The Story of the Other Wise Man | Page 5

about to blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the
darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendors to a crimson
sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a
point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every
part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the
Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living heart
of light.
He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.
"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet
him."

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON
All night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been waiting,
saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently, and
shaking her bit as if she shared the eagerness of her master's purpose,
though she knew not its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant of
morning song, before the white mist had begun to lift lazily from the
plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the
high-road, which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his
favorite horse on a long journey. It is a silent, comprehensive
friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.
They drink at the same wayside springs, and sleep under the same
guardian stars. They are conscious together of the subduing spell of
nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his
evening meal with his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips
caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread.
In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a
warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes of
his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the day.
Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he
calls upon his God, he will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this
dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing--God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our
souls from death!
And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their
spirited music along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts
that are moved with the same eager desire--to conquer space, to devour
the distance, to attain the goal of the journey.
Artaban must, indeed, ride wisely and well if he would keep the
appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route was a hundred and
fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day.

But he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety,
making the fixed distance every day, though he must travel late into the
night, and in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the
rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisasans, where the famous herds of
horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed their heads at Vasda's
approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks
of wild birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in
great circles with a shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries
of surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the
threshing-floors filled the air with a golden mist, half hiding the huge
temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the
rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting its immense rugged brow
out over the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his
fallen foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high
upon the face of the eternal cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across the
wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a black mountain-gorge,
where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; across
many a smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vines and
fruit trees; through the oak groves of Carine and the dark Gates of
Zagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where
the people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out
again by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where he
saw the image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall of
rock, with hand uplifted as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims; past the
entrance of the narrow defile, filled