With Ruth and Rachel, ministrant to Paul.

These all, with others, still intent to ease, If but by sharing, what to Paul befell, Were minded to go with him even to Rome— When Festus, following Felix dispossessed, Sent Paul away to Cæsar's judgment-seat, Fulfilling so the wretched Shimei's fear. For—Festus asking Paul (accused afresh Before him from Jerusalem by Jews Afresh to hope reviving with the change From Felix to a different rulership): "Wilt thou hence go unto Jerusalem, And there by thine own countrymen be judged?"— The wary wise apostle, well forewarned Touching the deadly ambush, to waylay Him in the journey thither, set once more By Shimei, desperate and forlorn, had said: "I am a prisoner at the judgment-bar Of Cæsar; to my countrymen have I No wrong done, as thou knowest; if any crime Be mine, if I have perpetrated deed Worthy of death, I do not shun to die. But if of such act I be innocent, Then no man may to them deliver me. Roman am I, to Cæsar I appeal." That answer was as word omnipotent, To be unsaid, gainsaid, resisted, never; And Festus was its servant and its thrall.

There sailed a ship of Adramyttium (In Mysia of the Asian Province west, From Lesbos in a deep recess withdrawn Of bay in the Ægean, neighboring Troy) Which touched at Cæsarea in its course Coastwise, now northing on the Syrian shore. Festus on board this vessel quartered Paul, With soldiers to convoy him safe to Rome; A maniple, by a centurion Commanded, Julius named, a Roman he Worthy of the imperial name he bore. For he of clement grace was capable, And of sagacity to know a man, Though of despiséd race and charged with crime, And, knowing, yield to him his manhood's claim. Julius the profit of his virtue reaped; He, in the issue of that voyage, will Through favoring Paul save his own soul alive.

Those kin and lovers of the prisoner, who Had for his name to Cæsarea come, Would not forsake him sailing thence away; They all, in one accord of fellowship, Willed to sail with him on his way to Rome. Besides these, there was Luke, a loyal soul, Well learnéd in the lore of medicine, Who loved Paul, and with joy his right hand lent, Joining thereto the service of his eyes, To fix for the apostle, at his need, In written record, his thick-coming thoughts— Ease for those weary organs overworn With labors and with watchings; haply, too, Touched with effect from that excess of light! Historian of the voyage likewise Luke, As, guided by the heavenly-guided Paul, Who thus redeemed long prison hours else waste, Historian of the life of Christ the Lord. So many, with a man from Macedon, A faithful, Aristarchus named, made up The little company who loving hearts Linked, shield to shield, in phalanx fencing Paul. If they could serve him little on the sea, At least they could be with him there; and then, Should long delays of law, or of caprice, Hold him still bound in Rome, they would be nigh To bring him, daily, comfort of their love. So, doubting not, not fearing, all for love, These changed their fixéd gear for portable, And on that ship of Adramyttium, Facing whatever fortune unforeseen, Cheerfully sailed—to tempest and to wreck!

Scarce well bestowed within that Asian bark, Riding at anchor in her rock-fenced haven, Those Christian pilgrims felt unwonted stir Rouse round them on the crowded deck, with surge On surge of movement, of expectancy, As when a rising surf beats the sea-beach; While, huddling here, here parting, all made way To let who seemed high passengers of state Enter with gorgeous pomp and pageantry, Forerun and followed by a various train. Felix it was, in sumptuous litter borne, Drusilla with him, looking still the queen: From power they fallen, were fallen not from pride. With them, besides their troop of servitors, Came other two, strange contrasts: Simon one, The conjurer, fast to their joint fortune bound, Beginning to be gray with rime of age, As sinister grown in look through habit of guile; A little lad tripped lightly by the side Of Simon (who his evil genius looked) Leading him by the hand upon the ship. This little lad was little Felix, son Of Felix and Drusilla, and dear to them, Felix Agrippa the lad's double name. Felix went summoned from his province back To give at Rome account of his misrule. Behind the sorcerer, following in that train, Went last, as one who unattached would seem, Shimei, compelled, though prisoner not; he strove To carry lightly a too heavy heart. Felix so much from Festus had obtained, That Shimei should go forward with himself As witness and accuser both to Paul; Yet sinister suspicion shadowing him, With information laid against, the while, As the ringleader in a plot of crime. The unhappy legate would at least detach Thus from his own leagued Jewish foes, the Jew, The one Jew, who, best knowing and hating him, With the least scruple the most genius joined To crowd him falling, to the farthest fall.

Fairly the lading and unlading done, And all things ready, the good ship puts forth. The oarsmen sat in triple ranks that rose Tier above tier along the vessel's side; With cheer of voice that timed their rhythmic stroke, They, all together, many-handed, bent Over the supple oars, well-hung arow, And beat the waters into yeast and foam. The wieldy trireme answered to their will, And, past the towers and domes of Cæsarea, Along a windless way under the lee Of sea-walls fending from the bluff southwest, Pushed to the north beyond the harbor-mouth. Here the wind took her, freshening from behind, And, sail all set, they rested from the oar. Softly and swiftly, with such favoring gale, They prosper, and, along the storied coast Close cruising, soon discern the headland height, Mount Carmel, with his excellency crowned Of forest, and wide overlooking east The plain outrolled of great Esdraelon Washing with waves of green the mountain's feet— Mountain whereon, in single-handed proof, Elijah those four hundred priests of Baal Gave to contempt; and, whence descending, he, Red with indignant wrath for his Lord God, By the brook Kishon slew them to His name. This Paul remembered, as he passed; and deemed He saw, hallowing the hills of Nazareth, A halo from the childhood of the Lord. From horn to horn across a crescent bay, Embosomed by its arc of shore that curved From Carmel round to Ptolemais north, Faring, they could, well inland gazing, catch A glimpse that vanished of the shapely cone Of Tabor soaring in his Syrian blue. Still onward, they next day the ancient seat Of famous Sidon in Phœnicia reached— Long ruined now, with her twin city Tyre; Then, paired with her as mistress of the main, Sidon sat leaning on her promontory, Diffused along its northward-sliding slopes, Like a luxurious queen on her divan. Her sailors drove her keels to every haven, And fetched her home the spoil of every clime. To Farthest Thulé was the ocean wave White with her sails or spumy to her oars.

Felix's hope of splendid bribe from Paul Was brighter, that, of those who brought him cheer In prison, some from wealthy Sidon came. Here the ship touching, Julius, of his grace, Granted to Paul the freedom of the shore. With grateful gladness there, Sidonian friends, Women and men, with children, welcome him. Full in mid-winter, lo, a moment's spring! So did a sudden-blossoming scene of home Smile briefly bright about this homeless man, This prisoner of the Lord—for the Lord's sake, And for his own sake, dear—most human heart! In whom his office of apostle wrought To heighten, not to hurt, the faculty, As it left whole the lovely need, of love. He went thence clothed upon the more with sense Of love his from so many, like a shield Barring his heart from harm; and in his heart Love buoyant more to bear what harm must fall.

From Sidon sailing, they, still northward driven By wind that would not let them as they wished Southwestward to the south of Cyprus isle Win with right way the Mysian port, their aim— So hindered, those Greek seamen warp their wake With zigzag steering over whitening waves, Until they feel that current of the sea, Northwestward with perpetual ocean-stream Washing the Cyprian shore to easternmost, Thence veering toward the mainland, and along The Asian border drawing to the west. There, on such river in the ocean borne Whither they will against a wind adverse, They, wise with much experience of the sea, Yet in the lee of neighboring Cyprus seek A pathway sheltered from that roughening wind. So, forward fairly, the Cilician sea They traverse, with the mountains on their left, Sheer through the length of sunny Cyprus drawn, Building a sea-wall, to break off the wind. Over against, to be descried, though far— Well by two hearts on board that vessel felt, Paul and his sister Rachel—to the north, Lay the long reach of the Cilician shore. Those (thither strained their homeward-yearning eyes) There, tearful, saw remembered Taurus tower; Whence river Cydnus rushing snow-cold down, Wild from his mountain to the stretched-out plain, Tames him his torrent to a pace more even; And yields to be a navigable stream For Tarsus, cleft two-fold, upon his banks, A seaboard city inland from the sea.

Dear places of the playtime of their youth! Gray river, with its everlasting flood, Libation from the mountain to the sea; The wharves, the ships, the sailors, travelled men, Motley in garb and polyglot in speech; The lading landed or to be embarked— Mysterious bales of costly merchandise Tempting to guess what treasures might be there!— The hallowed sabbath in that Hebrew home Islanded in its sea of heathenism! The sabbath seasons in the synagogue! The reverend Scriptures of the Jewish law, By father and by mother taught to them, So diligently taught, day after day, And talked of in their ears, alike when they Sat in their house and when they walked abroad, And when they laid them down and when they rose; Beheld too for a sign bound on the hand, Likewise for frontlets worn between the eyes!— All these things like a flood-tide of the sea Swelled on those homesick kindred hearts, while they, Brother and sister, distant many years From what they saw, from what much more they felt, Seen or unseen, on that familiar shore, Alien and heathen, yet, being native, sweet, Lapsed into musing of the pensive past. Half they in words, but half in silence, mused.

"Far-off by years, yet more by difference far," Said Paul to Rachel, "are we two withdrawn From what we were in our Cilician home. That dearer is to us to dream of so, Remembering and imagining, than it were To see; it is not what we knew it once, With the child's heart we carried in us then. We should not find the places that we loved; Nay, for we should not know them—with these eyes. They have not so much changed, but we have changed."

"Yea, doubtless, changed we are," Rachel replied; "Yet, I at least, O Saul, not so much changed But that it would delight me still to see Those haunts of happy childhood—more endeared To me, as to my brother more, I know, From father's and mother's memory hovering there. I loved my mother and I honored her, But my own motherhood has taught me how I might have better loved and honored her!"

"We must not at past failures vainly pine"— So Paul, to Rachel sorrowing tenderly— "But rather let them make us wiser now. Thy lesson, sister, let it teach us both How to be children to our Father God. These earthly kinships all are parable Of the enduring kinships of the skies. We are to be to God, as children dear, What parents would their children were to them, So full of love with fear, of trust with heed, And imitators of His heavenly ways."

"And is it, brother," Rachel gently asked, "Indeed to thee so easy ever thus To lose the earthly in the heavenly thought, And in the symbol find the symbolized, That only, Saul? It is not so with me. I love the letter, and I cling to it— A little; at least when it is so fair As I have found it in my motherhood. The spirit is far fairer, I suppose, But God has made this letter 'very good'!"

Rachel spoke thus with deprecation sweet, The while a little liquid sparkle played Of loving humor in her eyes half turned Toward Stephen sitting nigh them but apart; He and Eunicé sat together there.

"Cling to thy lovely letter," Paul replied, "'A little,' as thou sayest it, not too much— The 'little,' as the 'not too much,' God's will For thee, my sister; and, a paradox! The little will be more when not too much. It is the spirit makes the letter dear, Or dearest, as it is itself more dear. We better love the earthly images Of things in heaven, when we those heavenly things Themselves more than their loveliest shadows love."

"O brother," Rachel—suddenly her voice Sunk to a vibrant low intensity Of accent—said, hands clasped and eyes upturned To him, "O brother, when such things thou sayest, I tremble with unspeakable desire To be what one must be to think such things. But it is all too wonderful for me. That inspiration of the Holy Ghost Whereby thou knowest what else thou wouldst not know— Perhaps that helps thee be, as well as know?"

"Nay, sister," Paul replied, "it is not so. That inspiration is a gift to me For knowing only, not for being. Yea, And even my gift to know is not for me, More than for thee, my Rachel, and for all. It is that all may know, God makes me know. I profit by my awful trust from God Of farther vision in His mysteries, Only as I a faithful steward am To part to others what I hold from Him: Freely I have received freely to give. But besides this there is a grace of God In Jesus by the Holy Spirit given, That comes alike to all obedient souls To help them in the life of holiness. The habit of the heavenly mind which thou Attributest to me in what thou askest, This I have learned, if it indeed be mine, By being to the Spirit teachable, Who teaches all as fast as each will learn. He could far faster teach us, and He would, If only we were teachable enough. Alas, we strangely hold the flood-gate down Not to let all the waiting fulness in. But what of holy willingness I have He gives, Who worketh in me both to will And work, for the good pleasure of His name."

"Amen!" breathed Rachel, in devout accord With Paul's ascription of all good to Him.

By this, the night had settled on the sea, An interlunar night bereft of stars, For the dark azure of the deep was black To blackness of the overhanging heaven Hung thick with clouds. "See," Rachel added soon, "How the sky lowers! God fend us all from storm! Good night, my brother. David's word for me, 'In peace will I both lay me down and sleep, For Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell In safety.'" "Yea, in safety also here, O sister," Paul said; "for the sea is His, He holds it in the hollow of His hand." Brother and sister parted with a kiss— Kiss from the kindred habit of old time Dear, but far dearer in a dearer love, And, with some sense of reconcilement, sweet. Therewith the sister to her pillow went; But Paul abode to vigil on the deck. He pacing to and fro, the night wore on, And one by one his fellow-passengers Withdrawing left him more and more alone.

A sheen of phosphorescence on the sea Kindled along the running vessel's side, And drew a trail of brilliance in her wake, Splendid a moment and then vanishing, Devoured by the immensity of dark Which made it for that moment so intense. Paul saw this, less admiring what he saw, Beautiful though it was and wonderful, Than musing what it seemed to mean for him: 'So my soul on her voyage through the world Lights her own pathway as she moves along; Bright ever where she is she makes her place, And ever plunges on into the dark Before her; but her latter end is light!'

Meanwhile, of all the lingerers on the deck Amid that darkness, only two remained. These, as they might, watched him now bending there In wistful gaze over the vessel's side Downward into the waters weird below: Stephen was one; the other, Shimei. But Shimei had crept later on the deck, When the increasing dark veiled all from view Save what was moving or what stood upright; So he knew not of Stephen now reclined, Motionless in a trance of pleasant dream, There where Eunicé left him, when she too With Rachel from the open night retired. The youth had lapped him in a happy muse Of memory of the things they twain that eve Had shared in converse; it was like twilight Prolonging softer the full light of day. Shimei thought darkly: 'Could yon leaning form Lean farther, and embrace indeed the wave He yearns toward, this enticing murky night! There were redemption ready-wrought for me— Who might be spared, forsooth, accusing whom His own forestalling conscience had condemned, (So it should look!) and forced him on to die. "Vengeance is mine and recompense," as saith Our Moses, hinting of a moment when "Their foot shall slide." Ha! Ha! It fits the case! "Their foot shall slide!" Feet may be brought to slide! The deck is slippery with the spray; a tip Forward above, with a trip backward, so, From underneath'—and Shimei acted out In pantomimic gesture his quick thought; 'An accidental movement, were it seen, But it would not be seen. A fine dark night, No moon, no stars, and the whole hollow sky Ink-black with clouds that when ere long they break Will spit ink-rain into an inky sea! Finger of God! It were impiety Not to obey a pointing such as this.' His propense thought plunged him a step toward Paul. Stephen hereon, stretched out upon the deck, Marking the sinister action of the man Shadowed upon the dark, a denser dark, Noiselessly gathered up his members all, Ready to rush at need to rescue, yet Reserved, alert, to watch and to await, Like leopard couchant tense in poise to spring.

That instant, a new dimness in the dark, A swimming outline, figure of a man Approaching, with a rustle of approach Hinted, no more, amid the rising wind. This Stephen knew, and Shimei, both at once. Shimei recoiled; he thought, 'Well paused for me! I might have been detected, after all!' Then, gliding toward that shadowy moving form, He met—a Roman soldier, front to front, Nigh Stephen where he lay in ambuscade Unpurposed, but now vigilant all ear For what might pass between those men so met. A sudden shift of phase to Shimei's thought, In altered phase persistent still the same. The desperate fancy seized him to essay Corrupting that custodian of Paul.

A helpless fixed fatuity of hate, A dull insistent prodding from despair, Robbed him of reason, while of cunning not: He could warp wisely toward an end unwise. Suspected by the Roman, by the Jew No longer trusted as of old—since seen, Those years at Cæsarea, changed and chilled So from his pristine ardor in pursuit Of Paul—Shimei saw nothing now before Him in the future but the nearing close In a blind alley, opening none beyond, Of the strait way wherein perforce he walked. One gleam of light, of possible light, ahead, He now descried. If Paul could somehow be Utterly cancelled from his case, no Paul Anywhere longer in the world, and if, Ah, if, O rapture! Paul could disappear Confessing guilt by seeming suicide— That were the one deliverance left to hope, Hope if forlorn, at least, at least, a hope. Shimei his foot set softly in the snare.

With slow and sly ambages of approach, He sounded if the soldier were of stuff To be in safety tampered with, and how. Close at his feet, but guarded from their touch By a low heap of cordage coiled between, There Stephen lay the while, a breathless corpse, And listened—with his body and his mind Both utterly all organ to attend— As Shimei with that shifty cunning his, Insidious, like the entrance of disease, Wormed him into the bosom of his man, Instilling the temptation, sweet with bribe, To make away with his Jew prisoner. It would but give the wretch's wish effect— So Shimei glozed with subtle speciousness— Should now his gentle keeper intervene To end the endless waverings of a mind On self-destruction bent, a suicide Who only lacked the courage of despair, By tossing Paul headforemost overboard. Three points thereby were gained, and nothing lost: A criminal would meet his just desert, One fain to die his heart's desire obtain, And he, the soldier, no one wiser, take The profit, gold in hand, of a good deed. "Thou knowest," the tempter said, "the feel of gold, The weight," and therewith thrust some pieces broad Into the soldier's hand, the antepast And warrant of a ready rich reward. If question should arise involving him, Why, nothing easier than to say and swear, The prisoner, conscious of his guilt, and now Quite at the end of all his hopes by wile, Had used the favoring cover of the night To make a sudden spring into the brine. He, heedful of his duty and his charge, Had promptly put the utmost effort forth To seize him, and defeat the dire attempt. But desperation was too masterful In force and quickness, to be so forestalled. The fates and furies buoyed him overboard And plumped him to the bottom of the deep. Then, were his single witness held in doubt, Why, by good luck, here was a passenger Who saw the fellow fetch his frenzied leap, And saw his watchman hold him back in vain; He, Shimei, would not fail him at the pinch, To swear him clear of any touch of blame.

The soldier, to this word, had little spoke, Nothing that might import his secret thought, Heed giving in blank silence, ominous, Or hopeful, for his tempter, dubious which. Now he spoke, saying: "Glibly dost thou talk, Making the task light, laughable the risk. Know it is perilous business, this of thine. Yon Paul appears a prisoner of note, Whom our centurion, for his reasons, treats With favor"—"For his reasons, yea; well said," Interposed Shimei; "but such reasons fail Promptly when the purse fails that yields them. End Already, as I know, was reached with Paul, When he at Sidon bought his leave to land, Hoping a rescue." "But," the soldier said, "Paul seems indeed to be a worthy man." "A wise head, thou," the wily Jew replied; "'Seems,'—thou hast once more hit it in that word! Fair-seeming truly, rotten at the core." "However that may be," the guard rejoined, "Rotten or sound the man, it were a deed, A bold deed, deed of risk and price, to do What thou requirest." 'Willing,' Shimei thought, 'Willing, but greedy; bid for higher pay! Bait him his fill, no time for higgling now.' He said: "Bold enterprises to the bold. Yea, there is risk; no need to make it small; It is a soldier I am talking with. But I will amply match the risk with wage. Thy peril stint not thou, I not thy pay. Here is a scrip stuffed out with yellow gold, Test it for weight, thou earnest it all this night."

The soldier had but meant to parley: now This toying with temptation by the touch, Added to his long dalliance through the ear, Proved penetrant, seductive, so beyond His forethought, that he stood amazed, appalled, Listening, to feel how much he was enticed. He might have yielded to the sorcery, But Stephen, with an instant instinct wise, Sudden sprang, speechless, imminent, to his feet. The soldier at the apparition took A fine air of indignant virtue on. "Rascal," said he, "I have trolled thee well along From point to point and let thee talk and talk, And my palm tickle with the touch of gold, Or counterfeit of gold, thou counterfeit Of man! Thou hast shown thyself for what thou art. Thy proffered bribe I keep for proof of thee; But thou, thou goest with me my prisoner. A night in irons down in the deepest hold May give thee waking dreams thy morrow's chance With the centurion hardly will dispel!" Therewith he stalked off Shimei, stunned to dumb And dizzy, with that deafening crack of doom.

Scarce less astonished and scarce less dismayed, Stephen stood stricken on the staggering deck; The roaring of the unregarded wind Less noisy than the tumult of his thoughts. The contrast of the horror of such crime To the sweet peace and pleasure he but now Was tasting in the hallowing afterglow Of those bright moments with Euníce spent; The frightful danger overpast for Paul; The retribution, like a thunderbolt, Fallen on Shimei; these, with remembrance mixed Of what the chiliarch, wiser than he knew, Said, touching Shimei with that letter charged Of sinister import to Cæsarea, "He carries his own sentence thither hence"— 'Unwritten sentence in his bosom, yea, He carried, and he carries, wretched man!' Thought Stephen. 'And what dire things in the world! And God from heaven beholds and suffers all! And what will be the end, if ever end, Of all this tale of wickedness with woe Drawn out from age to age, through clime and clime!'

Such thoughts on thoughts held Stephen hanging there Unnoted minutes, till the dash of rain In great drops threatening deluge smote his face Like hailstones, and awoke him to the world. At the same moment, Paul—who had not dreamed Of the swift, muffled, darkling tragedy Of plot and peril, shame and crime and doom, Just acted nigh him in that theater, And microcosm afloat of the wide world— Broke up the long lull of his reverie Above the running waters, heard, scarce seen, Beneath him, by the hasting vessel's side— As if a symbol of the mystery Of things, an-hungered to devour all thought!— And turned to shroud him from the weather wild. The uncle and the nephew met, but spoke Only a peace and farewell for the night; Stephen not finding in his heart to break To Paul the ill good news of what had passed.

With the rain falling, soon the wind was laid, Planed was the sea, and cleansed of cloud the sky. Bright the stars looked innumerably down On the ship smoothly sped her prosperous way.

[226] [227]

BOOK VIII.

SHIMEI BEFORE JULIUS.

The centurion Julius, having in charge the prisoners on board including Paul, examines Shimei, accused of his crime by the sentinel whom the crafty Hebrew had sought to bribe. Shimei makes a desperate effort to clear himself by bringing a countercharge against Paul of the same murderous attempt through bribe upon his, Shimei's, life. Almost on the point of succeeding, he is confronted first with Felix, then with Stephen, last with Paul—to his complete undoing.

SHIMEI BEFORE JULIUS.

The waking dreams of Shimei, in his chains And darkness, were not altogether those Foreshadowed by the soldier bitterly To him—dreams of foreboding and despair Only; that Roman had not learned that Jew. The touch and prick of uttermost dismay Stung him to one more struggle for himself. Ere Julius, with the morning, had him forth To inquest from his dungeon, that quick brain Had ripe and ready, conjured up in thought, For self-defense, with snare involved for Paul, A desperate last compacture of deceit; Desperate, yet deftly woven, and staggering, Till the contriver was now quite undone, Confronted with ascendant truth and power.

"What sayest thou, Jew," with challenge lowering stern, Asked the centurion of his prisoner, "In answer to the charge against thee laid?" "What say?" with shrug of shoulder Shimei said; "Why, that thy soldier was too strong for me, And haled me and bestowed me as he would, While at his leisure then his tale he told, Forestalling mine, to prepossess thine ear. I come too late; for I should speak in vain." "Worse than in vain such words as those thou speakest. Out on thine insolence, thou Hebrew dog!" Savagely the centurion said. "'Too late'! 'Too late'! Know, Jew, too late it never is, Where Roman justice undertakes, for one Accused of crime to answer for himself. True judge's ear cannot be 'prepossessed.' Even now, deserving, as thou art, to be Buffeted, rather than aught further heard, Speak on and say thy say; but give good heed Thou curb thy tongue from insolence and lies."

"From lying I shall have no need my tongue To guard," said Shimei; "but from insolence— Beseech thy grace, a plain blunt man am I, Will it be insolence, if I inquire What is the crime that I am charged withal?" Curtly the Roman said: "Attempt to bribe A soldier, and a Roman soldier he, To break his oath and be a murderer." "No stint of generous measure to the charge," Said Shimei; "yet I ought not to complain, I, who a charge of ampler measure would Myself have brought (as well as he knew who now, And for that very cause, accuses me) Had I been first; and first I should have been, But for duress, and also this he knew, Thence the duress—outrageous act from him, Lese-majesty committed against thee!— I say, had I beforehand been with him To gain thine ear and a foul plot disclose."

The soldier stood in stupid blank amaze, With silence by his discipline enforced, To hear this frontless impudence of fraud. He so much looked the guilt in slant implied By Shimei, that no marvel Julius glanced From one to the other of the two, perplexed, Each the accuser and accused of each. His soldier was a trusty man supposed; The Jew came clouded and suspect as false: But always it was possible repute Accredited a man, or blamed, amiss. "Thou riddlest like an oracle: be plain And outright," so to Shimei Julius spoke. "Thou hast vaguely shadowed some worse shape of crime Thou couldst reveal than that which seems revealed, Accused to thee. What could be worse misdeed Than breach attempted of a soldier's faith To purchase murder?" "Breach accomplished," said Shimei, "were worse; and, in a just assay, Worse to attaint the honor of a man Upright and good and true, and of him make A criminal worthy of death, and doomed As such to die: yea, a far darker crime Than were purveyal of the needed stroke To end a little earlier some base life, Forfeit at any rate by guilt, and fain Itself to court such refuge from despair. Still more were worse the crime whereof I speak, Let the man so attainted in his truth Be one that moment bearing office grave As an accuser and a witness sworn Against such very criminal himself. Then is the crime no longer merely crime Against the single man however just, But crime against justice itself and law, And even against the outraged human race."

There was a stumbling incongruity— Blasphemous, had it been less whimsical, Whimsical, had it been less blasphemous— Between the man himself and what he said. His words were noble, or had noble been But that the ignoble man who uttered them Gainsaid them with the whole of what he was.

The soldier more and more astounded stood, Or cowered, say rather, underneath the frown Beetling and imminent of falsehood such, Mountainous high, and like a mountain set Immovable. (Immovable it seemed, But at its heart with fear was tremulous, And, to the proper breath, would presently Melt, like cloud-mountain massed of misty stone To the wind's touch.) As in a nightmare, he Could no least gesture move to give the lie, Browbeaten half to disbelieve himself.

Julius, nonplussed to see his soldier's air Almost confessing judgment on himself, Skeptic, yet therewithal impressed despite, Imposed on even, by a mock-majesty, The specious counterfeit of virtue wroth But, though wroth, calm in conscious innocence, Couched in the lofty words of Shimei, While by his aspect blatantly belied— Julius, thus wondering, curious, frowned and said: "Cease from preamble, and forth with thy charge! No further swelling phrases, large and vague; But facts—or fictions—in plain terms and few."

Audience at length prepared, so Shimei deemed, His story, well before prepared, he told: "I lingered late last night upon the deck: Slow pacing up and down for exercise, I strict bethought me how I best might quit The serious task committed to my hands Of seeking sentence on a criminal There at the fountain and prime spring of law And justice, that august tribunal last, The imperial seat at Rome. While I thus mused, The Providence that, dark sometimes and slow, As to us seems, does after all pursue The flying footsteps of foul crime with scourge, Or human vengeance help to overtake, Showed me a light, which, alas, quickly then By envious evil powers in turn was quenched. For it so fell that in the exceeding dark, Unseen, I overheard the prisoner Paul Broach a new plot of bribery and wrong. He promised to the soldier keeping him Large money—earnest offered, and received, I plainly heard it clink from hand to hand." The soldier winced beneath the meaning glance Shot at himself wherewith the subtile Jew Spoke these last words; winced, and sore wished, too late, That, as he first had purposed, he had shown In proof to the centurion Shimei's gold Shoved for a bribe into his hand, but here Adroitly turned to use against himself. What if his captain, prompted by such hint, Should now demand to see that dastard gold! He had been silent touching it because His mere possession of it would, he felt, Look too much like his paltering with a price; But, after Shimei's words, to have it found Upon him! With such disconcerting thoughts, The soldier listened like a criminal, As Shimei with calm iteration said:— "Thus would Paul buy his keeper to forswear Against the one man he most feared, myself, That I had sought to bribe a soldier's faith, Bargaining with him to fling overboard His prisoner and so rid him from the world. 'Thou sawest,' Paul told the soldier, 'how at Sidon An ample sum was put into his hands By wealthy friends there': he all this now pledged To be his keeper's, no denary short, If but he would traduce me thus, and so Both break the damning power I else could wield Against him, and, besides, my life destroy. Thy soldier yielded: grievous wrong indeed, Yet him I can forgive, for less as bribed He faltered, than as overcome he fell. Paul is the master of an evil art To make his subject firmly hold for true What, free from sorcery, he would know was false. He, in the very act and article Of sketching what his victim was on me To father, the illusion could in him Produce of hearing his own words from me. A trick Paul has of vocal mimicry— Sleight of longiloquence, whereby he throws To distance, as may like, his uttered words, To make them seem another's, not his own— Aided him here; I hardly knew, myself, Hearing him speak, but that the voice was mine. Thus I account for it, that, without blame So much to him himself, he being deceived, This worthy soldier, whom I never wronged, Doubtless an honest fellow in the main, Should in effect malign me so to thee.

"In my simplicity, and in my faith Undoubting that, confronted fair with truth, Falsehood must needs take on its proper shape, Then shrivel, ashamed to be at all, I sprang Suddenly up, discovered to the pair. I never dreamed but they would at my feet Fall, and for mercy sue; which Shimei— Soft-hearted ever for another, where Only himself is wronged, however hard He steel his heart where stake is public good— Had doubtless weakly granted out of hand. But, to my wonder, and, I own, dismay— This for the moment, but that weakness passed— At a quick sign from Paul, the soldier seized Me and consigned to dungeon for the night. What followed more on deck, I can but guess. I doubt not Paul completed work begun In this poor soldier's mind, and fixed his faith That all had happened as he made report. I pray thee judge his error lightly; he Was of another's will, against his own, Possessed, loth pervert of a power malign."

The soldier, hearing, was now witched indeed. Partly his sense of flaw in rectitude— Then suffered when he paltered with the bribe Proffered by Shimei—shook him; and partly he Descried a shift of refuge for himself From dreaded blame at his centurion's hands— Should Julius, as looked likely more and more, At length accept the Hebrew's tale for true— In letting it appear that Paul in fact Had wrought upon him so as Shimei said, To cheat him into honest misbelief. This was the deeply calculated hope Wherein that glozer, plotting as he went With versatile adjustment to his need— Need shifting, point by point, from phase to phase— Provided for the soldier his escape From the necessity of holding fast, In self-defence, to his first testimony. Thus, if all prospered, Shimei, yea, might yet Save to himself the future chance to use This soldier, more amenable to use.

Paul's keeper, thus prepared to falter, heard Ambiguous challenge from the officer: "What sayest thou, soldier? Wast beside thyself? Dazed, hast thou then denounced the innocent man?" Whereto ambiguous answer thus he framed: "If I have done so, it was in excess And haste of zeal to do a soldier's duty, Misapprehended under wicked spell." "Thou art not sure? A witness should be sure; More, be he one denouncing deeds essayed Worthy of death; most, if besides he add An office of the executioner." Thus the centurion to his soldier spoke, Who answered, shuffling: "If my senses were Rightly my own last night, I told thee true; But if I was usurped by sorcery To see and hear amiss—why, who can say?"

"Go find lord Felix, and, due worship paid, Pray him come hither for a need that waits," So Julius made his soldier messenger. "Grieving to trouble thee so far," he next To Felix, soon appearing, said: "I sent To ask thee of the Jew in presence here. Knowest thou aught of him that might resolve A doubt how much he be to trust for true?" Shimei shrank visibly, while Felix, glad To vent his hatred of the pander, spoke: "As many as his words, so many lies; Trust him thou mayest—to never speak the truth." Wherewith the haughty freedman on his heel Turned, as disdaining to use tongue or ear Further in such a cause, and disappeared. Julius in silence looked a questioning pause At Shimei, who risked parrying answer, thus: "Lord Felix is a disappointed man, Who, if so soured, is gently to be judged. Yet were it better he had stooped to speak By instance, named occasion, wherein I Had seemed to fail matching my words with deeds. I own I sought to serve him in his need; And if, forsooth, when he his hold on power Felt slipping from his hands, I undertook Freely, in succor of his fainting mind, Somewhat beyond my strength to bring to pass, In reconcilement of my countrymen Against his sway unwontedly aggrieved— Why, I am sorry; but failed promises, Made in good faith, should not be reckoned lies."

There seemed to the centurion measure enough Of reason in what Shimei so inferred, If truly he inferred, to leave the doubt Still unresolved with which he was perplexed.

While the diversion of the incident With Felix, and of Shimei's parrying, passed, The soldier, so released to cast about At leisure, thought of Stephen standing up, In that so Sphinx-like silence, startlingly, Beside him, in the darkness on the deck, At just the fatal point of his own poise For the returnless plunge in the abyss; That Hebrew youth would doubtless testify To Shimei's damning;—to his own as well? That were to think of! What would Stephen say? Must it not cloud his own clear truth and faith, To have it told how he abode so long A hearkener to temptation; how he took Gold as for bribe, and greedy seemed of more? Why had he not been first to speak of that? Wisest it looked to him not to invoke A witness of so much uncertain power To bring his own behavior into doubt. And Shimei showed such master of his part, Equal to shifting all appearances This way or that, as best would serve himself, Promised so fair to make his side prevail, Were it not well to choose the chance with him? The soldier fixed to stake on Stephen naught.

Shimei meantime had otherwise bethought Himself of Stephen—fearing, yet with hope Prevailing over fear: hardly would he, The soldier, risk to call such witness in.

Those twain diversely so with the same thought Secretly busy, the centurion— Whether by some unconscious sympathy His mind drawn into current following theirs, Like idle sea-drift in the wake of ships— Startled them both alike with his next word: "That Hebrew lad, Stephen they call him, go Fetch him; say, 'Come with me,' and no word more." This to the soldier, who soon brought the youth. "Some kin thou to the prisoner Paul, I think?" Said the centurion. "Sister's son," said he. "I had thee well reported of, my lad; Belie not thy good fame, but answer true," Julius to Stephen spoke, adjuring him. "Knowest thou aught, of thine own eye or ear, How Paul thy kinsman was bestead last night?"

Now Stephen had not yet to Paul declared Aught of the strange disclosures of the night. Seeing here the plotter of that nameless deed Demoniac, in the part of one accused, Witnessed against with damning testimony, The soldier's, all-sufficing for his doom, Before a judge as Roman sure to be Swift in his sentence upon such a crime— Prompt in his secret mind Stephen resolved, As likeliest best to please his kinsman Paul, Not to go further than compelled, to add Superfluous proof against the wretched man.

Sincerely wretched now indeed once more Shimei appeared; effrontery of fraud And his vain confidence of hope forlorn Abashed in him, intolerably rebuked— Not more by this access of evidence (Unlooked for, since that muzzle to his mouth Had so well served to hold the soldier mute From mention of the Hebrew lad)—not more Abashed thus and rebuked, than by the mere Aspect of the clear innocence and truth And virtue, honor and high mind, in fair And noble person there embodied seen In Stephen beamy with his taintless youth. Was it some promise of retrieving yet Possible for this soul, so lost to good, That, broken from that festive confidence Once his in the omnipotence of fraud To answer all his ends, he thus should feel Pain in the neighborhood of nobleness? Unconsciously so working, like a wand Wielded that cancels a magician's spell, To shame back wretched Shimei to himself, Nor ever guessing, in his guileless mind, Of possible other posture to affairs Than full exposure of the criminal Already reached, no need of word from him— Stephen to Julius frugally replied: "Paul's case was happy, sir, if this thou meanest, How fared he in the hap which him befell;" Then, conscious of a look not satisfied In Julius, added: "If instead thou meanest What hap was threatened him but came to naught, Then I shall need to answer otherwise." "This I would learn," said Julius, "dost thou know, Of certain knowledge, thine own eye or ear, Where Paul was, and what doing, through the hours Of last night's darkness? How was he bestead? That tell me, if thou knowest, naught else but that. Fact, first; thereafter, fancy—if at all."

A little puzzled, but withal relieved, Not to be witness against Shimei, "It happened," Stephen said, "that as the dark Drew on, Paul with his sister Rachel talked, They two apart; but nigh at hand I sat, With others, on the deck. As the night waxed, With darkness from the still-withdrawing sun, And then from clouds that blotted out the stars, Almost all went to covert one by one; But Paul abode, and I abode with him. Yet were we from each other separate, And Paul perhaps knew not that I was nigh; But I lay watching him and nursed my thoughts. At first he paced, as musing, up and down, Then, still alone, and still as musing, leaned, In absent long oblivion of himself, Over the vessel's side—into the sea Gazing, like one who read a mystic book. This and naught else he did, until a dash Of rain-drops shredded from the tempest broke His reverie; and then both he and I, Meeting a moment but to say good-night, Housed us for the forgetfulness of sleep."

"Thou hast told me all? Communication none Between Paul and this soldier keeping him?" Straitly of Stephen the centurion asked, With eye askance on Shimei shrinking there. "With no one," Stephen answered, "spake Paul word, After that converse with his sister, till I met him face to face and changed good night."

"Thou hadst some fancy other than thy fact," Said Julius now to Stephen, "some surmise As seemed concerning danger threatened Paul"— But Shimei dimmed so visibly to worse Confession of dismay in countenance, That Julius checked the challenge on his lips, And, turning, said to Shimei: "Need we more? Or art unmasked to thy contentment, Jew? Shall I bid hither Paul, forsooth, and let Thee face the uncle, since the nephew so, Simply to see, thy gullet fills with gall, And twists thy wizened features all awry? Aye, for meseems it were a happy thought, Go, lad, and call thy kinsman hither straight. Stay, hast thou seen him since last night's farewell?" "Nay," answered Stephen. "Well!" the Roman said; "So tell him nothing now of what is here. Say only, 'The centurion wishes thee'; Haste, bring him." Stephen soon returned with Paul, Who wondered, knowing naught of all, to see What the encounter was, for him prepared.

Not till now ever, since the fateful time When, buoyant with the sense of his reprieve Won for a season from the contact loathed Of Shimei, Paul rode forth Damascus-ward, Had they two in such mutual imminence met. Paul looked at Shimei now, not with regard That, like a bayonet fixed, thrust him aloof, Or icily transpierced him pitiless; But in a gentle pathos of surprise, With sorrow yearning to be sympathy— Reciprocal forgiveness interchanged Between them, and all difference reconciled: A melting heaven of cloudless April blue Ready to weep suffusion of warm tears, The aspect seemed of Paul on Shimei turned. Good will, such wealth, expressed, must needs good will Responsive find, or, failing that, create! But Shimei did not take the look benign Of Paul, to feel its vernal power; downcast His eyes he dropped and missed the virtue shed— Missed, yet not so as not some gracious force, Ungraciously, ill knowing, to admit.

"Thou knowest this fellow-countryman of thine?" To the apostle speaking, Julius said. "I know him, yea," said Paul. "And knowest perhaps," Said Julius, further sounding, "what the chance Of mischief from him thou hast late escaped?" "Nay, but not yet have I, I trow," Paul said, "Escaped the evil he fain would bring on me. He hates me, and, if but he could, he would Quite rid me from the world; that know I well." "But knowest thou," the centurion pressed, "how he Plotted last night to have thee overboard To wrestle, swimming, with the swirling sea?" "Nay," Paul said, "nay; I knew not that." He spoke Without surprise couched in his tone; far less, Horror or fear expressed in look or act; No sidelong stab at Shimei from his eye; Only some sadness, with the patience, dashed The weariness with which he spoke. "And yet— And yet," he added, half as if he would Extenuate what he could, "it is his way, The natural way in which he works his will. His will I well can understand, though not, Not so, his way. From that I was averse Ever, but once I had myself his will." "Thou canst not mean his will to get Paul slain," Baffled, the Roman said. "Nay, but his will To persecute and utterly to destroy," Said Paul, "the Name, and all that own the Name, Of my Lord Jesus Christ from off the earth."

At that Name, thus with loyal love confessed, The hoarded hatred, deep in Shimei's heart, Toward Jesus, which so long had fed and fired The embers of the hatred his for Paul, Stirred angrily; it almost overcame The cringing craven personal fear in him. Though he indeed spoke not, uttered no sound, There passed upon his visage and his port A change, from abject while malign, to look Malign more, and less abject, fierce and fell. It was a strange transfiguration wrought, An horrible redemption thus achieved— From what before one only could despise To what one now, forsooth, might reprobate! The quite-collapsed late liar and poltroon Rallied to a resistant attitude, Which stiffened and grew hard like adamant, While further Julius thus his wiles exposed: "The 'way' of this thy fellow-countryman, O Paul, thou hast yet, I judge, in full to learn. When, by the soldier whom he sought to bribe For thy destruction, of his crime accused To me, how, thinkest thou, he would purge himself? Why, by persuading me that Paul, instead, Had himself bought his keeper to forswear Against him, Shimei, such foul plot to slay. Hold I not well thou hadst something still to learn Of the unsounded depths his 'way' seeks out?"

Julius said this with look on Shimei fixed, Full of the scorn he felt, each moment more. Like the skilled slinger toying with his stone Swung round and round in air, full length of sway, Through circles viewless swift, but in its pouch Uneasy, at his leisure still delayed For surer aim and fiercer flight at last, And that, the while, the wielder may prolong Both his delight of vengeance tasted so, And his foe's fear accenting his delight; Thus Julius, dallying, teased to wrath his scorn, More threatening as in luxury of reserve Suspended from the outbreak yet to fall.

The while the scornful Roman's wroth regard Fixed as if caustic fangs upon the Jew, The Jew, with stoic endurance, steeled himself To take it without blenching. Full well felt Through all his members was that branding look; Though his eyes still were downward bent, as when He dropped them to refuse Paul's sweet good will. But suddenly now, he one first furtive glance Lifting, as if unwillingly, to Paul, Shimei takes on a violent change reverse. A wave of abjectness swept over him That drenched, that drowned, his evil hardihood And wrecked him to a ruin of himself.

Julius who saw this change had also seen Shimei's stolen glance at Paul; he himself now Turned toward the apostle with inquiring eye.

What he saw seized him and usurped his mind— His passion with a mightier passion quelled, Or to another, higher, key transposed: The wrathful scorn that had toward Shimei blazed Became a rapt admiring awe of Paul. For there Paul stood, the meek and lowly mien, The sadness and the patience, not laid by, But an unconscious air of majesty Enduing him like a clear transpicuous veil, Self-luminous so with cleansed indignant zeal For God and truth and righteousness outraged, That he was fair and fearful to behold. God had made him a Sinai round whose top A silent thunder boomed and lightnings played. White holiness burned on his brow, a flame The like whereof the Roman never saw Glorifying and making terrible, Beyond all fabled gods, the front of man.

The exceeding instance of this spectacle It was, filling the place as if with beams, Not of the day, but stronger than the day, That had perforce drawn Shimei's eyes to see— A moment, and no more. As seared with light Fiercer than they could bear, again they fell. Then all the man with saving terror shook To hear Paul speak—in tones wherein no ire, As for himself, entered, to ease the weight With which the might of truth omnipotent Pressed on its victim like the hand of God: "Full of all subtlety and mischief! Thou Child of the devil, as doer of his deeds! Accurséd, if thou hadst but plotted death Against me, death however horrible, That I had found a light thing to forgive. But to swear me suborner like thyself Of perjury"—But the denouncer marked How, under his denouncement, Shimei quailed: He in mid launch the fulmination stayed. His adversary victim's broken plight Disarmed him, and a sad vicarious sense Of what awaited such as Shimei Hereafter, penetrated to his heart. As shamed from his indignant passion, Paul Instantly melted to a mood of tears.

This Shimei less could bear than he had borne Those terrors of the Lord aflame in Paul. The old man shaken with so many sharp Vicissitudes of feeling, sharp and swift:— Hope from despair, despair again from hope; Then fresh hope from the ashes of despair; That costly hardening of the heart with hate, And steeling, to resistance, of the will; Next, a soul-cleaving anguish of remorse, New to him, mingled with forebodings new, Menaces beckoning from the world to come; These, with the unimagined tenderness That now reached out and touched him in Paul's tears— The old man, plied and exercised thus, broke Abruptly from the habit of a life, Utterly broke, and suddenly was no more, At least for one sweet moment of release, The hard, the false, the bitter, the malign Shimei of old—changed to a little child! In both his quivering hands his face he hid, And, all his strength consumed to scarcely stand, Wept, with convulsion poured from head to foot, But made no other sign, to this from Paul: "As I forgive thee, lo, forgive thou me, Shimei, my brother! And Christ us both forgive!"

The Roman wondering saw these things and heard, Nor moved in speech or gesture, touched with awe. But when now all was acted so, and seemed There nothing was to follow more, he turned, And, not ungently, though with firm command, Said to the soldier: "Lead him hence away To keeping; make his manacles secure. Thou wilt not, I suppose, a second time, Try ear or tongue in parley—never wise. Thou hast lost somewhat in this adventure; see Thou win it back with double heed henceforth."

So Shimei went remanded to his doom, With Paul and Stephen pitying witnesses.

BOOK IX.

PAUL AND YOUNG STEPHEN.

In sequel of the tragic crime and doom that had just been witnessed by him in the case of Shimei, young Stephen is drawn to resume with his kinsman Paul the topic of the imprecatory psalms, which they had previously discussed on their night ride from Jerusalem toward Cæsarea. Paul gently lets his nephew unbosom all his heart, and, point by point, meets the young man's difficulties with senior counsel and instruction.

PAUL AND YOUNG STEPHEN.

The brilliant weather, with the sparkling sea Blue under the blue heaven above it bowed, There the great sun, his solitary state Making his own pomp as it moved along In that imperial progress through the skies, The blithe wind blowing in the singing sails, And the gay answer of the bounding bark, On either hand bright glimpses of the shore— All these things to enliven were not enough For that day's need to Paul and those with him: They could not rally to their customed cheer, Serious, not sad, although light-hearted never. The deed of Shimei and scarce less his doom Still damped their spirits, so strung to sympathy, Till sunny day wore on to starry night.

Then, Paul and Stephen by themselves apart Resting, the younger to the elder said: "Much, O mine uncle, have I pondered, since, The deep things that I heard from thee, that night, Already now so many months ago, By thy side riding, thou by Lysias sent (Safeguarded by his Romans from the Jews!) To wear out thy duress at Cæsarea. Thou wert then as now escaped from Shimei's snare! We spake, thou wilt remember, of those psalms Which breathe, or seem to breathe, such breath of hate. I had recited one aloud to thee— To myself rather, bold, for thee to hear— Vent to the feeling fierce that in my breast Boiled into tempest against Shimei. Thou chidedst me with a most sweet rebuke That drew the tumor all, out of my heart; Thou taughtst me then that the good Spirit of God, Who breathed the inspiration into men To utter such dire words, seeming of hate, Hated not any as I to hate had dared. I understood thee that God only so Revealed in forms of vivid human speech The implacable resentment—but I pause, Pause startled at the word I use; I would, Could I, find other than such words as these, 'Resentment,' 'indignation,' 'hatred,' 'wrath,' To speak my thought of holy God aflame With infinite displacency at sin— Once more! Another word I fain would shun! For by some tether that I cannot break, Bound, I revolve in the same circle still."

As if his speech were half soliloquy, The youth let lapse his musing into mute, Which not with word or sign would Paul invade. Almost with admiration, with such joy Of hope for Stephen, Paul remarked in him The noble gains of knowledge he had made— Wisdom say rather out of knowledge won— In those two years at Cæsarea spent; Years for the youth so rich in fruitful chance Of converse with his elders, and of thought Which in that quick young mind, for brooding apt No less than apt for action, brought to full Sweet ripeness all that he from other learned, And touched it with a quality his own. Paul could not but in measure feel himself Given back to him reflected in the words That he just now had heard from Stephen's lips; Yet he therein felt too a surge of youth And youth's unrest and eagerness and strife And dauntless heart to assay the impossible Which were all Stephen's. And he held his peace.

Presently Stephen took up voice again: "Almost I thus resolve myself one doubt, One question, that I thought to bring to thee. God is not altogether such, I know, As we are; yet are we too somewhat such As He, for in God's image were we made. And we perforce must know God, if at all, Then by ourselves as patterned after Him. So I suppose our best similitude For what God feels—but 'feeling,' also that!— How fast do these anthropomorphic walls Enclose us still in all our thought of God!— 'Feeling' is but a parable flung forth By us, bridge-builders on the hither side, To tremble out a little way toward God, Then flutter helpless down in the abyss, The impassable abyss, of difference Between created and Creator, us And Him, the finite and the Infinite! Forgive me, but I lose my way in words!" And again Stephen broke his utterance off, Faltering; like one who fording a full stream Now in midcurrent finds his foothold fail, And cannot in such deepened waters walk.

This time Paul reached the struggling youth a hand With: "Thou hast not ill achieved in thine essay To utter what is nigh unutterable. But, Stephen, better bridge than any form Of fancy, figure or similitude, To human sense or reason possible And capable of frame in human speech, For spanning the great gulf immeasurable, Unfathomable, nay, inconceivable, (Gulf, otherwise than so, impassable, Yet so, securely closed forevermore!) The awful gulf of being and of thought, Much more, of moral difference, since our fall, That parts our kind from holy God Most High— Yea, better bridge than any word of ours Aspiring upward from beneath to God, Is that Eternal Word of God Himself To us, down-reaching hither from above, Who, being God with God, was Man with man, And Who, returning thither whence He came, Carried our nature with Him into heaven, And to the Ever-living joined us one.

"But rightly thou wert saying, my Stephen, that we Best can approach to put in speech of man The ineffable regard of God toward sin, If we impute to Him a spurning such As we feel when we hate or loathe or scorn, And wish to wreak in punishment our wrath. But we must purge ourselves of self-regard, Or we are sinful in abhorring sin; And we attaint God with gross attribute Imputed from what we through fall became. An horrible profaneness, sure, it were, The image first of God in us to foul, And then that foulness back on God asperse, Making Him hate with wicked human hate!"

The wide impersonal purport of Paul's words, Not meant, he knew, in hidden hint to him, Still, Stephen with his wise docile spirit took Home to himself, and fell some moments mute, Considering; then afresh his mind exposed: "I feel, O kinsman most revered, how bold, How froward, how perverse, it were in me, First to lay hold on holy words of God To use them, as I used that psalm that night, Profanely for a vehicle of hate; And then, convicted of my fault therein, Turn round and blame the very words I used, Or seem to blame them, as unmeet from God. Yet I experience an obscure distress— Is it of mind or heart? I scarce know which— A sense of contradiction unresolved, When, in the spirit of all-loving love, Such as sometimes I seem to catch from thee, I read or ponder those terrific psalms."

"Thou art tempted then perhaps," gently said Paul, Yet with some gentle irony implied, "To doff the pupil's lowly attitude In which thou hadst learned so much; as if indeed Thou hadst learned enough to be a teacher now, And even a teacher to thy Teacher, God? Beware, my son, of these delusive thoughts; Love also has its specious counterfeits— Whence that deep word of the apostle John, So frequent on his lips, his touchstone word— More needed, as, to seeming, needed not— To make us sure, when we suppose we love, Whether we love in truth: 'Herein we know That we God's children love, when we love God, And His commandments do.' For this is love Indeed of God, to do His holy will! A childlike humble spirit, the spirit of love, Contented to believe and to obey! The wiser that she seeks not to be wise, She wins her wisdom by obedience.

"Does thy love puff thee up to challenge God Whether He be consistent with Himself? Suspect 'all-loving love' which moves to that! Love puffs not up—right love, love which is awe (As ever love inbreathed from Jesus is)— To any pride of wisdom questioning God. Some specious counterfeit it is of love, Not love herself—who grows by meekness wise To meekness more, and more obedient faith— Not love, nay, Stephen, but other spirit than love (Self-pity, self-indulgence, self-regard, Some spirit fixing for the center self), That sits in judgment on the ways of God To find Him sometimes wise or sometimes not. God was as wise when He inspired those psalms As when in Christ he bade us ever love, Love even our enemies and do them good. Submit thyself to God, my Stephen, and be Humble; for God resists the proud, but gives Grace to the humble still and grace for grace— Grace given already, ground for added grace. Grow then in grace thus, and be meekly wise. I have spoken divining what thy meaning was, Perhaps amiss"—and Paul refrained from more.

But Stephen answered: "If such was my thought, At least I did not know it to be such, As thou hast thus divined it now for me. Thither perhaps it tended—but that goal, Shown in this light from thee, though far, I shun; I would not be more wise than God, for God. But is there then no contrariety At all, no spirit discrepant, between The frightful fulminations of those psalms And the forgiving love of our Lord Christ?" "None, Stephen," said Paul, "for none did Jesus know, Who knew those psalms and never protest made Against them, never softened their austere, Their angry, aspect, never glozed their sense, Never one least slant syllable let slip, Hint as that He would not have spoken so, Never with pregnant silence passed them by. Nay, of those psalms one of the fiercest, He— And this, then when His baptism into death, His offering of Himself for sin, was nigh, Those Feet already in the crimson flood!— Most meek and lowly suffering Lamb of God, Took to Himself to make it serve His need In uttering the just horror of His soul At such hate wreaked on Him without a cause. 'Pour out Thine indignation on them, Lord, And let the fierceness of Thy wrath smite them! To their iniquity iniquity Add Thou'—such curse invokes this dreadful psalm— 'Let them be blotted from the book of life'! From close beside these burning sentences, These drops of Sodom-and-Gomorrah rain, Out of the self-same psalm with them, our Lord, Now nigh to suffer (saying to His own He as in holy of holies with them shrined, More heavenly things than ever even Himself Till then had spoken) drew those words—sad words, Stern words!—'They hated Me without a cause.' Love shrank not, nay, in Him, from holy hate!

"His spirit and the spirit of those psalms Ever with one another dwelt at peace; More than at peace, with one another one Were they, the selfsame spirit both; as needs Was, since the Spirit of all psalms was He. Even thus, I have not to the full expressed The will, with power, that in Christ Jesus wrought To fulmine indignation against sin. The psalms, those fiercest and most branding, fail To match the fury of the Lamb of God Poured out in words of woe on wickedness, His own words, burning to the lowest hell— Enraged eruption from the heart of love! Most dreadful of things dreadful that! A fire, My Stephen, which, as loth to kindle, so, Once kindled, then will burn the deepest down! Woe the most hopeless of surcease or change— Mercy herself to malediction moved, Love forced to speak in final words of hate!"

An energy of earnest in Paul's voice, A tender earnest, full of love and fear, Fear without dread, serene vicarious fear (Yet faithful sympathy with God expressed) The solemn somber of a lighted look In him, reflected as from some unseen Region where light was more than luminous, Appalling, like the splendor of a cloud Whence deep the thunder now begins to break— These, with his words themselves infusing awe, Made Stephen feel his heart in him stand still. Both for meet reverence toward the reverend man Who spake these things, and likewise to assure Himself that he in nothing failed the full Sense and effect of all that he had heard, Stephen his hush awe-struck, of thought, prolonged.

Then, partly from a certain manliness Innate in him, inalienably his, Which, while of noble and ennobling awe It made his spirit but more capable, Yet kept him ever conscious of his worth, And would not suffer that, with any thought Quick in him and still seeming to him true Or worthy to be questioned for its truth, He should, howso abashed, abandon it— Partly self-stayed so in a constant mind, But more, supported by his perfect trust Well-grounded in his kinsman's gentleness And tact of understanding exquisite, Stephen returned to press his quest once more: "I must not seem insistent overmuch, O thou my kinsman and my master dear, To whom indeed I hearken as to one Divinely guided to be guide to men; But a desire to know not yet allayed, Perhaps I ought to own, some haunting doubt, Prompts me to ask one question more of thee.

"I know the psalms whereof we speak were meant, As were their fellow psalms, each, not to breathe The individual feeling of one soul Whether himself the writer or whoso Might take it for his own, but to be used By the great congregation joining voice In symphony or in antiphony Of choral worship, with stringed instruments Adding their help, and instruments of wind: So, most unmeet it were if private grudge Of any whomsoever, high or low, Should mix its base alloy with the fine gold Of prayer and praise stored in our holy psalms For pure oblation from all holy hearts To Him, the Ever-living Holy God. The wicked and the enemy therein Accurséd so from good to every bane And ill here and hereafter following them And hunting down their issue to the end Of endless generations of their like— These, I can understand, were public foes, Not private, adversary heathen tribes That hated us because they hated God Who chose us for His own peculiar race, And swayed us weapon in His dread right hand To execute His judgment on His foes, His foes, not ours, or only ours as His— 'Them that hate Thee do not I hate, O God?' The righteous execration bursting forth, An outcry irrepressible of zeal, Through all the cycle of those fearful psalms, Not from a heart of virulence toward men, But from a love, consuming self, for God. Such, I can understand, the purport was Wherein Himself, the Holy Ghost of God, Inspired those psalms and willed them to be sung. But, O my master, tell me, did not yet Some too importunate spirit not thus pure, Of outright sheer malevolence some trace, Escape of private malice uncontrolled, Hatred toward man that was not love for God, On his part who was chosen God's oracle To such high end and hard, enter the strain He chanted, here or there, to jar the tune And of his music make a dissonance?"

Stephen, as one who had with resolute Exertion of an overcoming will Discharged his heart with speech, let come what might, Rested; the tension of his purpose still Persisting to refuse himself recoil. Feeling his nephew's girded attitude, Nowise resistant, though recessive not, Braced to keep staunch his standing where he stood, Paul would not overbear it with sheer strength; Choosing, with just insinuation wise, To ease it through concession yielded him. He said: "My Stephen has pondered deep these things, And to result of truth well worth his pains. Thou hast profited, my son, perhaps beyond Thine own thought of thy profiting, in sweet Acquist of wisdom from the mind of Christ. Fair change, change fair and great, in thee since when Thou cursedst Shimei in that bitter psalm!— Bitter from thee who saidst it bitterly. Behold, thou art fain, forsooth, to find those words, Those same words now which then thou likedst well Rolling them under thy tongue a morsel sweet, Almost too human for at all divine. Was there not in them, this thou askest me, Expression intermixed of wicked hate, His whose the occasion was to write the psalm? The turns and phrases of the speech wherein The psalmist here or there breathes out his soul In malediction, have such force to thee, Importing that his spirit let escape A passion of his own not purified Amid the pressure and the stress of zeal Inspired from God against unrighteousness.

"Well, Stephen, the entrusted word of God To men is ours through men and, men being such, Why, needs we have the priceless treasure stored, Stored and conveyed, in vessels framed of clay. No perfect men are found, were ever found: God's inspiration does not change men such. His wisdom is to make of men unwise, Of men, too, fallen far short of holiness, Imperfect organs of His perfect will. Adhesion hence of imperfection, man's, Fast to the letter of the Scripture clings; But it makes part of His perfection, God's, Who knows us, and from His celestial height Benignly earthward deigning condescends. In terms of our imperfect, flawed with sin Even, the Divine inworking wisdom loves To teach us noble lessons of Himself, Ennobling us to ever nobler views Of what He is, so shadowed forth to us.

"'Sin,' that word 'sin,' so weighted as we know With sense, beyond communication deep, Of evil, of wrong, of outrage, of offence Toward God, and toward ourselves of injury Irreparable and growing ever great And greater to immortal suicide Wreaked with incredible madness on the soul— What is that word in the light shallow speech Of pagan Greek? What but a word to mean, As if of purpose to make naught the blame, Simply the casual missing of a mark? Venial, forsooth, merely an aim not hit— The aim right, but the arrow flying wide! Into such matrix, shallower as would seem Than could be made capacious of such sense, God must devise to pour His thought of sin! But how the thought has deepened since its mould, Still vain to match the sinfulness of sin! Humbleness—what a virtue, what a grace Say rather, yet in all the Greek no word To name it, till God's wisdom rectified A word that erst imported what was base, Mean, sordid, dastard, unuplifted, vile In spirit, pusillanimous, to name The lowly temper, best beloved in man By God, the heavenly temper of His Son! The thought at last is master of its mould, Though mould is needful for the plastic thought.

"In our imagination of The True, We climb as by a ladder, round by round, Slowly toward Him, the Inaccessible, Who dwells in a seclusion and remove Of glory unapproachable, and light That makes a blinding darkness round His throne. He stoops and finds and touches us abased So far beneath Him where we grovelling lie; Nay, He lays hold of us and lifts us up; With cords, so it is written, of a man He draws us, blesséd God!—with bands of love, Of love, the mightiest of His heavenly powers! O, the depth fathomless, the starry height, The breadth, the length immeasurably large, Both of the wisdom and the knowledge, God's! Because, forsooth, we have some few steps climbed, Shall we, proud, spurn from underneath our feet The ladder that uplifted us so far, That might have raised us yet the full ascent? That ladder rests on earth to reach to heaven: Let us go on forever climbing higher, But not forget the dark hole of the pit Out of which we were digged, nor, more, contemn The way of wisdom thither reaching down And thence aspiring to the topmost heaven; Whereby our race may (so we stumble not Through pride, or like Jeshurun waxen fat Kick) reascend at length to whence we fell— Nay, higher, and far above all height the highest, To Him, with Him, exalted to His right, To Him, with Him, in Him, Lord Christ, Who rose For us in mighty triumph from His grave, Then reascended where He was before, Ere the world was, God with His Father God, But still for us; and, still for us, sat down Forever, in His Filial Godhead Man, Assessor with His Father on His throne, Inheriting the Name o'er every name Ascendant, King of kings and Lord of lords, And us assuming with Himself to reign! Amen! And hallelujah! And amen!"

As one might watch an eagle in his flight That soared to viewless in the blinding sun; As one might hearken while from higher and higher A lark poured back his singing on the ground, So Stephen gazed, listening, with ecstatic mind.

"Transported with delight I hear thee speak Thus, O my reverend master, for with awe, Which is delight, the deepest that I know"— Thus at length Stephen spoke, easing his mind A little, with its fulness overfraught. "Doxology outbreaking from thy lips Becomes them so! The rapture of thy praise Is as the waving of a mighty wing Beside me that is able to upbear Me also thither whither it will soar. I am caught in its motion and I mount Unmeasured heights as to the heaven of heavens. Let me join voice with thee and say, 'Amen!' Not least I love when least I understand Often thy high discourse. Eluding me It leads me yet and tempts me after thee, Tempts and enables, and, above myself, I find myself equalled to the impossible! But then when afterward I sink returned To what I was—no longer wing not mine To lift me with its great auxiliar sweep Upward—I grope and stumble on the ground.

"Bear with me that I need to ask such things, But tell me yet, O thou who knowest, tell me, Am I then right, and is it, as thou seemedst To say but saidst not, veering from the mark When now almost upon it, so I thought, Who waited watching—did the psalmist old Commingle sometimes an alloy of base Unpurified affection with his clear All-holy inspiration breathed from God, Lading his language with a sense unmeet, Personal spite, his own, for God's pure ire? Forgive me that I need to ask such things."

"Thou dost not need to ask such things, my son," Paul with a grave severity replied. "To ask them is to ask me that I judge A fellow-servant. What am I to judge The servant of another, I who am Servant myself with him of the same Lord? I will not judge my neighbor; nay, myself, Mine own self even, I judge not; One is Judge, He who the Master is, not I that serve. If so be, the inspired, not sanctified, Mere man, entrusted with the word of God— Our human fellow in infirmity, Remember, of like passions with ourselves— Indeed in those old days wherein he wrote, His enemies being the enemies of the Lord, And speaking he as voice at once of God And of God's chosen, His ministers to destroy Those wicked—if so be such man, so placed, Half conscious, half unconscious, oracle Of utterance not his own, did in some part That utterance make his own, profaning it, To be his vehicle for sense not meant By the august Supreme Inspiring Will— Whether in truth he did, be God the judge, Not thou, my son, nor I, but if he did— Why, Stephen, then that psalmist—with more plea Than thou for lenient judgment on the sin, Thine the full light, and only twilight his, With Christ our Sun unrisen—the selfsame fault As thou, committed. Be both thou and he Forgiven of Him with Whom forgiveness is— With Whom alone, that so He may be feared!"

Abashed, rebuked, the youth in silence stood, Musing; but what he mused divining, Paul, With gently reassuring speech resumed, Soon to the things unspoken in the heart Of Stephen spoke and said: "Abidest still Unsatisfied that anything from God, Though even through man, should less than perfect be, Or anywise other than incapable, Than utterly intolerant, of abuse To purposes profane? Consider this— And lay thy hand upon thy mouth, nay, put Thou mouth into the dust, before the Lord— That God Most High hath willed it thus to be, That thus Christ found it and pronounced it good. Who are we, Stephen, to be more wise than God, Who, to be holier than His Holy Son?"

"Amen! Amen! I needs must say, Amen!" In anguish of bewilderment the youth Cried out, almost with sobs of passionate Submission, from rebellion passionate Hardly to be distinguished; "yea, to God From man, ever amen, only amen, No other answer possible to Him!— Who is the potter, in Whose hands the clay Are we, helpless and choiceless, to be formed And fashioned into vessels at His will!"

"Helpless, yea, Stephen," Paul said, "but choiceness not; We choose, nay, even, we cannot choose but choose— The choice our freedom, our necessity: Free how to choose, we are to choose compelled. We choose with God, or else against Him choose. Which wilt thou, Stephen? Thou! With Him or against?"

A struggle of submission shuddered down To quiet in the bosom of the youth— Strange contrast to the unperturbed repose, With rapture, of obedience, that meantime, And ever, safe within the heart of Paul Breathed as might breathe an infant folded fast To slumber in its mother's cradling arms! So had Paul learned to let the peace of Christ Rule in his heart, a fixed perpetual calm, Like the deep sleep of ocean at his core Of waters underneath the planes of storm. And Stephen answered: "Oh, with God, with God! And blesséd be His name that thus I choose!" "Yea, verily," Paul said, "for He sole it is Who worketh in us, both to will and work For the good pleasure of His holy will. As thou this fashion of obedience Obediently acceptest at His gift, So growest thou faithful mirror to reflect Clear to thyself, and just, the thought of God. Thus thou mayst hope to learn somewhat of true, Of high and deep and broad, concerning Him, Him and His ways inscrutable with us— Of thy self emptied, for more room to be From God henceforth with all His fulness filled!

"This at least learn thou now, how greatly wise Was God, by that which was in us the lowest To take us and uplift us higher and higher Until those very passions, hate and wrath, Which erst seemed right to us, as they were dear, Become, to our changed eyes—eyes, though thus changed, Nay, as thus changed, sore tempted to be proud— Become forsooth unworthy symbols even To shadow God's displeasure against sin. To generation generation linked In living long succession from the first, To nation nation joined, one fellowship Of man, through clime and clime, from sea to sea— Thus has by slow degrees our human kind Been brought from what we were to what we are. Thus and no otherwise the chosen race Was fitted to provide a welcoming home, Such welcoming home! on earth for Him from heaven— The only people of all peoples we Among whom God could be Immanuel And be in any measure understood, Confounded not as of their idol tribes. And we—we did not understand Him so But that we hissed Him to be crucified! So little were we ready, and even at last, For the sun shining in His proper strength! After slow-brightening twilight ages long To fit our blinking vision for the day, The glorious sun arising blinded us And maddened! We smote at him in his sphere, Loving our darkness rather than that light!"

Therewith, as for the moment lapsed and lost In backward contemplation, with amaze And shame and grief and joy and love and awe And thanks commingling in one surge of thought At what he thus in sudden transport saw, Paul into silence passed, which his rapt look Made vocal and more eloquent than voice. This Stephen reverenced, but at last he said: "O thou my teacher in the things of God, That riddle of wisdom in divine decree Whereof thou spakest, the linking in one chain Together, one fast bond and consequence, Of all the generations of mankind And all their races for a common lot Of evil or good, yet speak, I pray, thereof, To make me understand it if I may. Why should Jehovah on the children wreak The wages of the fathers' wickedness? Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right? Yea, doubtless, yea; but that—how is that right?" "His way is in the sea," said Paul, "His path In the great waters! Would we follow Him, His footsteps are not known! Blesséd be God!"

"Amen! Amen! Forevermore amen!" As one who bound himself with sacrament, Assenting without interrupting said Stephen, and Paul went on: "Yet this note thou: It is not on the children, such by blood, That God will visit the iniquity Of fathers: the children must be such in choice As well, in spirit, must be the fathers' like— And there another mystery! (for deep Sinks endless under deep, to who would sound The bottomless abyss of God's decree)— The children ever, prave and prone, incline To follow where the fathers lead the way; The children, yea, must do the fathers' deeds, Then only share the fathers' punishment. This, by that prophet mouth, Ezekiel, God Taught with expostulation and appeal Pathetically eloquent of love With longing in our Heavenly Father's heart That not one human creature of His hand Be lost, but all, but all, turn and be saved.

"Nay, even from Sinai's touched and smoking top Was the same sense of grace to men revealed. For what said that commandment threatening wrath Divine, in sequel of ancestral sin, To light on generations yet to be? Said it not, 'On the children?' Yea, but heed, It hasted to supply in pregnant words Description of the children thus accursed: 'On the third generation and the fourth Of them that hate Jehovah'—wicked seed Of wicked sires, and therefore with them well Deserving to partake one punishment. And now consider what stands written next. Deterrent menace done, to fend from sin, Allurement then, how large! to righteousness. If first the warning filled a mighty bound, All bound the grace succeeding overflowed. O, limitless outpouring from a full, An overfull, an aching, heart of love In God our Father! Mercy to be shown, Not to two generations or to three, But to a thousand generations, drawn, A bright succession, to unending date, Of them—that 'fear and worship'? nay—that love God for their Father and His will observe!

"But, Stephen, enough for now of such discourse. My mind is helpless absent while we talk, My heart being heavy with desire and prayer And groanings from the Spirit unutterable For Shimei in his noisome dungeon pent. I have sung praises in worse stead than his, Christ in me joyance and the hope of glory: But, chafed with fetters and with manacles, And worse bonds wearing of iniquity, He sits unvisited of this fair light, A midnight of no hope within his heart. Go pray for Shimei thou, and leave me here To pray, if haply God will touch his heart."

So they two fell apart and mightily strove Together in intercession and one prayer.

[290] [291]

BOOK X.

RE-EMBARKED.

Arrived at Myra on their way toward Rome, Paul and his companions are transferred to a different vessel to pursue their voyage. The new vessel is from Alexandria: it brings thence as passengers for Rome two mutual friends, one of them a Roman, the other a Buddhist from India named Krishna. Rachel, having seen Paul and the Roman greet each other as old acquaintances, soon inquires apart of Paul who the Roman is, and, learning is thence drawn on into exchange of reminiscence and reflection with her brother. The two at length unite in interceding with Julius on behalf of Shimei. They secure for him the freedom of the deck.

RE-EMBARKED.

Where on the towering shore a mighty gorge Breaks headlong through the mountains to the sea, And a deep stream into a haven large Spreads for the welcome of all ships that sail The Mediterranean ocean, there of old Myra, metropolis of Lycia, sat; Mart once of many meeting nations—now A few colossal shadows sign and say Mutely, 'Here Myra was, and she was great!'

At Myra safe arrived and anchor cast, That Adramyttian vessel disembarked Her voyagers bound to Rome, and went her way. When she at Cæsarea touching found That Jewish prisoner there and bore him thence, She had suddenly gone sailing unaware, In transit as of star athwart the sun, Into the solar light of history; At Myra parting with him she passed on Into the rim of dark and disappeared: A moment in a light she guessed not of Illuminated for all time to see, Then heedless dipping deep her plunging keel And foundering in the gulfs of the unknown!

A bark of Egypt seeking Italy, Wheat-laden of the fatness of the Nile, Swung resting in the Myra roadstead nigh. Hereon were re-embarked that company, Paul, and the friends that sailed with Paul to Rome— Fallen Felix too, with his wife spurring him To hope yet and to strive and still be strong. Alexandreia sent the vessel forth, City twice famous, joining to her own The august tradition of her founder's fame, The mighty Macedonian's mightier son, Great Alexander who the whole world gained Indeed—with what for profit of it all? At this sea-gate wide opening to the West, From all the East men met and hence dispersed— That current laden most which drew to Rome. Besides from Egypt her hierophants, Hence thither flocked those worshippers of fire From Persia holding Zoroaster sage, Astrologers of Assyria, and from Ind Confessors of the somber faith of Buddh.

Of many such as these on board that bark One Indian Buddhist votary there was Worthy of note: a gentle-mannered man Deep in himself involved, as who mused much Of hidden things and hard to understand, The pathos of the mystery of the world, The human strife, with the defeat foregone Companioning the strife and ending it— Yet ending not a strife that could not end, But ever, round and round, one dull defeat, Trod the treadmill of fate, no hope, no goal. A gentle-mannered man, but sad of cheer, Krishna his name, pilgrim of many climes, Not idly curious to behold and learn, But hiding pity in his heart for men Seen everywhere the same, poor blinded moles Toiling and moiling in the sunless mines Of being, where no joy, whence no escape. Escape none, or, if any, then escape Impossible to win except by slow, And unimaginably slow, process Of suicide to endless date prolonged, Æons on æons following numberless, And fatal transmigrations of the soul From state to state, from form to form, of self: Yet progress none that might be felt the while, But one long-drawn monotony instead Of labor waste in movement seeming vain, Cycles of change returning on themselves Forever, bound to orbits that revolve Eternal repetitions of the same Vicissitude (the weaver's shuttle flung Tediously back and forth from hand to hand— Or swinging pendulum), 'twixt death and birth, Lapses from misery to misery Always, prospect like retrospect stretched out To vista and perspective vanishing Of path to be pursued and still pursued By the undaunted seeker of an end— He by his own act dying all the time In ceaseless effort utterly to cease, Will willing not to will, desire desiring To be desire no more, pure apathy, No hope, no fear, no motion of the mind, Until, through dull disuse and atrophy, Extinguished be capacity itself To do or suffer anything, and so, Down sinking through the bottomless abyss Of being, at last the fugitive go free, Emancipate but by becoming—naught! Krishna thus deeming of his fellow-men, Their present and their future and their fate, Hid a vast pity in his heart for them, Pity the vaster that he could not help.

This melancholy man compassionate, Who might in musing to himself seem lost, Yet saw and heard with vigilant quick sense Whatever passed about him where he stood, Or where he sat—for most he moveless sat, Moveless and silent, on the swarming deck. One man indeed he spake with, yet with him His speech, grave ever, he spared, and sheathed in tones Soothingly soft and low like blandishment. That one man was a Roman; Roman less To seeming than cosmopolite—his air An air of long-accustomed conversance With whatsoever might be seen and learned Through much Ulyssean wandering to and fro And up and down among his fellow-men, And watching of their works and words and ways. This Roman citizen of the world, mailed proof In habit of a full-experienced mind Against commotion from surprise, was now Visibly moved to wonder seeing Paul. His wonder checked with reverence and with love Indignant to behold the captive state Of one deserving rather wreath than bond, He stepped toward Paul and with such homage paid As liege to lord might pay saluted him. "Grace unto thee, my brother," answered Paul, "From the Lord Jesus Christ, thy Lord and mine!" They twain fell on each other's neck and kissed With tears. Such salutation and embrace— No more; but this with variant mood was marked By three that saw it. The centurion Blent in his look pleasure with his surprise; But Felix and Drusilla frowned askance (They also knowing the Roman, as at court Courtiers know one another—without love); Those frowned askance, and mixed their mutual eyes In sinister exchange of look malign Portending sequel if the chance should serve; And in Neronian Rome the happy chance Of mischief, but be patient, scarce could fail!

That gentle Indian with his pregnant eye Saw all and mused it—then, and after, long— The cheerful, joyful, reverent greeting given A Jewish prisoner by a Roman lord And by the Jewish prisoner so returned In unaccustomed words ill understood But solemn like the language of a spell; This, with the Roman captain's look benign Approving what surprised him yet; nor less, The menace of the mutual scowls that met Darkening each other on the alien brows Of Felix and Drusilla at the sight— Most like two clouds that, black already, blown Together, shadow into a deeper dark!

In due time, anchor weighed with choral sound Of sailors' voices cheering each himself And each his fellow in a formless tune, The ship from out the haven slowly slid, Urged with the oar but wooing too the wind With slack sail doubtful drooping by the mast. Large planes of lucid ocean tranced in calm They traversed with loth labor of the oar, Or else were buffeted of winds that blew Thwart or full opposite day after day, While they hugged close the Asian shore, then Rhodes Saw southward, mooring fair her fruitful isle. The leisures long-drawn-out of those delays, To Paul and to his friends were prize and spoil. Grown wonted to the sway of wind and wave, They spent, cradled at grateful ease, the slow, Soft-lapsing, indistinguishable hours That wore the sunny summer season out, In various converse or communion sweet Oft with mere sense of mutual nearness nursed.

"Who was that kindly courteous gentleman," Thus at fit moment Rachel asked of Paul, "That spoke so fair my brother coming up? Roman he seemed, and lordly was his air; Yet something other, sweeter, differenced him From his compatriot peers, and I observed Thou gavest him thy grace from Christ the Lord."

"That, Rachel," Paul replied, "was one I knew— Almost mightst thou have known him—long ago In Tarsus; we were boys together there. But since then twice, with now this added time, Has God in wisdom made our pathways meet. That Roman to Damascus went with me And saw, what time the glory of the Lord Blinded me to behold at last the True. But him that glory, seen not suffered, left For outward vision what he was before, While inwardly with denser darkness blind, Reclaimed from atheism to idolatry! But God had mercy on him; years went by, And I, with Barnabas to Cyprus come, Found there this selfsame Roman, governor. The skeptic whom theophany had made Religious not, but superstitious, now Led captive of delusion—worldly-wise Albeit he was, yet unto God a fool!— Was given up wholly dupe and devotee Of a deceiver, Jew, Bar-jesus named, Pretender to the gift of prophecy. This sorcerer dared withstand us to the face Before the governor, who had summoned us (Not dreaming whom he summoned summoning me) To tell him of the word of God. But I, Filled with the Spirit of the Lord—mine eyes On him, that sorcerer, fastened—uttered words Which God the Faithful followed with such blast And blight of blindness on the wretched man That he groped seeking who would lead him thence. The governor beheld and wonder-struck To see God's work God's word at last believed. The pagan playmate of my boyhood so Became the changed soul thou hast seen him here, In Jesus brother, loving and beloved; And Sergius Paulus thou his name mayst call."

"O Saul," said Rachel, "in what history Of marvel following marvel has thy life, Since when that noon Christ met thee in thy way Damascus-ward, been portioned out to thee! The stories of the prophets old whom God Wrought through to show His people how behind The thick veil of His outward handiwork He Himself lived and was a present God— Those tales of wonders, let me own it, Saul, Had grown to me to seem so far away From our time, and so alien from the things We with our eyes behold, hear with our ears, Much more, with these our hands perform, that I Almost had fallen, not into disbelief (Not that, ever, I trust—nay, God forbid!) Concerning them, but into a listless mind Which to itself no image of them framed— Fault well-nigh worse than outright disbelief! That now the things themselves, nay, things more strange, Should be by God repeated in the world, Nor only so, that one of mine own blood, My brother, should a chosen vessel be Of this great grace of God through Christ to men— This less with wonder than with awe fills me, And I—believe not, faith were name too faint For passion such as mine is—I adore!"

Paul bent on Rachel eyes unutterable Wherein a sense of sympathy serene Betwixt himself and her he talked with, shone, And they twain dwelt in a suspense supreme, Silent, of adoration where they stood— The rapture of doxology unbreathed To either doubled as by other shared. At length Paul spoke; his tones intense and low Thrilled through the ear of Rachel to her heart: "O Rachel, He who out of darkness once Bade the light shine, God, shined into our hearts Enkindling there this dayspring from on high, This light of knowing from the face of Christ The glory inexpressible of God!"

A pause once more of rapt communion; then This added in a chastened other strain: "But we such treasure have in urns of clay Fragile and nothing worth that all in all The exceeding greatness of the power may be Not of ourselves but ever only God's! Constrained I find myself in every way, But straitened not; perplexed, but not dismayed; Hunted, but not forsaken; smitten down, But not destroyed; forever bearing round Within the body wheresoever driven The dying of the Lord, that the Lord's life May also in my body forth be shown. Therefore I faint not; let my outward man Fail, if it must, my inward man meantime Is day by day in fadeless youth renewed. How light affliction sits upon my heart! It is but for a moment, and it works The while for me an ever-growing weight Of glory fixed forever to be mine! I look no longer on the things about Me, seeming to be real, since they are seen, But far away instead, far, far away Beyond these, at the things that are not seen. These for a season, Rachel, the things seen! But those, the things not seen, eternal they!

"When I saw Stephen upward into heaven Gaze, and behold there what no eye might see, The glory of the Ever-living God, And Jesus standing by His Father's side; When afterward I saw Hirani stand Before the anger of the Sanhedrim, His eyes not seeing what their faces looked, His ears not hearing what the voices round Were saying and forswearing to his harm, But steadfastly his vision fixed afar And all his hearkening bent for sounds unheard, Sights, sounds, sent couriers from the world to come, The real world, the eternal, and the blest— How little knew I then what now I know! O Rachel, why was I not then disturbed With doubts and fears, and guesses of the true? The darkness of that hour before the dawn! The brightness of this full-accomplished day! The glory of that other day that waits! The Jacob's ladder and the shining rounds! The moving pomps of angels up and down Ascending and descending the degrees Betwixt the heights of heavenly and my feet!

"Now unto Him that in such darkness died, But rose amid such brightness from the tomb And reascended where He was before To glory inaccessible with God, And there expects until He thither bring Us also both to witness and to share His exaltation to the almighty throne— To our Lord Christ, Redeemer by His blood, Worthy, and only worthy, to receive Ascription without measure of men's praise, Be honor, worship, thanks, obedience, paid, And love, even love like His, forevermore!"

Rachel had barely to her brother's words Breathed fervently her low amen, when he, The passion of doxology unspent Yet quivering in his tones, went on and said: "But, Rachel, all amid this strain of joy Exulting like a fountain in my heart— Unspeakable and full of glory indeed, As Peter matched it with his mighty phrase!— Yea, in it, as if of it and the same, I feel a sense of pathos and of pain And hint of earthly with the heavenly mixed. I cannot but of Shimei think, and grieve— The grief indeed a paradox of joy, Such pity and such anguish of desire To help and save! Can we not succor him? Can we not have him forth of his duress In dungeon into this fair light of day? I feel it must be possible. Pray thou, And I will pray, and haply God may touch The heart of Julius to such act of grace That at our suit and intercession he Will bid the wretched bondman up again Out of the noisome darkness where he pines, If to full freedom not, at least to breathe The freshness of the unpolluted air And feel the force of the reviving sun. Sick he may be, in prison is, we know, And neighbor let us count him, taught of Christ To hold for neighbor any who in need Is nigh enough to us for us to help. Sick and in prison Jesus we might find In Shimei, if for Jesus' sake we go And carry him the solaces of love!"

"But he, will he receive what we should bring?" Said Rachel; "would not bitter-making thought Welling up in him like a secret spring Of brackish issue gushing from beneath A crystal runlet pure as Siloa's brook, Turn for him all our sweetness into gall?"

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Paul; "we cannot know. That were for thee and me defeat indeed— To be of evil overcome! But, nay, Nay, Rachel, let us hope, and overcome Evil with good. What is impossible? Is this, even this, impossible—through Christ? Love, if love perfect be, hopeth all things. There is in love, as John delights to say, No fear; for perfect love casteth out fear. Perfect our love, be faithless outcast fear No counsellor of ours; but hope instead Far-seeing, with her forward-looking eyes Reflecting hither light from that beyond. Hope maketh not ashamed, because the love Of God is poured forth in our hearts a stream, An overflowing, like the river of God, Fed from the fulness of the Holy Ghost! O, how omnipotent I feel in him! But, behold, Julius! Let me speak straightway!"

"O thou, my keeper"—so to Julius Paul— "Full courteous to thy prisoner often proved, Nay, more than courteous, kind—beseech thee now Beyond thy wont be courteously kind!" "What wilt thou, then?" said Julius. "Grant it me," Paul answered, "to reprieve, from chains, I ask not, But from his dungeon doom, to see the sun And breathe this vital air, the wretched man Whom, partly for my sake perhaps, thou keepest Immured in dismal dark duress below!"

"Strange being thou!" said Julius answering Paul, Yet answering not, with wonder overpowered. "That wretch, that miscreant, craven, liar, proved Corrupter of the faith of men through bribe— Nay, but assassin, only that he failed, Assassin disappointed in attempt— On whose life but thine own?—such man accurst Do I now hear thee interceding for, Thee, prisoner thyself, and that—unless The story of his plot and traitorhood And band of forty sworn conspirators Against thee at Jerusalem, have been Falsely told me—aye, that solely through him! I wonder at thee! Art thou mad? The day Thy countryman confronted by thee quailed, Convicted of his dastard perjury Which aimed to make thee murderer of him— Then, Paul, I thought thee sane enough, as thou With words launched like the thunderbolts of Jove Didst rive him to his rotten innermost! Yet then, even then, relenting strangely, thou Didst melt the hardness that became thee so— Making thee almost Roman, as I thought— Melt it into a softness like a woman's. And now again from thee this wanton whim And suit of pity for that damnable! I cannot make thee out—unless it be Thou art moonstruck, and maudlin-mindedness At times seize thee betraying thy manhood thus!"

Paul did not answer the centurion's words With words again; instead—with look serene, Ascendant, irresistible—received, Absorbed, and overbore that other's look (Which, after the words spoken, rested on Paul's face in pity that was almost scorn) Quenching it as a shield a fiery dart; Till Julius, fain to yield yet somewhat save His pride in yielding, turned from Paul and said To Rachel, as in condescension dashed With banter: "Let thy sister if she will Go carry Shimei tidings of reprieve; A sister to a brother's murderer go And take him token of her love—and his!" A little softening, as he spoke, from sneer, At the sheer aspect of her loveliness, An aspect not of weakness, but wherein There mingled, with the lovely woman's charm, Something august of saintly matronhood, Remote from any hint of what could seem Defect of sane and saving self-control— Thus wrought upon a little while he spoke, Julius to Rachel turning spoke such words.

"All thanks," she gently said, "thou art most kind. It shall be as thou sayest, for I will go." She turned, but hung in action, as through doubt; With artless art of hesitation sweet Beyond persuasion eloquent, she said: "Yea, thou art good, and gladly will I go, But I—I am a woman—were it meet?— If thou declarest it meet, then it shall be, And thither will I venture down alone; For God will round me globe an angel guard To treasure me from peril and from soil."

Her grace, but more her graciousness, prevailed; For won upon by her demeanor meek, Majestic, and that awe of womanhood Instinctive in a noble breast of man, The Roman, with even a flush of shame at last Not altogether hidden as he turned His bronzéd cheek away, spoke out aloud: "Varenus!" so he called the soldier's name Whose turn it was that watch to sentry Paul— The same that Shimei late had sought to bribe— "Go bid up Shimei hither from the hold!"

Haggard, dejected, squalid from the filth And fetor of his dungeon, in surprise With terror, doubting what awaited him— Dazed in the sudden light his blinking eyes— The more bewildered that he could not frame With any true and steady sight to see Color, or shape, of person or of thing Before him or about him anywhere, Shimei stepped halt and staggering on the deck. A spectacle for pity to abhor, And for abhorrence shuddering to behold With pity—wreck and remnant of a man! The soldier would not touch to steady him, But let him shuffle as he might his way. Scarce more than one or two uncertain steps, And Shimei insecure of standing stood, Shaken in all the fabric of the man— Like some decrepit crazy edifice Wind-shaken trembling on the point to fall.

Paul saw, and felt his heart within him moved. To the unmoved centurion thus he spoke: "Wilt thou not let him rest awhile retired Apart a little till his force revive And his eyes grow rewonted to the light?" "Have thou thy will with him," the Roman said, "So far as of his chains to ease him not. Thou art right perhaps; a little added strength Were well, were timely, in his present plight— May save him over to added punishment. So nurse him fair, ye brotherhood," said he, "And sisterhood, of mercy ill-bestowed!" And round the Roman glanced, with Roman scorn Masking some sense of admiration shamed, Upon the group of ready hearts and hands, The circle of Paul's fellowship in faith, Now gathered nigh with looks of wish to help.

BOOK XI.

THE LAST OF SHIMEI.

Shimei in his feebleness and distress is ministered to by the companions of Paul. Thus relieved, he falls asleep and dreams. On his waking, ministration to his needs is renewed; and, strengthened now with nourishment, he sleeps out the night. The next morning he finds himself an altered man. He at length makes some loth acknowledgment to Paul, who in turn expresses his own sorrow for high words spoken in pride against Shimei. A storm some days after rises, and Shimei meets a sudden and awful doom.

THE LAST OF SHIMEI.

A parable in life of perfect love (Other than was in heaven to be beheld), The clustering angels, crowded nigh to see, Saw in the things that then and there befell. It might indeed have been a scene let down Suddenly from above in lively show Of love in act on earth like love in heaven— Only that never in heaven is need of act, From love, of mercy such as now was seen, A living picture, on that vessel's deck!

Luke the physician, at a sign from Paul, With Aristarchus, one on either side, Supported Shimei, tottering as he went (Too weak to wish or will or this or that, Or otherwise behave than just submit), To where with feat celerity meanwhile The women, of one mind, Rachel and Ruth And fair Eunicé, in a sheltered place Had spread, of rug and pillow thither brought, A sudden couch whereon a man might rest. Stephen, from out the store of frugal cheer By his forecasting mother's care purveyed— Provision for the needs that might attend The chances of sea-faring—brought and broached A flagon of sweet wine. This, to the lips Of Shimei in a slender goblet pressed, Cheered him his heart and made him seem to live. All was in silence done, and then, withdrawn A little from about the man supine, That company of ministrants, one will— Among them Mary Magdalené too, Pathetic, with her deep-experienced eyes— Kept quiet watch and wished that he might sleep.

And Shimei slept; a deep dissolving sleep— Unjointed all his members in remiss Solution of the consciousness of life. A long deep sleep; a dreamless sleep at first, Then, as the hours wore on and still he slept, Delicious reminiscences in dream (Unconscious hoarded treasure of the brain,) Were loosed within him of a dewy dawn Forgotten, and a time when he was young. He had found the fountain in that land of dream, And drunk his fill from it with sweet delight, Famed for its virtue to renew in youth. The old man was a boy again, at home, A Hebrew home though on an alien shore. Perhaps some soft insinuation crept Into his sleep from that last waking sense Of his, the sense, to him unwonted long— A lonely man, of wife, of child, bereft, Who never sister's gentleness had known— Of touch from woman's hand; however it was, Shimei a vision of his mother had. A son, her only, by his mother's knee, That mother's blossoming hope, her joy, her pride, He felt the benediction of a hand, Her hand, laid like a softness on his brow; And Shimei's lips, no longer thin and cold, But warm now, and with flush of lifeblood full, Moved in responsive welcome of a kiss, Her kiss, and holy, like a touch of chrism. How fair the vision was that then he saw! How sweet the tones were that once more he heard! Such sound, such sight, were better than sweet sleep; And the fond sleeper fain would wake, to dream So good a dream awake, and to the full Taste it, with senses and with soul nowise Bound from the right fruition of their feast.

So, as of his own motion, Shimei woke— And instantly was sorry for the change. His eyes he dared not open to the day, Holding them shut to hold himself asleep. Alas, in vain! Too late! Full well he knew Now what he was, and where, and that in truth His happy boyhood had come back in dream. Yet lay he lapped in luxury of pain And pathos, and sweet pity of himself, And longings toward a past beyond recall, With something also of a good remorse That he was such as then he felt he was, Poor broken worldling, empty heart, and old (In contrast of his visionary youth!), Therewith perhaps some upward-groping wish That he were other. All-undoing stress It was, of elemental motions blind About the bases of his being bowed Like Samson, and his state was overthrown. Those agéd eyes that had been used to glint Metallic lusters, or of adamant, Softened beneath the lids, unseen, and tears Forced themselves forth down either temple falling. Instinctively he stirred, and with his hands (Vainly, encumbered with their manacles!) He sought to brush those trickling tears away. They wandered down to mingle with his hair, Long locks, and thin, of iron grey, unkempt, Close clinging to the sunken temple walls. Rachel with Ruth remarked the motions vain, And gently, without word, moved to his side. There Rachel with her kerchief wiped the tears With strokes as of caress, so loving light; But Ruth, observing for a moment, turned With token to Eunicé, quick of heart To understand, who hastening lightly thence A laver full of water brought, wherefrom The mother washed the forehead and the face, As had that agéd man her father been, Then dried them with a towel clean and sweet. Not once the while would Shimei lift the lids That trembled shutting over his dim eyes: Strange new emotion made him shrink from seeing— Shame, and a tenderness of gratitude, And love, that, with wing-footed Memory, Ran backward to his boyhood and there fell With tears and kisses on his mother's neck— Remembered, she, a woman—such as these!

The squalid wretchedness of his estate Forgotten, and its utter hopelessness, Was it not blesséd, only thus to lie Ministered to as if he were beloved Of some one, he who long had no one loved! Melted like wax within him was his heart, And when at length they spoke to him, and said, "Thy hands too, if we might too wash thy hands!" And when, he neither yes nor no with word Or sign replying, they, with yes assumed, Did it, assuaging with all healing heed The hurts and bruises of the chafing chains, Then the old man with a convulsive wrench Turned his whole frame averse from them to hide The tears that streamed in rivers from his eyes. "And this they do for love of their Lord Christ!"— Such muffled words, sobbed out amid his tears And shaken with the throbs that shook his frame, Those women seemed to hear from Shimei's lips. "Lo, Jesus, wilt thou master also me? I cannot bear the pressure of this love! Crushed am I under it into the babe Indeed I dreamed just now I was become!" So Shimei to himself, in words more clear With the abating passion of his sobs, Spoke plaintive with the accents of a child.

A start of tears responsive orbed the eyes Of Ruth and Rachel at such token shown Of gracious change in Shimei; grateful tears They were, and hopeful, and each tear a prayer— How prevalent, who knows?—for Shimei. God, in His lachrymary urn reserved To long remembrance, treasures up such tears!

Paul, at remove with Stephen, beholding all, Felt a great pang and passion of desire To bear some part and render a testimony Of love and of forgiveness toward this man, Yea, of sweet will to be forgiven and loved By him in turn, that Shimei needs must trust. He thought of how the Lord, that extreme night In which He was betrayed, He knowing well The Father had given all things into His hands, And He was come from God and went to God, Rose from the supper, disarrayed Himself— As if so laying His majesty aside To clothe Himself in mightier majesty Of meekness, with the servant's towel girded!— Then, pouring water in the basin, kneeled, Girded in fashion as a menial, kneeled. The Lord Himself of life and glory kneeled, Washing and wiping his disciples' feet! And Judas, Paul remembered, was among them! "This is my time," said he, "my time at last; Shimei will not resist nor say me nay, And I, with mine own hands, will wash his feet." But Stephen said: "Lo, I have hated him More wickedly than any, I beseech Mine uncle let me do this thing to him. Shimei will know I do it for thy sake, And it will be to him as if thou didst it." So, Paul allowing it for his nephew's sake, Glad to confirm him in that gentleness, Stephen a ewer of water made haste to bring, And there amid them all admiring him Known to have hated Shimei so, he stooped, With a most beautiful behavior stooped— Not without qualms of lothness overcome, Considering he how swift those feet had been, How swift those agéd feet, how long, had been, To shed blood, and what blood to shed how swift!— And dutifully washed and wiped them clean.

The old man now lay utterly relapsed, Exhausted his capacity to feel, Resistance therefore, and even reaction, none, A state suspended between life and death; So had the vehemence of his passion wrought On Shimei's weakness to disable him. The women with sure instinct knew his need; They lightly on him laid one covering more, For now the coolness of the night was nigh, And again wished for him the gift of sleep. And again Shimei slept, to wake refreshed Then when the moonless sky was bright with stars, Stars that not more intently over all Watched, than those faithful had watched over him. Refection from their hands, both heedful meet And choicest possible to case like theirs, Strengthened the faster for a night-long sleep, Which with the morning brought him back himself, A self with pity and terror purified, But better purified with thanks and love.

So, lapt in a delightsome consciousness, Half haze, a kind of infant consciousness, Of being changed to other than before, Shimei slid sweetly on in reverie— No words, nay, thoughts even not, pure reverie; But if that mist of musing in his mind Had into thoughts, like star-dust into stars, Been orbed, their purport such as this had been: 'I miss it, and I feel that I should grope Vainly to find in me the power that once Was ever mine to be my proper self. All standing-ground seems melted under me, Planted whereon I might with hope resist. It is all emptiness, all nothingness About me, I am utter helplessness. Yet somehow it is blesséd helplessness! Let Him do with me as He will, Who now Is dealing thus with me through these! O ye, His ministers, O, holy women, ye, Behold, I give myself through you to Him! Ye have conquered me for Him at last with love. No weapons have I to withstand such might. Tell Paul that he and ye have overcome For that both he and ye were overcome Yourselves first by the love that made you love Even me, even me, even me, grown gray in sin, Such sin, amid such light, against such love! Forgive ye me, forgive, forgive, forgive, And pray ye all that I may be forgiven Of Him to Whom henceforth, unworthy I To be at all accepted to such thrall, I give myself forever up a slave!'

Thus Shimei, in his formless fantasy, Which being nor word, nor thought, still less was will, Mused, like a river lapsing to the sea; So softly did an inner current draw Him unresisting whither it desired. It seemed to Shimei, in that strong access And overflow of feeling new to him, As if it would be easy to speak out. Nay, but as if he must at once speak out, Aloud, for those to hear toward whom he now Felt this delicious love and longing; yet He never did so speak, alas, but wronged Himself, wronged them, refraining; more, the Spirit Of grace nigh quenched with silence! So it fared With Shimei then, self-shut from needful speech, As might it with some tender plant denied Its freedom of the sun and air, that peaks And pines and cannot open into flower. Perhaps the habit of his heart life-long Was winter all too fast for any spring To solve; perhaps he could not, if he would, Unbind its cold constriction from himself For welcome and exchange of sweet good-will Such as he felt rife round him in the air, Wooing him, like bland weather, toward full bloom In frank affections and fair courtesies. Sad, if indeed the faculty in him Of finer feeling and the word to fit Were lost through long disuse, or by abuse!

But it was much in Shimei that thenceforth He never was bitter again with cynicism; The fountains of his evil humor were dry; He never vented blast of unbelief To blight the region round him with black death To every springing plant and opening flower Of cheerful faith in human nobleness; That mordant tongue refrained itself from sneer. Yea—this with travail of will through enforced lips— Shimei, in frugal phrase, but phrase sincere, Gave, of his conscience, rather than his heart, Thanks to them all that ministered to him. More: after days of silence, passed in muse And struggle in secret with himself, and prayer, Once, having asked to speak with Paul apart And easily won what he desired, he said: "Behold, O Saul, I think that I have erred, Mistaking thee, perhaps myself mistaking— Yea, but I know that I mistook myself, And mistook God, both what He was and wished; Most wickedly mistook Him, honestly— Honestly deeming Him other than He was, Imputing honestly what was not His will— Mistaking, with no heed not to mistake! This was my wickedness, that lightly I Misdeemed Him such an one as I myself. And thee I wronged comparing thee with myself, And hated thee for what, I now am sure, Thou wast not. Saul, I need to be forgiven!"— Wherewith his heavy head the old man bent low, With his uplifted hands in manacles Seeking to hide his face as if in shame; Not shame that he had sinned, but that he now Had spoken thus. Yet did that gesture naught Diminish from his words, but only show At cost how great he had wrung them from himself.

Paul understood the anguish of his mind, And said to Shimei: "Nay, my brother, nay, Forgiven thou art, nor needst to be forgiven, Or at least I have nothing to forgive thee; I long ago forgave thee all in all. But I myself would be of thee forgiven! I vexed thee once with high words spoken in pride; I never have forgiven myself that pride. Forgive me thou it, thou, that hadst thy hate Needlessly blown to hotter flame thereby. Let us forgive each other and love henceforth, As God, for Christ's sake, will us both forgive!" As Paul these last words spoke, he strongly yearned, Even for Christ's sake, to throw himself in tears On Shimei's neck and there weep out his love. But he, for Shimei's sake, forbore; he saw That Shimei, softened as he was, and changed, Was not ripe for forgiveness so complete. So Paul forbore, rejoiced that Shimei spoke No word, and signified with silence naught, In blasphemy of the Belovéd Name; Name by himself in hope, not without fear, Pronounced—like costliest pearl at venture flung Before what under foot might trample it And round to rend the largess-giver turn.

The chill obstruction never to the end Was altogether thawed in Shimei's heart To make him childlike placable and mild. Perhaps more time, and vernal influence Permitted longer to brood over him, Had made it different; but the time was short For Shimei in that air of Paradise.

The voyage long had been with froward winds; At length those winds blew into tempest wild, With winter lightnings strangely intermixed, God thundering marvellously with His voice: All on that ship were awed, and some appalled.

Shimei, hugging himself upon the deck Where most were gathered, for to most it seemed Better to stand beneath the open sky Shelterless, than, though sheltered, not to see God make himself thus terrible in storm— Shimei, who, not more helpless than the rest, Felt a degree more helpless through his chains, Listened intently, with some power of calm Communicated to him, while, in tones Depressed unshaken into depths of awe, Paul, meek inheritor of the universe, As conscious child to God through Jesus Christ— The spirit of adoption in his heart That moment crying, "Abba Father!"—spoke Of how those dwelling in the secret place Of the Most High, beneath the shadow abode Of the Almighty, safe from every harm.

Amid the booms of thunder bursting nigh The dreadful forks of lightning flashed the while And fell all round the ship into the sea, Frequent, dividing pathways blinding bright Between sheer walls of blackness built like stone, So dense was piled the darkness of the night! For it was night, no moon, no star, and cloud Hung drooping in festoons from all the sky Wind-swept along the bosom of the deep— Sky only by the lightning flashes seen, At intervals, yet every moment felt, Oppressive, like a mighty incubus. The lightning flashes thick and thicker fell, Near, nearer, deadlier, as in conscious aim, Like the fierce vengeful flames from heaven that once Elijah prophet, on Mount Carmel, drew Down on his altar trenched about with flood: Those tongues of fire that circling trench lapped dry, But these divided tongues of lightning seemed Equal to lick the boundless ocean up!

The watchers huddling on the deck beheld In silence—for now also Paul was dumb— The imminent menace of the elements. Then what might seem a frightful sign from heaven! A leap of lightning and a rending roar Of thunder at one selfsame moment broke, Sudden, and nigh at hand—as if he, seen Of John on Patmos isle, that angel dread (Who, setting his right foot upon the sea And his left foot upon the land, so cried With a loud voice) now standing on this ship Had once more cried and loosed the thunders seven, So manifold the noise!—and therewith swayed The sword of God in a descending stroke On some one there select for punishment. They looked, and, lo, the fearful stroke had fallen On Shimei; he lay lifeless on the deck. No motion, save of falling, and no voice— Appalling silence and appalling calm! Close at the foot of the tall mast he fell, Against which with his shoulder he had leaned To stay him where he stood and watched the storm. The storm seemed broken with that burst of rage, And quieted itself through slow degrees Of sullenness to peace. But the tall mast At top had been enkindled with the touch Of the fell lightning, and it burned a while Lifted amid the tempest and the night, A beacon flaming from the Most High God.

Such was the end of Shimei, unforeshown; To this he tended all those devious ways! Next morning mid a weather pacified They shrouded him for burial in the deep. "Until the sea give up its dead!" said Paul Solemnly, as the corse went weighted down. Julius would not let free his hands from chains; "Culprit he was and culprit he shall go," He said, "to Hades by this watery way. Incenséd Jupiter despatched him hence, And Neptune will convey him duly down To where their brother Pluto will behold Upon him the Olympian's thunderbrand, And send to Rhadamanthus to be judged!"

But Paul said to his company apart: "Let us not judge before the time; the Day, The Day, that shall declare it. Let us hope; The mercy of the Lord is measureless: It is, even like His judgment, a great deep, And it endures forever; as the psalm Sings it, again and yet again, in long Antiphony of praise that cannot end. Think not, because the promise is no harm Shall light on any one who dwells within The secret place of the Most High, that thence, Seeing this awful-seeming way of death Has found out Shimei, he perforce has proved Not to have fixed his dwelling ere he died Safe in the shadow of the Almighty's throne. The safety promised is not for the flesh, But for the spirit. The outward perishes In many ways that to the senses seem Preclusive quite of hope for life to come. But, so the inward bide untouched of harm, The true self lives and is inviolate. That lightning did not fall on Shimei's soul; No certain sign was it of wrath divine: Nay, even perhaps the opposite of such, It may have been a fiery chariot With fiery horses hither sent from heaven, To bear him up Elijah-like to God. Far be it to say that this indeed was so; Yet often last is first, as first is last. Ye saw how wrought upon our brother was Of late to be how different from himself! I trust he trusted in the atoning blood. I shall have hope to see him yet endued In shining robes of Jesus' righteousness, Translucent shining robes wherethrough the soul Herself shows shining in essential white! God grant it, and farewell to Shimei!"

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BOOK XII.

PAUL AND KRISHNA.

Felix and Drusilla on the one hand and Krishna on the other disclose the contrasted feelings severally excited in them by what they had just witnessed in the lot of Shimei. Krishna seeks from his friend Sergius Paulus explanation of the relations that subsisted between those ministering Christians and the sufferer. He at length requests and obtains an interview with Paul, and the two have a conversation, one result of which is that Krishna asks to hear a full account of the life and character of Jesus Christ. Paul proposes that Mary Magdalené give this account, but Krishna courteously declines to receive it from the lips of a woman. The ship meantime puts in at The Fair Havens, whence, after a short stay in that anchorage, it sets sail, against the advice of Paul.

PAUL AND KRISHNA.

As one transported to a different sphere, Some sinless planet fairer far than ours, Amid new scenes and aspects there beheld, Would watch and wonder and not understand, So had the most of that ship's company, Not understanding, but much wondering, watched What passed between the wretched Shimei And those his ministers of grace and love.

Felix, discoursing with Drusilla, said (For he, by virtue of his being himself, Perforced divined accordingly—amiss) "Much painful cultivation, for no fruit! Paul, turn and turn about, that time did seem His enemy at advantage to have had, And prospect was that Shimei, won to him With all those unexpected services (Sore needed, in such sorry case, no doubt!) Would, could he first make shift to clear himself, Right face about at Rome and, far from being An adversary witness against Paul, Swear him snow-white with turncoat testimony. How easily king Jupiter, with that pass Of playful lightning, brought it all to naught!" Said Felix; then, with change abrupt from sneer, Grim added this, in sullen afterthought: "That lightning was a neat dispatch for him! I wish that it had fallen on me instead." "Ill-omened from thy lips such words as those," Drusilla answered. "And what love to me Speak they, thy wife and queen—not with her lord Joined in thine imprecation dire of doom? Perhaps indeed we shall be separate In death—with death, despite the difference, But differently horrible to both! For I have my forebodings, bred of thine, And dread to be somehow hereafter caught In some form of calamity unknown But unescapable and horrible And final and fatal as that Shimei's. And what if he, our son (thine image—form, And face, and character, and all) dear pledge To me of love that once his father bore His mother, happy she as worthy judged, Once!—what if he, our little Felix too Be in that dread catastrophe involved!"

Drusilla thus half feigned contagious fears, But half she felt them; for in truth she now, So long in shadow from her husband's mood, Was under power of gloomy imaginings. Yet, felt or feigned her fears, she made them spells This day to conjure with, when to her own Image the little Felix's she joined In desperate hope to spur her husband's spirit Out of the slough of his despondency And comfort him by making him comfort her. But Felix was not fiber fine enough To feel even, less to heed, appeal wrung out Though from sincerest pain for sympathy; And now his own crass egoism coarsely knew How shallow, or how hollow, or how false, This subtler egoism of his consort was. Drusilla's art defeated its own end; Felix more murkily lowered, and muttered fierce Betwixt set teeth in husky tones and low: "Aye, and why not thou too along with me? Count thyself meant—thyself not less than me— In what that memorable day was said At Cæsarea in the judgment hall— Said, and much more conveyed without being said— By that Jew Paul, of dark impending doom. If I am wicked, sure thou art wicked too; The gods must hate us, if they hate, alike. Let us, since hated jointly, jointly hate. Perhaps compact and cordial partnership Betwixt us in some hatred chosen well Will be almost as good as mutual love!" Drusilla to such savage cynicism Gave loth ear bitterly, as one well sure It were not wise in anything to cross Her husband's brutal whim, and he went on: "There is that milksop Sergius Paulus—he Roman, forsooth! The Roman in his blood, If ever Roman ran therein true red, Has been washed white with something else infused. I much misdoubt that Paul has brought him round To be disciple of the Nazarene. A pretty pair, a Roman and a Jew— Like us, my dear Drusilla! And the Jew, In either case, the chief one of the pair!"

With such communings entertained those two, Adulterer and adulteress, the hours; The passion that they once had miscalled love, Yea, even that passion—long in either breast With the disgust of sick satiety Palled—now at length by guilt and guilty fears, Brood of ambition disappointed, slain: But in the ashes of such burned-out love Smouldered the embers of self-fuelled hate, Fell fire that thus on Sergius fixed its fangs!

Meanwhile that Indian Krishna, deep in muse, Masked with impassable demeanor mild From all about him, from himself even, masked A trouble of wonder that he could not lay. He gazed with gentle furtiveness at Paul And strove to read the riddle of the man. He felt Paul's spirit different from his own; His own was placid with placidity Resembling death, or trance and apathy That would be, were it perfect, death. But Paul, Not placid, peaceful rather, seemed to live Not less but more intensely than the rest, His fellow-creatures round him in the world; A life of passion reconciled with peace! 'Impossible! Passion reconciled with peace!' Thought Krishna; 'I seek peace through passion slain, Expecting, I the seeker, not to be At all, the moment I a finder am. This Hebrew has the secret now of peace; Strange peace, not passionless, but passionate!— Extinction not of being, here forestalled, Like that for which I strive by ceasing striving (With fear lest after all I miss the mark, And only strive to cease, not cease to strive) Nay, no nirvâna antedated, his— That hope of our lord Buddha hard to win— But life increased with life to such a power As is the mighty river's grown too great To register in eddy or ripple even Resistance in its channel overcome. Is life then, boundless, better than blank death?'

So Krishna mused in doubt beholding Paul, Until at last to Sergius Paulus he, Breaking the seals of silence, spoke and said: "If to thy thinking meet, bring me, I pray, To speak with Paul, so named, thy friend as seems. But first tell me who was, and what, that Jew To such plight of sheer wretchedness reduced That to be rid by lightning of his life Seemed blessing, whatsoever might ensue Hereafter to him in his next estate, Doubtless some sad metempsychosis due. Was he perhaps a kinsman near of Paul?" "Nay, kinsman none, save as all Jews are kin, Descended from the same forefather old," Said Sergius. "Then perhaps of some of those, Near kinsman," Krishna said, "women with men, Who watched with that long patience over him, And won him as from death to life with love?" "Nay, also not their kinsman," Sergius said, Pleasing himself with saying no more, to see How far the silence-loving Indian drawn By unaccustomed wonder still would seek. "Some reverend father of his people, then," Krishna adventured guessing, "whom, oppressed With undeserved calamity, they yet Honored themselves with honoring to the end?" "O nay, far otherwise than such, he was," Said Sergius, "vile, most vile by them esteemed, And that of rich desert, a man of shame And crime committed or fomented still." "Then haply—not of purpose, but by chance"— Said Krishna, groping deeper in his dark, "That vile man yet, if even by wickedness, Had wrought some service to these kindly folk Which they would not without requital pass?" "Still from the mark," said Sergius, "thy surmise. That evil man no end of evil deed Instead had plotted and led on in guile Against these gentle people to their woe. Last, and but late, during this selfsame voyage Of theirs from Syria to Rome, on board That other vessel whence they came to us, He sought, with midnight bribe and treachery, To compass violent death for Paul, a man, As thou hast seen, beyond belief beloved, And for good cause, of all. That failing, he With perjury and well-supported fraud Of adamantine front and impudence, Charged upon Paul attempt to murder him."

So Sergius Paulus, with some generous heat, And horror of the heinous things he told. He said no more and Krishna naught replied.

After much vexing controversy vain With winds that varying ever blew adverse, They had made the roadstead of The Havens Fair. Here they dropped anchor, glad of peace and rest And leisure to consider of their way, Whether they still would forward stem despite The threats of winter, or there wait for spring.

Krishna fell silent when those things he heard From Sergius Paulus; silent Krishna fell, But in his bosom shut deep musings up Whereof the first he, in due season brought To speech with Paul while they at anchor rode, Propounded with preamble soft and suave In words like these: "Much merit hast thou hope Doubtless, yea, and most justly, to have earned, Thou, and thy Hebrew fellow-voyagers, With all that ill-deservéd kindness shown Him, thy base countryman, whom, thunderstruck, Fate hurried lately hence to other doom. A millstone burden bound about the neck Is karma such as his to weigh one down— 'Karma,' we say; but otherwise perhaps Thou speakest; merit or demerit, what Accrues to one inseparable from himself, In part his earning, heritage in part, The harvest reapt of virtue or of vice— Aye, karma such as his was weighs one down In dying, to new life more dire than death. Hard-won a karma like thine own, but worth The winning though ten thousand times more hard!"

Paul felt the Indian's gentleness and loved Him with great pity answering him: "I know Thy meaning, and I take the courtesy, While yet the praise I cannot, of thy words. My karma is not mine as won by me With either easy sleight or hard assay— The karma thou hast seemed in me to find: That was bestowed, and is from hour to hour With ever fresh bestowal still renewed. I had a karma once indeed my own, Much valued, wage it was of labor sore, But it grew hateful in my opened eyes And I despised it underneath my feet To be as dross rejected and abjured."

Paul's sudden vehemence in recital seemed Less vehemence from recalling of long-past Strong spurning, than that spurning now renewed. Unmoved the Indian save to mild surprise Made answer: "Our lord Buddha teaches us Our karma is inalienably ours, The fatal fruit of what we do and are, No more to be divided from ourselves Than shadow from its substance in the sun. But, nay, that figure fails; our karma is Substantial and enduring more than we. We die, our karma lives; it shuffles off Us as outworn, and takes unto itself Forever other forms to fit its needs, Until the cycle is filled of change and change, And misery and existence cease together. Such karma is, the one substantial thing, And such are we, mere shadows of a day. Pray then explain to me how thou dost say Thou ridst thee of a karma once thine own; And how moreover thou canst add and say Thou tookst another karma, given, not won. I fain would understand the doctrine thine."

With something of a sweet despondency Pathetically tingeing his good will, Paul on the gentle Indian gazed and said: "O brother, with all wish to meet thee fair, Yet know I that I cannot answer thee, Save as in parable and paradox Beyond thine understanding, yea, and mine."

Paul so replied because his mind indeed Sank in a sense sincere of impotence; But partly too because he felt full well How all-accomplished in the skill of thought, How subtle, and how deep, the Indian was, As how by nature and by habit fond Of allegory and of mystery. He deemed that he should best his end attain Of feeding this inquiring spirit fine With the chief truth, by frankly staggering him, As the Lord staggered Nicodemus once, With that which in his doctrine was the highest And hardest to receive or understand, Set forth in terms of shadow to perplex, But also tempt to further curious quest. Merging the Indian's idiom in his own And lading it with unwonted sense, Paul said: "That karma, erst so valued, I escaped How? by becoming other than I was. The old man died and a new man was born, With a new karma given him, of pure grace, A seamless robe of snow-white righteousness, Enduement from the hand of One that died To earn the right of so bestowing it. Raiment of filthy rags with pride I had worn Before, not knowing, painful patchwork pieced Upon me of such works of righteousness Mine own as cost me dear indeed, yet worth Nothing to hide my nakedness and shame. Now I am clad in Jesus' righteousness, A shining vesture, with nor seam nor stain."

"Proud words, albeit not proudly spoken, thine," Said Krishna; "spotlessly enrobed art thou In righteousness and karma without flaw, Then thou hast reached the issue of The Way And art already for nirvâna ripe: Gautama could not make a bolder claim When, conquering, he attained the Buddhaship. Yet meekly thou madest mention of pure grace, And merit all another's, not thine own. A paradox indeed, perplexing me, Such boldness mixed with such humility." "Yea," Paul said, "the humility it is That makes the boldness thou hast found in me; It were defect of right humility Not boldly to obey when Christ bids do. Christ bids me take His perfect righteousness; I can be humble but by taking it— Boldly? yea, or as if boldly, for here Humility and boldness twain are one."

"To thee thy teacher Christ," said Krishna, "seems Something the same as Buddha is to me: Yet other, more; not teacher simply, Christ To thee, and master, setter forth of wise Instructions and commands obeying which Thou also now, as he once saved himself, Mayst thyself save through merit hardly earned. Thy Christ is will, not less than wisdom; power And help, as well as guidance in the way. Sovereign creator and imparter, he Saves thee, thou trustest, through new life bestowed, Which makes thee other than thou wast before, And therefore frees thee from the fatal yoke And bondage of the karma thou hadst won With labor when thou wast the former man: The words are easy, but the sense is hard."

"Hard?" Paul said; "nay, outright impossible To any soul of man that still abides His old first natural self unchanged to new. Submit thyself unto the righteousness Of God, and thou the mystery shalt know With knowledge deeper than the mind's most deep Divinings of the things she cannot speak."

"To fate, the universe, and necessity," Said Krishna, "I submit, because I must. But to submit because I will, to any thing, Much more to any one, that is, give up My will, which is my self, my very self, To be another's and no longer mine, Consent to be another person quite Than I have been, and am, and wish to be— This thou proposest to me, if I take Rightly thy words to mean thou thus hast done, Becoming what thou art by vital change From something different that thou wast before. I frankly tell thee I have not the power So to commute myself, had I the will."

"'I cannot' is 'I will not' here," said Paul; "No power is needful of thine own save will: Will, and thou canst; God then in thee is power. Consider, it is only to submit." "I feel my inmost will in me disdain," Said Krishna, "this effacement of myself." "Yea, yea," said Paul, "it is the carnal mind In thee, the primal unregenerate self Ever in all at enmity with God, Which is not subject to the law of God, Neither indeed can be; to be, were death To that old self which must resist, to live: The carnal mind is enmity to God; When enmity to God ceases in one, Then ceases in that one the carnal mind, The original man with his self-righteousness His karma, if thou please, his good, his ill. He is no more, and all that appertains To him is dead and buried out of sight Forever; but there lives a second self By resurrection from that sepulcher— By fresh creation rather from the dead— A new regenerate man at one with God, For to the law of God agreed in will, Replaced the carnal with the spiritual mind, Warfare and death exchanged for life and peace."

Into Paul's voice, he ceasing with those words, There slid a cadence as of reverie: He seemed to muse so deeply what he said That he less said than felt it; 'life' and 'peace,' So spoken, no mere sounds upon the tongue, Were audible pulses of the living heart. Invasion thence of power seized Krishna's soul, And, 'Life and peace!' he murmured, 'Life and peace!' But said aloud: "Strange union, peace with life! We look for peace only with death, last death, That death indeed beyond which nothing is, No further transmigration of the soul, No soul, no karma, all pure passionless Non-being; not a state, since state implies Some subject of a state, and here is none, To do or suffer or at all to be: Absolute zero, such the Buddhist's peace."

"'I am come,' Jesus said," so Paul replied, "'That ye might have life, more abundant life.' Life, life, deep stream and full, a river of God, Pours endless, boundless, from the heart of Christ; 'Ho, every one that thirsteth, drink,' said He, 'Lo, drink and live with mine eternal life.'"

"I fear fallacious promises of good," Sighed Krishna; "life were good indeed with peace. But me, I hope not any good save flight, Save flight and refuge inaccessible From persecuting and pursuing ill. Being is misery; I would cease to be; No hope have I, and no desire, but that. Hope is for children; I am not a child To chase the ends of rainbows, seeking gold: There is no hope that does not make ashamed. I dare not hope, eagerly, even for death, Lest that likewise elude my clutch at last. Despair no less I shun; despair is naught But hope turned bitter and sour, postponed too long. I only seek to cease from hope, from fear, From every passion that can shake my calm. Calm is my good, and perfect calm is death, Therefore I wait for death with death-like calm. Thou wouldst disturb the calm with hope of life, Fair, but fallacious; let me alone to die."

With soft pathetic deprecation so Krishna, in form of words, half faltering, begged From Paul no more, yet added: "I would hear Something of what he was, thy master; what He did as well as taught; and whence he came, And when, and where, and how; and how he lived And died, having achieved his Buddhaship."

"For me," Paul said, "I never truly knew My Master while He lived among us here, Almighty God incarnate in the form Of servant—glory and blessing to His name!— Though after He in triumph from the dead Rose, and ascended far above all height Into the heaven of heavens to be with God— Whence he had stooped the dreadful distance down To His humiliation among men— Then He revealed Himself in power to me, And I beheld His face and heard His voice, And knew Him for co-equal Son of God. But thou, besides that in this power and glory No man may see Him save He show Himself, Wouldst wish a picture of the life He lived, The manner of man He was, while still on earth, The death He died, and how He died His death. There is one here among us well can draw The living picture thou wouldst look upon, For she was with Him when He walked the ways Of Galilee and Jewry doing good; She saw Him suffer when by wicked hands His blindfold yet more wicked countrymen— Alas, among them I!—put Him to death. With early morning at His sepulcher, His emptied sepulcher, she weeping stood And saw—but what she saw and all her tale Of Jesus as she knew and loved Him here, Is Mary Magdalené's right herself With her own lips and is her joy, to tell."

"Lord Buddha would not let a woman teach," Indulging so much of recoil concealed As might consist with utmost courtesy Said Krishna; but, with wise avoidance, Paul: "And Mary Magdalené will not teach, But only in simplicity with truth Bear testimony of eye-witness how Immanuel Jesus lived His life on earth."

While thus they talked a movement on the deck, Words of command and bustle to obey, Betokened that the purpose was to leave The sheltered anchorage of The Havens Fair And tempt the dangers of the winter deep. Paul saw it and suddenly broke off discourse With Krishna, saying to him: "They err in this; Surely we here should winter. Let me speak A moment with the master of the ship."

Krishna with such surprise as disapproved Dimly in his immobile features shown, Watched while this intermeddling strange went on; Strange intermeddling ventured, strangely borne, Captive to captor bringing advice unsought; For Paul to the centurion also turned When now the master and the owner both Agreed against him; but that Roman chose Likewise his part with them to sail away.

[362] [363]

BOOK XIII.

SHIPWRECK.

A violent storm occurs and the vessel is wrecked. Krishna, having carefully noted the part that Paul takes in the rescue of the lives of all on board, and having noted besides the miracles performed by Paul on the island of Malta where they come safe to shore, brings himself to signify now his willingness to hear from Mary Magdalené her story of Jesus Christ. A company assemble, including, with the Christians, Julius as well as Krishna, and Mary begins her narrative. This after a time is interrupted by a peremptory summons from Felix to Paul, to which Paul responds in person.

SHIPWRECK.

The south wind softly blew a favoring breeze As forth they put and stood for Italy: But that fair mother in her bosom bore Offspring of storm that hastened to the birth. For soon the fondling weather changed to fierce, And, blustering from the north, Euraquilo Beat down with all his wings upon the sea, Which under that rough brooding writhed in foam To whirlpool ready to engulf the ship. No momentary tempest swift as wild; But blast of winter wanting never breath Poured from all quarters of the sky at once And caught the vessel like a plaything up Hurling it hither and thither athwart the deep. The sails were rent and shredded from the masts; The boat, to be the hope forlorn of life, Was hardly come by, so the hungry wave Desired it as a morsel to its maw. The ship through all her timbers groaned and shrieked And all her joints seemed melting with the fray And fracture of the jostling elements. At their wits' end, those mariners distraught, Feeling the deck dissolve beneath their feet, With undergirding helped the anguished ship; While, worse than waters waiting to devour, A sea of quicksand seethed, they knew, full nigh.

So the night fell but brought no stay to storm; Fresh fury rather every darkening hour.

The dismal daylight dawned, and wind and wave, Gnashing white teeth of foam, all round the ship Howled like wild beasts defeated of their prey. Then, as to bait those monster ravening mouths, They portion of the lading overboard Fling, in the hope that lightened so the bark Springing more buoyant may outride the storm.

But the storm thickened as the third day dawned, And not the crew alone but all on board Worked the ship's gear in the increasing gale. They thus bestead, the heavens above them lowered Day after day that neither sun nor stars One instant flickered in the firmament; The blotted blackness made one dreadful night Of day and night confounded in the gloom. Hope now went out, last light to leave the sky, Outburning sun and moon and star all quenched Before her in that drowning drench of dark— Hope too went out, touched by the hand of death.

Then Paul stood forth, himself with fasting faint, Amid those famished faint despairing souls And upward reaching high his hand to heaven, There kindled once again the star of hope. Chiding them fairly that they did not heed His warning word betimes to shun that harm, He gave them cheer that they should yet escape, All should escape with life from this assay; Only the ship must suffer wreck and loss. "The angel of the Lord, that Lord," said Paul, "Whose with all joy I am and whom I serve, As ye have seen, with worship night and day, Stood by me in the night and said to me: 'Fear thou not, Paul; thou art to stand in Rome Before the bar of Cæsar; lo, thy God Hath to thee given all those that sail with thee.' Be of good cheer then, ye; for I believe God that He will perform His word to me. Upon an island look to find us cast."

Full fourteen days the ship went staggering on A helpless hulk amid the Adrian sea, When now the sailors, deeming that they neared Some coast-line, sounded in the midnight dark; Then farther drifting sounded once again To find themselves indeed upon the shoals. Here, fearing to be driven upon rocks, They anchored, and so waiting wished for day.

And now a dastard thing those sailors schemed: Under pretext to cast one anchor more, As to that purpose they let down the boat, Minded therein to steal their own escape Leaving the rest to perish with the ship. But Paul perceived their fraud and subtlety And said to Julius with his soldiery; "Let those men go and ye cannot be saved;" Whereon the soldiers cut the lowering ropes, Sending the boat to surf and reef a prey.

As broke the fourteenth morning yet forlorn, Paul, unconfessed the captain of the ship And master of his fellow voyagers, In the dim twilight of the struggling dawn Stood on the slippery deck amidst them all And stoutly cheered them to take heart of hope Break their long fast and brace themselves with food. "For not a hair shall fall from off the head Of any one of you," said he, and took Therewith himself, in act more eloquent Than spoken word, bread and gave thanks to God In presence of them all; then breaking it Forthwith began to eat; this heartened them That they likewise strengthened themselves with meat. Thus comforted, once more the laboring ship They lighten of her lading and the wheat Sow in the barren brine.

The land descried They knew not, but there was no land unknown That were not better than that wallowing sea. So, cutting loose their anchors, they made sail And drove the vessel aground upon a beach, Where the keel plunged into the yielding sand Which closing heavy upon it held her fast; But the free stern rocked on the billowing surge That soon atwain must break her in the midst.

Hardness of habit and of discipline Partly, and partly a self-regarding fear Lest they be held to answer with their lives, If even amid the mortal panic pangs Of shipwreck they should let their charge escape, Made now those Roman soldiers, in the jaws Themselves yet of the common peril hung, Ready to put their prisoners to the sword; But Julius stayed them for the sake of Paul. "You that can swim," he shouted, "overboard!" Some thus, and some on spars buoyed up, and some On other floatage of the breaking wreck, They all got safe to shore, not one soul lost.

The master of the rescue still was Paul; Calm, but alert, completely self-possessed— (Possessor of himself, yet not himself Considering, save to sacrifice himself Freely at need); his courage and his hope Inspiring hope and courage; self-command In him aweing the rest to self-command; His instinct instant and infallible Amid the terror and the turbulence,— Winds howling and sea heaving and strait room For nigh three hundred souls in face of death!— Each moment seeing ere the moment passed What the need was and what the measure meet To match it—that serene old man and high Was as an angel there descended who Could had he chosen at once have stayed the storm, But rather chose to wield it as he would.

The captain of the vessel and the man Whose was the vessel, these, with Julius too, Roman centurion as he was in charge, Grouped themselves close by Paul and heard his word And had it heeded without stay by all. "I shall be last to leave the ship," Paul cried, "Do therefore ye the things that I advise. The women first. Lady Drusilla, thou Commit thyself to four picked sailors, these"— The master of the vessel chose them out— "Two soldiers with them—Julius, by thy leave And of thy choice—and on this ample spar Supported thou shalt safely come to land; And, Madam, thy little son shall go with thee." They lashed them to the timber, lowered it fair (With Felix desperately hugging it, The image of a sordid craven fear); The men detailed leapt overboard to it, And steering it as they could with feet and hands Let the sea wave on wave wash it ashore: She was indignant to be rescued so, But by abrupt necessity was tamed.

"Let me, I pray thee, save thy sister, Paul," Said Sergius Paulus, who, assuming yea, Forthwith led Rachel—she with such a grace Of confidence in him as made him strong Following—to where a fragment of the deck Disjointed in the vessel's agony Lay loosened, which he clove and wrenched away; Then watching when the vessel listed right And the sea met it with a slope of wave, They, this beneath them, clinging to it, slid Down the steep floor into the frothing brine Stephen was by and helped them make the launch. Sergius, from the side opposite to her— To steady the light wreckage all he might Lest wanting balance it should overturn— Reaching across, kept Rachel's fingers clasped In hold upon the wavering wood, until, What with his oarage and the wash of waves, They found a melting foothold on the sand.

Krishna stood wishing to be serviceable, And when to Aristarchus, stout and brave, Paul was commending Mary, at a look From the Indian that imported such desire, Leave was given him to undertake for Ruth. Each of the two life-savers rent a door From off its hinges and thereon secured The women awed in that extreme assay Yet girded to a constancy of calm, And, Stephen helping, lowered them to the deep. Krishna was let down after by a rope, No swimmer he, but Ruth too held the rope And drew him to the float whereon she tossed. Greek Aristarchus was a swimmer born And practised, and he plunged headforemost down, Soon to emerge with easy buoyancy And aim unerring true where Mary rode. The two then—Aristarchus in the lead Teaching the Indian how, and, with the rope Flung to his hand at his desire by Ruth And by him featly bound about his waist, Drawing the floatage forward, while his own He pushed with swimming—won their way to shore. Twice Aristarchus was, for stress of wave, Fain to release his hold upon his float, So fierce the tug, and sudden, at his waist; But he, by swimming and by seamanship Consummate joined to strength well-exercised, Strength by the exigence redoubled now, Both times regained it and thenceforward kept. Mary meanwhile, forsaken, faltered not; She felt the stay of other hands than his.

All his advices and permissions Paul Put forth in such continuous sequence swift That well-nigh simultaneous all they seemed: The vessel swarmed with ordered movement mixed, And the sea lived with strugglers for the shore. Of all these only Simon had the cool Cupidity and temerity to risk Weighting himself with treasure to bear off In rescue from the wreck; he his loved gold, Ill-gotten gains of sorcery and of fraud, Secretly carried with him safe to land.

Stephen did not lack helpers; Julius bade Varenus, of the soldiers, serve his wish; And Syrus, a young slave of Felix's, Sprang of his own free motion joyfully To help him pluck Eunicé out of scath; For he had marked the youthful Hebrew pair With distant, upward-looking, loyal love Instinctive toward such virtue and such grace. But, "Nay," Eunicé said, "not yet for me; See there those trembling creatures"—the hand-maids Of dame Drusilla—"rescue first for them!" On a good splinter of the tall curved stem— The sign of Ceres at the gilded beak— By the rude violence of the shock torn off When the ship grounded, they tied the two slave girls; But the shipmaster fair Eunicé's act Of self-postponing nobleness admired, And bade two trusty seamen help let down That beam life-laden soft into the sea Whither they, at the master's further word, Followed it, as with frolic leap to death, And brought it safely to the wave-washed shore. Then Stephen and Eunicé, each to each As if in a symbolic bond of fate Linked, with a length of rope allowing play Between them for their wrestle with the surge, And having each in hold a wooden buoy Provided with what might be firmly grasped, Wieldy in size yet equal to support Them safe above the summits of the sea, Were lowered by eager volunteers who all Sped them to their endeavor for the land. They reached it and thanked God for life such prize.

The soldiers that were bidden overboard To take their chance of swimming to the beach Bore with them lines which, stretched from ship to shore, Became the means of saving many souls; The most were thus, some buoyed on floats of wood, Some dragged half drowning through the sandy surf, Landed at last—forlorn, but yet alive.

Paul was not, as he had his will to be Announced, quite last to leave the breaking bark; Centurion Julius would not have it so. When all except the owner of the ship And the shipmaster and himself with Paul (And Luke, who would not quit the apostle's side) Were safe ashore, he intervened for Paul. Now so it was, the mast to which was tied The rescue-line beneath the strain gave way And fell with a great crash along the deck. On this those four made fast the brave old man Who with his counsel and his cheer had saved So many, counting not his own life dear But seen, the crisis of the need now past, Exhausted, tremulous, and nigh to sink. Then having with great strength—helped by a lurch That now the vessel seasonably gave— Pushed smoothly overboard the noble spar Entrusted with that treasure of a life, Prompt they plunged after it into the brine, And having reached it, clung to it, and well Buoyed up upon its surging lift, were borne Themselves with Paul by urgent wind and wave Safe to the beach, where those arrived before Met them with outstretched arms and cheers and tears.

The island of their refuge and escape Was Melita: the Melitans were kind, And though they spoke a tongue not understood By Hebrew, Greek, or Roman stranded there, And bore the name 'barbarian' from the Greek, Yet were they alien not; in deeds they used A universal language of the heart. Kindling a fire, most grateful—for the rain Fell drenching and the weather was windy cold— Those shipwrecked strangers all they entertained.

Now so it happened that to Paul, he too Ranging to gather fuel where he could And fetching soon a fagot to the fire, Sudden there sprang a viper from the heat, Warmed from his winter dormancy to life, And angry fastened hanging on his hand. The islanders beholding doubted not But here some murderer, saved in vain from death By shipwreck, now was suffering vengeance due. Paul lightly shook the deadly reptile off Into the flames and felt no harm. But they, The islanders, kept jealous watch to see The dooméd victim of those fatal fangs Swell with the venom in his veins, or drop Haply at once a corpse upon the ground. After long disappointed watch, no sign Of hurt perceived in Paul, they changed their mind And said among themselves, "He is a god."

The chief man of the island, Publius, Houses and lands possessing in those parts, Gave Paul and his companions welcoming cheer In three days' courteous hospitality— Not unrequited; for the father lay Wasting with fever and worse malady In the son's house; but Paul went in to him And prayed and laid his hands on him and he Was healed. Then others also of the sick Among the Melitans came and were healed. So Paul had honors from them thrust on him; These he divided with a liberal hand To all, and when at last they left the isle They went thence laden with a plenteous store Bestowed of what they needed on their way. But all the winter long they tarried there, Waiting for spring to open up the sea; And many an hour was theirs for various talk, They fenced in sunny places from the wind Or grouped about their outdoor fires for cheer.

The Indian Krishna, uncomplaining, bland, With that quick quiet eye which naught escaped And that deep-studying mind which rested never, Had slowly by degrees, considering all That Paul wrought or was wrought through Paul, been won— Against a passive incredulity Inert but stubborn and resistant still, The instinct and the habit of his mind— To judge that Jewish prisoner otherwise Than when he hearing Paul give his advice Unasked about the conduct of the voyage Had fixed on him the blame of meddlesome. He owned an awe of Paul's authority Exerted for the rescue of the lives Of those that sailed with him; he shared the power Of hope and courage that went forth from Paul, His words, his deeds, and, more than either, himself. He did not quite escape some sense, inspired By Paul's thanksgiving when he broke the bread, Of other presence than Paul's own in Paul That lifted him to higher than himself. When he saw Paul from his uninjured hand Shake that fell viper off into the fire, He half-confusedly thought: 'That seems not strange; Our Indian serpent-charmers do as much.' But when those gifts of healing flowed from Paul, Not singly, but in troops of miracle Sufficing the whole island countryside, With only prayer and laying on of hands, Then at last Krishna said: 'I do not know, Is there some power in him greater than he? What power? Not Buddha, unconfessed, unknown, Yet willingly with that large tolerance his And bounty and sweet unconcern to claim Acknowledgement of his gifts, working in Paul Despite—nay, Buddha not, he long ago Passed, and while living never power was he, Though wisdom manifold. Yea, wisdom is, That know I, power; but not the converse holds, That power is wisdom; and pure power it is, Not wisdom, that in Paul these wonders works; No healing arts he uses, no medicine. Whence is the power? Or what? Is Christ the power?'

In sequel of communings such as these Held with himself, Krishna recalled the thought Of the rejected proffer made him late By Paul, of Mary's story of the Christ. He now would hear it, if but still he might; And so one calm bright day when winter smiled As if in dream and vision of the spring, With proud repression of his natural pride He brought himself to say to Paul: "O Paul, If thy friend Mary Magdalené yet Will deign so great a grace to me, who own My scant desert of it, I with all thanks Would hear her tell the story of her Lord," A group of those who, loving and honoring her, Loved from her lips again and yet again To hear the story, old but ever new, Of their belovéd Lord, were gathered then, With Sergius Paulus welcomed of their band And Krishna and the kindly Julius too, In a recess sequestered of the shore Where the sun shining from the open south Made a sweet warmth at noon, and whence the sea, So capable of fierceness, now was seen With many-sparkling wavelets beautiful And gentle in demeanor as a lamb.

Cast in no mould of outward loveliness To lure the eye, but of a native worth Such that her person noble seemed, and tall Her stature—all instinct with stately grace Her gesture and behavior—Mary sat That vernal winter noon amid her friends, Throneless and crownless, an unconscious queen: Yet over all in her that made her state Seem regal there presided the effect, Other and finer, of a lofty mind Arrived through sorrow to serenity, And in the heart of pathos finding peace. Such, Mary; who now thus took up her tale: "The story of my knowledge of the Lord Begins in shadow, shadow of shame for me; At least I feel it for a kind of shame To have been chosen of demons their abode; The recollection is a pang to me. I sometimes dare compare it in my mind With what Paul suffers"—and she glanced toward Paul A holy look of reverence understood— "'Thorn in the flesh,' he calls it, but my thorn, Within my spirit rather, rankles there, As messenger of Satan buffeting me Lest I should be exalted above measure— I, to whom Christ the Lord used first His voice Uttering that 'Mary!' when He from the dead Rose in His glory. Surely I well should heed How Mary, honored so, was the abode Once of seven demons. Why this should have been I cannot tell, unless to humble me. Sometimes my pride—or is it sense of worth, Sacred and not rebukable as pride?— Whispers me, 'Mary, thou wert therefore choice Of demons for their dwelling-place on earth, Because thou wert pure found and they desired A refuge that should least resemble hell.'

"Oh, how they rent me with their revelry, The hideous tumult of their joy in sin! And me they mixed up with their obscene mirth, Till half I doubted it was I myself Foaming my own shame out from helpless lips That blasphemed God, then laughed with ribald glee. I was not mistress of my mind or heart; Reason in me was a distracted realm, And will and conscience seemed like ships at sea Driven with fierce winds and tossed toward hopeless wreck.

"I wonder at myself that I do not Fight against God who strangely suffered it. But, never, never! He suffers many things Strangely, but I, this is His grace in me, Bow down at all of them, saying, 'Amen!' The crown of all my reasons for believing That God is gracious, is that I believe. For why do I believe, except that He Makes me believe, against so many signs Seen in the world abroad which swear in vain He is not good? O, ever-blessed God, Who let those demons seven take up in me Their lodgment, that they might be so dislodged!

"On an accepted day for me the Lord Was passing through the city where I dwelt, And one that knew my miserable case Implored Him to have mercy upon me. He heard, He condescended, and He came. But how at His first footsteps of approach, How did those inmates evil within me rave! What riot, mixed of panic and despair And hatred! The whole land elect where Christ Upon this earth appeared, when He appeared Was rife with insurrection from the pit Mad in attempt against Him. So in souls Possessed by spirits from hell, if Christ drew nigh Outrageous spasms of futile fury raged. Those demons seven in me usurped me now With tenfold more abominable rape. They with my fingers clutched and tore my hair; Gnashed with my teeth, and flickered with my tongue; They frothed from forth the corners of my mouth With foul grimace and execrable grin; In random jaculation hither and thither Flung my arms wildly like a windmill wrought To ruin in a whirlwind's vortices; Writhed all my bodily members, till I thought, With what of power to think was left to me, That surely nothing of corporeal mould Had strength enough of life to suffer more."

While Mary Magdalené told these things, Her noble face took on disfigurement Expressive of indignant horror and shame; And hardly had she been still beautiful But for a pathos fine of gratitude Tenderly crescent in it to the full, That all was of the past, no present pain, Naught but a memory! When her aspect cleared And she composedly went on again, It was as if the full moon late eclipsed With clouds rode from amid them forth serene In splendor, regent of the altered sky. "Those were the pangs of my deliverance, The throes of evil possession overcome. 'Come out of her!' He said; straight at that word, Rending me like a travail and a birth, They fled, and left me as one slain with wounds. But it was a delicious sense of death. I would be dead like that to be at peace! I hugged the death-like trance in which I lay, Until another word from the same voice Made it seem sweeter yet to live indeed. 'I say unto thee, Maid, arise!' I heard And I arose, obeying, I knew not how; It was as resurrection from the dead, Or first creation out of nothingness."

The Indian bent on Mary telling all A fixed and eager heed that veiled itself, As wont was to this devotee of Buddh, Under a mask of face expressionless. He quenched in silence of quick second thought Impulses strong to speak and quit himself Of doubts and questions starting in his mind. He abode mute, and Mary, after pause Filled to each one with various thought, resumed "How glad was I, and grateful, when the Lord Permitted me, with other women too Healed by Him of distresses like to mine, To follow, in the ways of Galilee, His footsteps as He went from place to place On His unending rounds of doing good! He had not where to lay His head, was poor Though making many rich; and it was joy Unspeakable to us to minister Out of our substance to His daily needs. 'Give to us day by day our daily bread,' The prayer was that He taught us. God through us Answered that prayer to Him and we were glad!

"Not all those whom he cleansed of spirits foul Inhabiting and defiling them did He Permit to follow with Him as they wished. One man, perhaps as sorely vexed as I, Being healed, entreated leave to stay with Him. It may be there was some defect of faith, Whence fear in him lest he, not with the Lord, Might again be invaded by that host Of wicked angels whom he 'Legion' called, And Jesus out of kindness was austere, To exercise him to a better trust Needing not crutch of sight to stay itself. I know not; this I know, and rest content, He doeth all things well, His choice is wise. The Master sent that man away, and bade: 'Return to thine own house and publish there How great things God hath done to thee.' He went And filled that favored city with the fame. Who knows? It may have been a better lot, More blesséd, to sound forth the Savior's praise And thus prepare him welcome among men, As did that healed demoniac, than to be, As I was, near His person in the flesh. But nay, nor more nor less, no difference, all Is equal, and all blesséd perfectly, To all that simply meet His blesséd will!"

Some subtle charm of eloquence, made up The listener thought not how, thought not indeed That there was any charm of eloquence— Manner perhaps, a flexure of the voice, Accent of clear simplicity with depth, A strand of pathos braided into it, The capture of an all-subduing eye— These things in her, but more than these, herself, Say rather the Spirit of God inhabiting her, Made Mary speaking irresistible. Krishna did not withstand the undoing spell, But yielded more and more, as still she spoke: "O, it was dreadful to behold his case, That demon-ridden man's! No clothes he wore, But fetters and chains instead, which could not bind His frantic strength to hold him anywhere. Like a wild beast in lair he lived abroad Housed but in rocky hollows of the hills. No man dared pass his way, so fierce was he, Cutting himself with stones among the tombs. When he saw Jesus coming, still far off, He ran toward Him and prostrate worshipped Him, Crying with a most lamentable voice: 'Lo, what have I to do with thee, O Thou Jesus, Thou Son of God Most High? I plead And I adjure Thee by the name of God That thou torment me not!' For Christ had said, 'Thou unclean spirit, come thou forth from him!' 'What is thy name?' asked Jesus; and he said: 'Legion, for we are many.'

"What was strange Then happened; for the demons prayed from Christ To be not wholly banished from the land. 'Send us,' they cried, 'into the swine'—for near Were feeding a great herd of swine—and Christ Gave them their whim to enter into them. Wherefore, I cannot tell; the Sadducees Among our people had no faith in spirits, Angels or demons; so it may have been To show it no mere foolish fancy vain, As they, the Sadducees, had taught it was, That there are wicked beings, other than we, Unseen and spiritual, errant in the world, And that these sometimes truly may invade The holy of holies of the human mind, That sanctuary meant for God's indwelling, And wrest it to their own foul purposes. No Sadducee I trow had Sadducee Remained, that saw that day the hideous rout Made when those swine, two thousand hoofs together, Rushed headlong down the lakeside precipice To perish in the waters; reason none, Save that the demons had gone into them. It was not sudden assault of epilepsy; "Those swine at least did not imagine it all!"— Over the face of Mary speaking now A moment of sarcastic humor played— "A woman herself possessed, then dispossessed, Of demon inhabitants, may be forgiven A little natural scorn to be assured That she was only shaken in her wits!" And Mary so recovered with a smile The sweet and holy candor of her face.

But now an interruption—for there came Rudely, from Felix sent, a minion who, With little Felix following him, to Paul Drew nigh and said: "My master bids thee come, For Simon whom he honors has fallen sick, And he would have thee heal him." Summons such Delivered in curt wise so insolent, Betrayed the master through the messenger. "Go tell thy master that I come," said Paul; "Go thou, but leave the lad to come with me."

So Paul took little Felix by the hand, He well-pleased equally to stay or go In that benign companionship, and went. But first Paul said: "Perhaps the afternoon Already is far spent enough, the cool And damp of evening will draw on apace; To-morrow, if God will—and Mary please— Our hearing of her tale may be renewed."

They, thus dispersed, and slowly following, saw Paul like a guardian angel in the guise Of a serene old man and venerable Lead on the boy and heed his prattling talk. He had the ruffled spirits of his friends, Indignant all at Felix's affront, Composed with only his superior pure Detached Christ-like serenity and calm.