The Blue Flower [60]
over--the child! His voice grows
weaker hour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help
him; then he laughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen
asleep. The moon is rising now. Unless a change comes he
cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we can do? Is
there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity us
and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and
help; let us pray for his life!"
Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing that
could bring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere;
to find a greater strength than his own and cling to it and
plead for mercy and help. To leave this undone was to be
false to his manhood; it was to be no better than the dumb
beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boy
suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?
He sank on his knees beside Athenais.
"Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity.
The, light of our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the
child, the child! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--"
Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas,
stretched out in supplication, touched the marble table. He
felt the cool hardness of the polished stone beneath his
fingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged by his touch, fell
rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint and far
off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously.
The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He
rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.
"It is in vain," he said; "there is nothing for us to do.
Long ago I knew something. I think it would have helped us.
But I have forgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give
all that I have, if I could bring it back again now, at this
hour, in this time of our bitter trouble."
A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and
approached hesitatingly.
"Master," he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were
forbidden to admit to the house, has come again. He would
take no denial. Even now he waits in the peristyle; and the
old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him away."
"Come," said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him."
In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion,
with disdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden
guest; John, silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering
slaves looked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze to
the haggard face of Hermas.
"My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though
you did not send for me. I have come to you because I have
heard that you are in trouble."
"It is true," answered Hermas, passionately; "we are in
trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is
dying. We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In
all this house, in all the world, there is no one that can
help us. I knew something long ago, when I was with you,--a
word, a name,--in which we might have found hope. But I have
lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from me
forever."
He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled
scornfully. "A word, a name!" he sneered. "What is that, O
most wise man and holy Presbyter? A thing of air, a thing
that men make to describe their own dreams and fancies. Who
would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It is
a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the
young man parted with it of his own free will. He bargained
with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure and
fame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which was
a burden--"
"Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rang
clear, like a trumpet, through the hall. "There is a name
which none shall dare to take in vain. There is a name which
none can lose without being lost. There is a name at which
the devils tremble. Go quickly, before I speak it!"
Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. A
lamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In
the confusion he vanished, as
weaker hour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help
him; then he laughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen
asleep. The moon is rising now. Unless a change comes he
cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we can do? Is
there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity us
and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and
help; let us pray for his life!"
Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing that
could bring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere;
to find a greater strength than his own and cling to it and
plead for mercy and help. To leave this undone was to be
false to his manhood; it was to be no better than the dumb
beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boy
suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?
He sank on his knees beside Athenais.
"Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity.
The, light of our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the
child, the child! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--"
Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas,
stretched out in supplication, touched the marble table. He
felt the cool hardness of the polished stone beneath his
fingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged by his touch, fell
rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint and far
off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously.
The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He
rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.
"It is in vain," he said; "there is nothing for us to do.
Long ago I knew something. I think it would have helped us.
But I have forgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give
all that I have, if I could bring it back again now, at this
hour, in this time of our bitter trouble."
A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and
approached hesitatingly.
"Master," he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were
forbidden to admit to the house, has come again. He would
take no denial. Even now he waits in the peristyle; and the
old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him away."
"Come," said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him."
In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion,
with disdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden
guest; John, silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering
slaves looked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze to
the haggard face of Hermas.
"My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though
you did not send for me. I have come to you because I have
heard that you are in trouble."
"It is true," answered Hermas, passionately; "we are in
trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is
dying. We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In
all this house, in all the world, there is no one that can
help us. I knew something long ago, when I was with you,--a
word, a name,--in which we might have found hope. But I have
lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from me
forever."
He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled
scornfully. "A word, a name!" he sneered. "What is that, O
most wise man and holy Presbyter? A thing of air, a thing
that men make to describe their own dreams and fancies. Who
would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It is
a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the
young man parted with it of his own free will. He bargained
with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure and
fame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which was
a burden--"
"Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rang
clear, like a trumpet, through the hall. "There is a name
which none shall dare to take in vain. There is a name which
none can lose without being lost. There is a name at which
the devils tremble. Go quickly, before I speak it!"
Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. A
lamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In
the confusion he vanished, as