The Blue Flower [41]
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 on the tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of
populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban 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 Hebrews who still dwelt in great numbers around the city.
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, leaving 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.
When they are gone there is only a heap of white bones on the
sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from
the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped 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
Artaban stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed
and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk
the great reward of his faith for the sake of a single deed of
charity? 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 colourless lips. Hour after hour he
laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last
the man's strength returned; he sat up and looked about
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 on the tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of
populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban 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 Hebrews who still dwelt in great numbers around the city.
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, leaving 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.
When they are gone there is only a heap of white bones on the
sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from
the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped 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
Artaban stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed
and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk
the great reward of his faith for the sake of a single deed of
charity? 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 colourless lips. Hour after hour he
laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last
the man's strength returned; he sat up and looked about