The Complete Works of Brann - The Iconoclast, vol 1 | Page 9

straight and narrow path, but her husband's
honor stands ever within the pale of danger. Let that husband whose
courtship ceased at Hymen's shrine, who is a gallant abroad and a boor
at home, keep watch and ward, for homage is sweet even to wedded
women.
While Potiphar played the petty tyrant and exacted of his wife a blind
obedience, Joseph sang to her songs she loved--plaintive tales of tender
passion, of enchanted monarchs and maids of matchless beauty. He
culled the fairest flowers from the great garden and wove them into
garlands to deck her hair, dark as that lingering night which Moses laid
upon the Valley of the Nile. He gave her a thousand little attentions so

grateful to womankind, and worshiped her, not presumptuously, but
with the sacred awe of a simple desert child turning his face to greet the
rising sun. They were of the same age,--that age when the heart beats in
passionate rebellion against cold precepts, the blood riots in the veins
like molten rubies and all life seems made for love, for day dreams
golden as the dawn, for sighs and sweet companionship. What wonder
that she sometimes into the cool left her lord to his heavy slumbers and
crept into the cool gardens with the handsome Hebrew boy; that they
walked, hand clasped in hand, beneath the tall palms that nodded
knowingly, and whispered sweet nothings while the mellow moonlight
quivered on the Nile and sad Philomela poured forth her plaintive song
like a flood of lover's tears? All day long they were alone
together,--those children of the world's youth, when life was strong and
moral law was weak. When the summer sun rode high in heaven and
sent his burnished shafts straight down into the white streets and
swooning gardens; when the great house was closed to shut out the
blinding glare and in the court cool fountains cast their grateful spray,
what wonder that she bade him sit at her feet and sing the love songs of
his native land, wild prototypes of those which Solomon poured from
the depths of his sensuous soul to his sweet Rose of Sharon?
"Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair; Thou hast dove's
eyes, thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, Thy breast like young roes that
feed among the lilies. Set me as a seal upon thy heart, a seal upon thy
arm, For love is strong as death, jealousy is cruel as the grave."
The song dies out and the languorous stillness is broken only by the
splashing of the fountains in the great marble basins and the drowsy
hum of a bee among the blossoms. The lad's head has sunk down upon
the lady's knee and she is watching the tears trembling on his drooping
lashes and wondering, with a little thrill of pain, if he has a sweetheart
in his own land, of whom he is so sadly dreaming. She thanks him for
the song in a voice low and sweet as the musical ripple of the sacred
river among the reeds--she dazzles him with her great Egyptian eyes,
those ebon orbs in which ever lurks the sensuous splendor of a summer
night's high moon. Her hand strays carelessly among his curls as she
punctuates with sighs and tears his oft-told tale of unkind brethren, the
gloomy cave, the coat of many colors dipped in blood of the
slaughtered kid, the cruel goad of godless Midianite, driving him on

and on through burning sands and 'neath a blazing sun, far from his
tearful mother and mourning sire. How cruel the fates to consign to
slavery one born to be a king! His master is a hard man and covetous,
but her pleadings shall yet purchase sweet liberty for old Jacob's son,
that he may fulfill the high dreams of which he has told her--may
answer the midnight messages of Israel's God and triumph over those
wicked brethren. Perhaps--who knows?--in his own land he will
become a mighty prince and treat with proud Pharaoh on equal terms.
Will he remember her, his only friend in a land of foes? Will he think
of her when Ammon is o'erthrown and proud Moab pays his tribute?
Ah, no! When a crown of jewels blazes on his brow and the sack- cloth
of the slave is exchanged for imperial purple, he'll think no more of the
lonely little woman by Nilus bank, who prays that Isis will magnify his
power, that Osiris will shield him when the Hebrew sword rings on the
Hivite spear. He will take to wife some fair cousin of Esau's house, a
maid more beauteous far than those who drink the sweet waters of the
south. Old Abram's daughters are fair and have dove's eyes; their lips