Ben Hur (71 page)

The stranger moved on.

"Did you hear, Tirzah? Did you hear? The Nazarene is on the road,
on this one, and he will hear us. Once more, my child—oh, only once!
and let us to the rock. It is but a step."

Thus encouraged Tirzah took Amrah's hand and arose; but as they
were going, Amrah said, "Stay; the man is returning." And they
waited for him.

"I pray your grace, woman," he said, upon overtaking them. "Remembering
that the sun will be hot before the Nazarene arrives, and that the
city is near by to give me refreshment should I need it, I thought
this water would do thee better than it will me. Take it and be of
good cheer. Call to him as he passes."

He followed the words by offering her a gourd full of water,
such as foot-travellers sometimes carried with them in their
journeys across the hills; and instead of placing the gift on
the ground for her to take up when he was at a safe distance,
he gave it into her hand.

"Art thou a Jew?" she asked, surprised.

"I am that, and better; I am a disciple of the Christ who teacheth
daily by word and example this thing which I have done unto you.
The world hath long known the word charity without understanding it.
Again I say peace and good cheer to thee and thine."

He went on, and they went slowly to the rock he had pointed out
to them, high as their heads, and scarcely thirty yards from the
road on the right. Standing in front of it, the mother satisfied
herself they could be seen and heard plainly by passers-by whose
notice they desired to attract. There they cast themselves under
the tree in its shade, and drank of the gourd, and rested refreshed.
Ere long Tirzah slept, and fearing to disturb her, the others held
their peace.

During the third hour the road in front of the resting-place of
the lepers became gradually more and more frequented by people
going in the direction of Bethphage and Bethany; now, however,
about the commencement of the fourth hour, a great crowd appeared
over the crest of Olivet, and as it defiled down the road thousands
in number, the two watchers noticed with wonder that every one
in it carried a palm-branch freshly cut. As they sat absorbed
by the novelty, the noise of another multitude approaching from
the east drew their eyes that way. Then the mother awoke Tirzah.

"What is the meaning of it all?" the latter asked.

"He is coming," answered the mother. "These we see are from the
city going to meet him; those we hear in the east are his friends
bearing him company; and it will not be strange if the processions
meet here before us.

"I fear, if they do, we cannot be heard."

The same thought was in the elder's mind.

"Amrah," she asked, "when Judah spoke of the healing of the ten,
in what words did he say they called to the Nazarene?"

"Either they said, 'Lord, have mercy upon us,' or 'Master,
have mercy.'"

"Only that?"

"No more that I heard."

"Yet it was enough," the mother added, to herself.

"Yes," said Amrah, "Judah said he saw them go away well."

Meantime the people in the east came up slowly. When at length the
foremost of them were in sight, the gaze of the lepers fixed upon
a man riding in the midst of what seemed a chosen company which
sang and danced about him in extravagance of joy. The rider was
bareheaded and clad all in white. When he was in distance to be
more clearly observed, these, looking anxiously, saw an olive-hued
face shaded by long chestnut hair slightly sunburned and parted in
the middle. He looked neither to the right nor left. In the noisy
abandon of his followers he appeared to have no part; nor did their
favor disturb him in the least, or raise him out of the profound
melancholy into which, as his countenance showed, he was plunged.
The sun beat upon the back of his head, and lighting up the floating
hair gave it a delicate likeness to a golden nimbus. Behind him the
irregular procession, pouring forward with continuous singing and
shouting, extended out of view. There was no need of any one to tell
the lepers that this was he—the wonderful Nazarene!

"He is here, Tirzah," the mother said; "he is here. Come, my child."

As she spoke she glided in front of the white rock and fell upon
her knees.

Directly the daughter and servant were by her side. Then at sight
of the procession in the west, the thousands from the city halted,
and began to wave their green branches, shouting, or rather chanting
(for it was all in one voice),

"Blessed is the King of Israel that cometh in the name of the
Lord!"

And all the thousands who were of the rider's company, both those
near and those afar, replied so the air shook with the sound, which
was as a great wind threshing the side of the hill. Amidst the din,
the cries of the poor lepers were not more than the twittering of
dazed sparrows.

The moment of the meeting of the hosts was come, and with it the
opportunity the sufferers were seeking; if not taken, it would be
lost forever, and they would be lost as well.

"Nearer, my child—let us get nearer. He cannot hear us," said the
mother.

She arose, and staggered forward. Her ghastly hands were up, and
she screamed with horrible shrillness. The people saw her—saw her
hideous face, and stopped awe-struck—an effect for which extreme
human misery, visible as in this instance, is as potent as majesty
in purple and gold. Tirzah, behind her a little way, fell down too
faint and frightened to follow farther.

"The lepers! the lepers!"

"Stone them!"

"The accursed of God! Kill them!"

These, with other yells of like import, broke in upon the hosannas
of the part of the multitude too far removed to see and understand
the cause of the interruption. Some there were, however, near by
familiar with the nature of the man to whom the unfortunates were
appealing—some who, by long intercourse with him, had caught
somewhat of his divine compassion: they gazed at him, and were
silent while, in fair view, he rode up and stopped in front
of the woman. She also beheld his face—calm, pitiful, and of
exceeding beauty, the large eyes tender with benignant purpose.

And this was the colloquy that ensued:

"O Master, Master! Thou seest our need; thou canst make us clean.
Have mercy upon us—mercy!"

"Believest thou I am able to do this?" he asked.

"Thou art he of whom the prophets spake—thou art the Messiah!"
she replied.

His eyes grew radiant, his manner confident.

"Woman," he said, "great is thy faith; be it unto thee even as
thou wilt."

He lingered an instant after, apparently unconscious of the presence
of the throng—an instant—then he rode away.

To the heart divinely original, yet so human in all the better
elements of humanity, going with sure prevision to a death of all
the inventions of men the foulest and most cruel, breathing even
then in the forecast shadow of the awful event, and still as hungry
and thirsty for love and faith as in the beginning, how precious and
ineffably soothing the farewell exclamation of the grateful woman:

"To God in the highest, glory! Blessed, thrice blessed, the Son
whom he hath given us!"

Immediately both the hosts, that from the city and that from
Bethphage, closed around him with their joyous demonstrations,
with hosannas and waving of palms, and so he passed from the
lepers forever. Covering her head, the elder hastened to Tirzah,
and folded her in her arms, crying, "Daughter, look up! I have
his promise; he is indeed the Messiah. We are saved—saved!" And
the two remained kneeling while the procession, slowly going,
disappeared over the mount. When the noise of its singing afar
was a sound scarcely heard the miracle began.

There was first in the hearts of the lepers a freshening of the
blood; then it flowed faster and stronger, thrilling their wasted
bodies with an infinitely sweet sense of painless healing. Each
felt the scourge going from her; their strength revived; they were
returning to be themselves. Directly, as if to make the purification
complete, from body to spirit the quickening ran, exalting them to
a very fervor of ecstasy. The power possessing them to this good
end was most nearly that of a draught of swift and happy effect;
yet it was unlike and superior in that its healing and cleansing
were absolute, and not merely a delicious consciousness while in
progress, but the planting, growing, and maturing all at once of a
recollection so singular and so holy that the simple thought of it
should be of itself ever after a formless yet perfect thanksgiving.

To this transformation—for such it may be called quite as properly
as a cure—there was a witness other than Amrah. The reader will
remember the constancy with which Ben-Hur had followed the Nazarene
throughout his wanderings; and now, recalling the conversation of
the night before, there will be little surprise at learning that the
young Jew was present when the leprous woman appeared in the path
of the pilgrims. He heard her prayer, and saw her disfigured face;
he heard the answer also, and was not so accustomed to incidents
of the kind, frequent as they had been, as to have lost interest
in them. Had such thing been possible with him, still the bitter
disputation always excited by the simplest display of the Master's
curative gift would have sufficed to keep his curiosity alive.
Besides that, if not above it as an incentive, his hope to satisfy
himself upon the vexed question of the mission of the mysterious
man was still upon him strong as in the beginning; we might
indeed say even stronger, because of a belief that now quickly,
before the sun went down, the man himself would make all known
by public proclamation. At the close of the scene, consequently,
Ben-Hur had withdrawn from the procession, and seated himself upon
a stone to wait its passage.

From his place he nodded recognition to many of the people—Galileans
in his league, carrying short swords under their long abbas. After a
little a swarthy Arab came up leading two horses; at a sign from
Ben-Hur he also drew out.

"Stay here," the young master said, when all were gone by, even the
laggards. "I wish to be at the city early, and Aldebaran must do
me service."

He stroked the broad forehead of the horse, now in his prime of
strength and beauty, then crossed the road towards the two women.

They were to him, it should be borne in mind, strangers in whom he
felt interest only as they were subjects of a superhuman experiment,
the result of which might possibly help him to solution of the
mystery that had so long engaged him. As he proceeded, he glanced
casually at the figure of the little woman over by the white rock,
standing there, her face hidden in her hands.

"As the Lord liveth, it is Amrah!" he said to himself.

He hurried on, and passing by the mother and daughter, still without
recognizing them, he stopped before the servant.

"Amrah," he said to her, "Amrah, what do you here?"

She rushed forward, and fell upon her knees before him, blinded by her
tears, nigh speechless with contending joy and fear.

"O master, master! Thy God and mine, how good he is!"

The knowledge we gain from much sympathy with others passing through
trials is but vaguely understood; strangely enough, it enables us,
among other things, to merge our identity into theirs often so
completely that their sorrows and their delights become our own.
So poor Amrah, aloof and hiding her face, knew the transformation
the lepers were undergoing without a word spoken to her—knew
it, and shared all their feeling to the full. Her countenance,
her words, her whole manner, betrayed her condition; and with
swift presentiment he connected it with the women he had just
passed: he felt her presence there at that time was in some way
associated with them, and turned hastily as they arose to their
feet. His heart stood still, he became rooted in his tracks—dumb
past outcry—awe-struck.

The woman he had seen before the Nazarene was standing with her
hands clasped and eyes streaming, looking towards heaven. The mere
transformation would have been a sufficient surprise; but it was the
least of the causes of his emotion. Could he be mistaken? Never was
there in life a stranger so like his mother; and like her as she was
the day the Roman snatched her from him. There was but one difference
to mar the identity—the hair of this person was a little streaked
with gray; yet that was not impossible of reconcilement, since the
intelligence which had directed the miracle might have taken into
consideration the natural effects of the passage of years. And who
was it by her side, if not Tirzah?—fair, beautiful, perfect,
more mature, but in all other respects exactly the same in
appearance as when she looked with him over the parapet the
morning of the accident to Gratus. He had given them over as dead,
and time had accustomed him to the bereavement; he had not ceased
mourning for them, yet, as something distinguishable, they had
simply dropped out of his plans and dreams. Scarcely believing
his senses, he laid his hand upon the servant's head, and asked,
tremulously,

"Amrah, Amrah—my mother! Tirzah! tell me if I see aright."

"Speak to them, O master, speak to them!" she said.

He waited no longer, but ran, with outstretched arms, crying,
"Mother! mother! Tirzah! Here I am!"

They heard his call, and with a cry as loving started to meet him.
Suddenly the mother stopped, drew back, and uttered the old alarm,

"Stay, Judah, my son; come not nearer. Unclean, unclean!"

The utterance was not from habit, grown since the dread disease
struck her, as much as fear; and the fear was but another form
of the ever-thoughtful maternal love. Though they were healed in
person, the taint of the scourge might be in their garments ready
for communication. He had no such thought. They were before him;
he had called them, they had answered. Who or what should keep
them from him now? Next moment the three, so long separated,
were mingling their tears in each other's arms.