The Coming of the King | Page 3

the day the child kept watch over the cross and its victim
by the dusty wayside. There were passers-by, most of them Galileans
muttering curses on the powers that had put him on the cross, but
offering no comfort to the malefactor. Twice the gaunt dog came nearer
but drew back before the raised club, and with blinking eye and restless
tongue, bided his time. As the sun dropped behind the trees, the
moaning from the cross grew almost too faint to be heard, and when,
after a long stillness, there came a sharp strange cry from the lips of the
crucified, the child gave a start and then hastened to offer the wet
kerchief. But before he reached the cross the head had fallen limp over
the bosom, and the feet lay quiet in the roadside dust.
The child spoke. There was no answer. He went back to his shelter in
the bushes. A strange hush seemed to have fallen over the earth. With
searching eyes he now watched the long road for a sight of his mother.
When he turned his gaze for a moment from the roadway to the cactus
hedge he noticed the watching dog had drawn closer and with fierce
eagerness eyed the limp body on the cross. Fear now took possession of
the child, and he moved nearer the highway and shuddered as he

noticed that the dog moved nearer also.
When at last his mother came he buried his face in her breast and
sobbed: "His head hangs like a flower broken at the stem. He can not
lift it, and he thirsts no more for water."
"Peace be to Jael's father," the mother replied, choking back a sob, "and
peace be to thee, my brave little Jesu."
"Nay, I am not brave. I was afraid--afraid!"
"Nay, nay. My little Jesu is not afraid of a dog."
"Nay, not a dog. But after the head of Jael's father fell low, something
seemed reaching out long dark arms to gather me in--in to Jael's
father--and I feared."
The mother pressed the hand of the child in hers. Reassured by the
warm strong clasp, he smiled as his mother said, "It were but childish
fear. There is nothing by the roadside reaching dark arms out to you."
"Nay, nothing--nothing, woman," replied the child, laughing at his own
fear, "nothing save the shadow of the cross."

PART ONE
A.D.32
CHAPTER I
IN THE NET
Through the open doorway and latticed window of a peasant's hut, the
sunset colors of a Palestine sky glowed red. The only occupant of the
room was an aged woman, thin haired and bent, who moved slowly
about preparing the evening meal. She stopped beside a dingy little
oven on one end of the bed platform, and bending stiffly to the floor

gathered up a few handsful of stubble which she thrust into the fire. As
the quick flames rose under her kettle she stirred her brew muttering:
"Do not two sparrows go for a farthing and yet have we no flavor for
our sop. It was not so in the days of our fathers."
Stirring and muttering she did not notice the approach of a young girl
who had entered the room, until an armful of chaff was dropped by the
oven. With a start she, turned about.
"Sara!" she cried, "thou comest like a thief in the night. Singing doth
better become thee."
"There is no song in me. Empty is my stomach, and look you," and she
pointed across the room to a pile of nets beside a wooden bench. "There
are three score rents to mend and the day is done." She turned to the
doorway and for a moment stood looking out, barefooted, meanly clad
and unkept, yet of comely form and with abundant dark hair falling
around an oval face of more than ordinary beauty. She sighed and
turned back into the room.
"Thou shalt eat," and the aged woman took bread from the oven and
placed it on a wooden table in the center of the room. "Sit thee down."
Sara sat down and glanced over the small table. "Bread and unseasoned
sop!" she exclaimed.
"And water," cheerfully added Grandmother Rachael, as she poured the
contents of a skin bottle into a pitcher.
After the washing of hands from a bowl on a stool at the table side, the
aged woman muttered thanks and the evening meal began.
"It goeth down hard," Sara complained.
"But it was not so in the days of our fathers," her companion reminded
her. "Then there was plenty and each man sat under his own vine and
fig tree, for by the law of Moses no man was allowed to collect usury,
so sayeth the Rabbi."

Hardly had the meal begun when,