The Story of the Other Wise Man | Page 7

man's strength
returned; he sat up and looked about him.
"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of the country, "and why
hast thou sought me here to bring back my life?"
"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to
Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a great
Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer upon my
journey, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart without me.
But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine, and here is a
potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find
the dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon."
The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.
"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper
the journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired haven.
But stay; I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that I can tell
thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that
he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May
the Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity
upon the sick."
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,
restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain and swam
the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her strength, and
fled over the ground like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the sun sent her shadow before her as she entered
upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of Artaban,
anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of the
Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends.
[Illustration - "He caught it up and read."]
The many-colored terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and

green and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, and
crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered
like a ruined rainbow in the morning light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the
highest terrace, looking out towards the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and
the border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the stagnant pools and
jackals skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the
caravan of the wise men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and
under them a piece of parchment. He caught it up and read: "We have
waited past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the
King. Follow us across the desert."
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.
"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with no food and with a spent
horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my sapphire, and buy a train of
camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends.
Only God the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the
King because I tarried to show mercy."

FOR THE SAKE OF A LITTLE CHILD
There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was listening to the
story of the Other Wise Man. And through this silence I saw, but very
dimly, his figure passing over the dreary undulations of the desert, high
upon the back of his camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over the
waves.
The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The stony wastes
bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The dark ledges of rock thrust
themselves above the surface here and there, like the bones of perished
monsters. Arid and inhospitable mountain ranges rose before him,

furrowed with dry channels of ancient torrents, white and ghastly as
scars on the face of nature. Shifting hills of treacherous sand were
heaped like tombs along the horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed its
intolerable burden on the quivering air; and no living creature moved
on the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through the
parched bushes, or lizards vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By night
the jackals prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made the
black ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting
chill followed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the Magian
moved steadily onward.
Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered by the
streams of Abana and Pharpar, with their sloping swards inlaid with
bloom,