The Story of the Other Wise Man | Page 6

from end to end with orchards of
peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meet
him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapors spread their
deathly mists; following along the course of the river, under tremulous

shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills; and out upon
the flat plain, where the road ran straight as an arrow through the
stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, where
the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia
which Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris and the
many channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the
corn-lands--Artaban pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall of the
tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and he would gladly have turned into the city
to find rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew that it
was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and
he must reach the place by midnight if he would find his comrades
waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across the stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea.
As she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her pace, and began to
pick her way more carefully.
Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to fall
upon her. She scented some danger or difficulty; it was not in her heart
to fly from it--only to be prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a
good horse should do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a
leaf rustled, not a bird sang.
She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and
sighing now and then with apprehension. At last she gave a quick
breath of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every
muscle, before a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man
lying across the road. His humble dress and the outline of his haggard
face showed that he was probably one of the poor Hebrew exiles who
still dwelt in great numbers in the vicinity. His pallid skin, dry and
yellow as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever which ravaged
the marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and,
as Artaban released it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless
breast.

He turned away with a thought of pity, consigning the body to that
strange burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the funeral of
the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and
the beasts of prey slink furtively away, leaving only a heap of white
bones in the sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips.
The brown, bony fingers closed convulsively on the hem of the
Magian's robe and held him fast.
Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb
resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger?
What claim had this unknown fragment of human life upon his
compassion or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could
hardly reach Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would
think he had given up the journey. They would go without him. He
would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If he stayed, life
might be restored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency of
the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his divine faith for the
sake of a single deed of human love? Should he turn aside, if only for a
moment, from the following of the star, to give a cup of cold water to a
poor, perishing Hebrew?
"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the holy path, the
way of wisdom which Thou only knowest."
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand,
he carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above
the sunken breast. He brought water from one of the small canals near
by, and moistened the sufferer's brow and mouth. He mingled a draught
of one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in
his girdle--for the Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and

poured it slowly between the colorless lips. Hour after hour he labored
as only a skilful healer of disease can do; and, at last, the