Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Sir, of Samaria.”

  “And thinkest thou in very truth thou hast obtained a miracle from that tomb?”

  “Sir, I know nothing of the secret ways divine. But sure I am the little maid is saved. God be with thee, soldier!... God guide thy lance and evermore defend thee!”

  And with many expressive salutations of gratitude he tottered away.

  Galbus looked after him meditatively, till his thin raggedly-clothed figure had fluttered out of sight like a fluttering withered leaf, — then the grim Roman shook his head profoundly, pulled his beard, laughed, frowned, passed his hand across his eyes, and finally, having conquered whatever momentary soft emotion had possessed him, glanced about him severely and suspiciously to see that all his men were in their several places. The noonday heat and glare had compelled them to move into their tents which were ranged all round the sepulchre in an even snowy ring, — and Galbus, seeing this, quickly followed their example, and himself retired within the shelter of his own particular pavilion. This was pitched directly opposite the stone which closed the mystic tomb, — and as the burly centurion sat down and lifted his helmet to wipe his hot face, he muttered an involuntary curse on the sultriness and barren soil of Judæa, and heartily wished himself back in Rome.

  “For this is a country of fools” — he soliloquised—” And worse still ’tis a country of cowards. These Jews were afraid of the ‘ Nazarene,’ as they call Him, while He lived; and now it seems they are more afraid of Him still when He is dead. Well, well! ’tis a thing to laugh at, — a Roman will kill his enemy, true enough, but being killed he will salute the corpse and leave it to the gods without further fear or passion.”

  At that moment an approaching stealthy step startled him. He sprang up, shouldered his lance and stood in the doorway of his tent expectant; a tall man muffled in a purple cloak confronted him, — it was Caiaphas, who surveyed him austerely.

  “Dost thou keep good watch, centurion?” he demanded.

  “My vigilance hath never been questioned, sir,” responded Galbus stiffly.

  Caiaphas waved his hand deprecatingly.

  “I meant not to offend thee, soldier, — but there are knaves about, and I would have thee wary.”

  He dropped his mantle, disclosing a face that was worn and haggard with suffering and want of sleep, — then, stepping close up to the sepulchre he narrowly examined all the seals upon the stone. They were as he had left them on the previous evening, untouched, unbroken.

  “Hast thou heard any sound?” he asked in a whisper.

  Galbus stared.

  “From within yonder?” he said, pointing with his lance at the tomb—” Nay! — never have I heard voice proceed from any dead man yet.”

  Caiaphas forced a smile, — nevertheless he bent his ear against the stone and listened.

  “What of the night?” he queried anxiously— “Were ye interrupted in your first watch?”

  “By the baying of dogs at the moon, and the hooting of owls only” — replied Galbus disdainfully, “And such interruptions, albeit distasteful, are not to be controlled.”

  “I meant not these things’’ — said Caiaphas, turning upon him vexedly—” I thought the women might have lingered, making lamentation” —

  “Women have little chance where I am,” growled Galbus, “True, they did linger, till I sent them off. Yet I treated them with kindness, for they were weeping sorely, foolish souls, — the sight of death doth ever move them strangely, — and ’twas a passing beauteous corpse o’er which they made their useless outcry. Nevertheless I am not a man to find consolements for such grief, — I bade them mourn at home; — the tears of women do provoke me more than blows.”

  Caiaphas stood lost in thought, — anon he stooped again to listen at the sealed-up door of the sepulchre. Galbus, watching him, laughed.

  “By the gods, sir,” he said— “One would think thou wert the chief believer in the dead man’s boast that he would rise again! What hearest thou? Prithee say! — a message from the grave would be rare news!”

  Caiaphas deigned no reply. Muffling himself again in his mantle, he asked —

  “When does the watch change?”

  “In an hour’s time,” replied Galbus— “Then I, together with my men, rest for a space, — in such heat as this, rest is deserved.”

  “And when dost thou return again?”

  “To-night at moonrise.”

  “To-night at moonrise!” echoed Caiaphas thoughtfully. “Mark my words, Galbus, watch thy men and guard thyself from sleeping. To-night use double vigilance! — for when to-night is past, then fears are past, — and when tomorrow’s sun doth shine, and he, the ‘Nazarene,’ is proved again a false blasphemer to the people, then will all watching end. Thou wilt be well rewarded, — watch, I say, to-night! — far more to-night than any hour of today. Thou hearest me?”

  Galbus nodded.

  “I have heard much of the truth and circumspectness of the soldiery of Rome” — proceeded Caiaphas, smiling darkly—” And specially of warriors like thee, who have the mastery of a hundred men, from which this present watch is chosen. Take heed therefore to do thy calling and thy country justice, — so shall thy name be carried on the wings of praise to Cæsar. Fare-thee-well!”

  He moved away — then paused, listening doubtfully, — with head turned back over his shoulder towards the tomb.

  “Art thou sure thou hast heard nothing?” he asked again.

  Galbus lost patience.

  “By the great name of the Emperor I serve and by the lance I carry,” he exclaimed, striking his heel on the ground, “I swear to thee, priest, nothing — nothing!”

  “Thou hast hot blood, soldier” — returned Caiaphas, sedately—” Beware lest it lead thee into error!”

  And he paced slowly down the dusty road and disappeared. Galbus watched his retreating form with an irrepressible disgust written on every feature of his face. One of his men approached him.

  “’Twas the Jewish high-priest that spoke with thee?”

  “Ay, ’twas even he” — he responded briefly—” Either I choke in his presence, or the dust kicked up by his holy sandals hath filled me with a surpassing thirst. Fetch me a cup of wine.”

  The man obeyed, getting the required beverage out of the provision tent.

  “Ah, that washes the foul taste of the Jew out of my mouth” — said Galbus, drinking heartily, “Methinks our Emperor hath got a beggarly province here in Judæa. Why, if history have any truth in it, ’tis the custom of this people to be conquered and sold into slavery. I believe of all my hundred, thou dost know thy lessons best, Vorsinius, — have not these Jews been always slaves?”

  Vorsinius, a young soldier with a fair intelligent countenance, smiled.

  “I would not say so much as that, good Galbus,” he replied modestly—” but methinks they have never been heroes.”

  “No, — nor will they ever be,” said Galbus, draining his cup and shaking the dregs out on the ground—” Such names as hero and Jew consort not well together. What other nation in the world than this one would insist on having a watch set round a tomb lest perchance a dead man should rise!”

  He laughed, and the good-humoured Vorsinius laughed with him. Then they resumed their respective posts, and moved no more till in an hour’s time the watch was changed. But save for the clanking of armour as one party of soldiers marched away into the city, and the other detachment took its place, the deep and solemn silence round the sealed sepulchre remained unbroken.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  MEANWHILE Barabbas, sitting with his Mend Melchior in the best room of the inn where that mysterious personage had his lodging, was endeavouring to express his thanks for the free and ungrudging hospitality that had been afforded him. He had supped well, slept well, and breakfasted well, and all at the cost and care of this new acquaintance with whom, as might be said, he was barely acquainted, — moreover the very garments he wore were Melchior’s and not his own.

&n
bsp; “If thou seekest a man to work, I will work for thee” — he said now, fixing his large bold black eyes anxiously on the dark enigmatical face of his voluntary patron, “ But unless thou canst make use of my strength in service, I can never repay thee. I have no kinsfolk in the world, — mother and father are dead long since, and well for them that it is so, for I should have doubtless been their chief affliction. Once I could make a boast of honesty, — I worked for the merchant Shadeen, and though I weighed out priceless gems and golden ingots I never robbed him by so much as a diamond chip until — until the last temptation. If thou wilt ask him, he will I know say this of me — for he was sorrier for my sin than I had heart to be. I have some little knowledge of books and old philosophies, — and formerly I had the gift of fluent speech, — but whatsoever I might have been I am not now, — my hands are stained with blood and theft, — and though the people set me free, full well I know I am an outcast from true liberty. Nevertheless thou hast fed me, housed me, clothed me, and told me many wise and wondrous things, — wherefore out of gratefulness, which I lack not, and bounden duty, I am fain to serve thee and repay thee, if thou wilt only teach me how.”

  Melchior, leaning back on a low window-seat, surveyed him placidly from under his half-closed eyelids, a faint smile on his handsome mouth.

  “Friend Barabbas,” he responded lazily, “thou owest me nothing — on the contrary, ’tis I that owe thee much. Thou art a type of man, — even as I also am a type of man, — and I have derived much benefit from a study of thy complex parts, — more benefit perchance than is discovered in the ‘ old philosophies’ wherewith thou fanciest thou art familiar. Mark thou the difference betwixt us! — though seemingly our composition is the same dull mortal clay. Thou art poor, — thou hast but yester morn left prison, naked and ashamed, — I am rich, not by the gifts of men, which things I spurn, or by the leavings of the dead; but by the work of mine own brain, man’s only honest breadwinner. I have never found my way to prison, as I despise all roads that lead one thither. They are foul, — therefore, loving cleanness, I tread not in them. Thou, made animal man, and ignorant of the motive power of brain that masters matter, didst at the bidding of mere fleshly lust resign thine honour for a woman’s sake, — I, made intelligent man, do keep my honour for my own sake, and for the carrying out of higher laws which I perceive exist. Nevertheless thou art truer man than I. Thou art the type of sheer brute manhood, against which Divine Spirit for ever contends.”

  He paused; — and lifting his head from its recumbent position, smiled again.

  “What wilt thou do for me, Barabbas?” he continued lightly—” Draw water, till the soil, shake my garments free from dust, or other such slavish service? Go to! I would not have thee spoil thy future! Take my advice and journey thou to Rome, — I’ll fill thy pouch with coin, — settle thyself as usurer there and lend out gold to Cæsar! Lend it freely, with monstrous interest accumulating, for the use of the Imperial whims, battles, buildings, and wantons! So get thee rich and live honourably, — none will ask of thee—’ wert thou thief?’— ‘wert thou murderer?’ No! — for the Emperor will kiss thy sandal and put on thee his choicest robe, — and all thou hast to do is to keep his name upon thy books and never let it go. ‘Ave Cæsar Imperator’ is the keynote of the Roman shouting — but Caesar’s whisper in thine ear will have more meaning—’ Hail, Barabbas, King of the Jews! rich Barabbas, who doth lend me money, — noble Barabbas, who willingly reneweth bills, — powerful Barabbas, who doth hold the throne and dynasty by a signature!’”

  He laughed, the while his companion stared at him fascinated and half afraid.

  “Or,” pursued Melchior, “wilt thou by preference make friends with frenzied Peter, and join the disciples of the ‘Nazarene’?”

  “Not with Peter — no!” exclaimed Barabbas in haste, “ I like him not, — he is not certain of his faith. And of the other men who came from Galilee I knew naught, save that they all forsook their Master. I would have followed the ‘Nazarene’ Himself into the blackest hell! — but His followers are coward mortals and He” —

  “Was Divine, thinkest thou?” asked Melchior, fixing upon him a look of searching gravity.

  Barabbas met his gaze steadily for a moment, then his own eyes fell and he sighed deeply.

  “I know not what to think,” he confessed at last. “When I first beheld Him, He did in very truth seem all Divine! — then, — the glory vanished, and only a poor patient suffering Man stood there, where I, faint from the prison famine and distraught of fancy, imagined I had seen an Angel! Then when He died — ah then, my soul was shaken! — for to the very last I hoped against all hope, — surely, I said, a God can never die. And now, if thou wilt have the truth, I judge Him as a martyred Man, — of glorious beauty, of heroic character, — one worthy to follow, to love, to serve;... but... if He had been indeed a God, He could not thus have died!” Melchior leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand and studying him curiously.

  “Knowest thou, excellent Barabbas, what is this death?” he asked—” Among the ‘old philosophies’ thou readest, hast mastered aught concerning its true nature?”

  “All men know what it is” — replied Barabbas drearily—” A choking of the breath, a blindness of the eyes, — darkness, silence, and an end!”

  “Nay, not an end, but a beginning!” said Melchior rising and confronting him, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm—” That choking of the breath, that blindness of the eyes — these are the throes of birth, not death! Even as the new-born child struggles for air, and cannot too suddenly endure the full unshaded light of day, — so does the new-born soul that struggles forth from out its fleshy womb, fight gaspingly for strength to take its first deep breathings-in of living glory. A darkness and a silence, sayest thou? Not so! — a radiance and a music! — a wondrous clamour of the angels’ voices ringing out melodies aloft like harps in tune! And of the spirit lately parted from the earth, they ask—’ What bringest thou? What message dost thou bear? Hast thou made the sad world happier, wiser, fairer?’ — and over all, the deathless Voice of Marvel thunders—’ Soul of a man! What hast thou done?’ And that great question must be met and answered, — and no lie will serve!” Barabbas gazed at him, awed, but incredulous.

  “This is the faith of Egypt?” he asked.

  Melchior eyed him with a touch of scorn.

  “The faith of Egypt!” he echoed—”’Tis not faith, ’tis knowledge! — Knowledge gained through faith. ’Tis no more of Egypt than of any land, ’tis a truth, and as a truth is universal, — a truth the ‘Nazarene’ was born to make most manifest. The world is never ripe for truth, — how should it be, so long as it is well content to build its business and its social life on lies!”

  He paused, and recovering from his momentary excitement, went on in his coldest and most satirical tone,— “Worthy Barabbas, thou, like the world, art most unfitted for the simplest learning, despite thine ‘ old philosophies.’ Such common facts as that there are millions upon millions of eternal worlds, and millions upon millions of eternal forms of life, would but confuse thy brain and puzzle it. Thou art a mass of matter, unpermeated by the fires of the spirit, — and were I to tell thee that the ‘Nazarene’ has ‘died’ according to the common word, only to prove there is no death at all, thy barbarous mind would be most sore perplexed and troubled.

  Thou hast not yet obtained the mastery of this planet’s laws, — thou’rt brute man merely, — though now, methinks thou’rt more like some fierce tiger disappointed of its mate, for thou canst not wed thy Judith” ——

  Barabbas interrupted him with a fierce gesture.

  “I would not wed her — now!”

  “No? Thou wouldst rather murder Caiaphas?” Barabbas shuddered. His black brows met in a close frown, — his lips were pressed together hard, and his eyes were almost hidden under their brooding lids.

  “I have already blood upon my hands,” he muttered—” And the man I killed — Gabrias — was innocent, —
my God! — innocent as a dove compared to this wolfish priest who works his evil will by treachery and cunning.

  Nevertheless since I beheld the ‘Nazarene’” —

  “Why should the ‘Nazarene’ affect thee?” asked Melchior placidly— “A martyred Man, thou sayest — no more, — thou canst be sorry for Him as for many another — and forget.”

  Barabbas lifted his eyes.

  “I cannot take a human life again,” he said solemnly, his voice trembling a little — since I have looked upon His face!”

  Melchior was silent.

  A long pause ensued, — then Barabbas resumed in calmer tones —

  “If thou wilt give me leave, I will go forth and ask for news of old Iscariot, — and of his daughter, — for though I may not, would not wed her, because my own great sins — and hers — have set up an everlasting barrier between us, I love her, Heaven help me, still. I have slept late and heard nothing, — wherefore to ease my mind concerning her, I will inquire how she fares. I would I could forget the face of the dead Judas!”

  A tremor ran through him, and he moved restlessly.

  “’Twas a face to be remembered” — said Melchior meditatively—” Set in the solemn shadows of the trees, ’twas a pale warning to the world! Nevertheless, despite its frozen tragedy, it was not all despair. Remorse was written in its staring eyes, — remorse, repentance; and for true repentance, God hath but one reply — pity, and pardon!”

  “Thinkest thou in very truth his sin will be forgiven?” exclaimed Barabbas eagerly.

  “Not by the world that drove him to that sin’s committal” — answered Melchior bitterly— “The world that hunts men down to desperation, hath no pity for the desperate. But God’s love never falters, — even the trembling soul of Judas may find shelter in that love!”

  His voice grew very sweet and grave, and a sudden moisture dimmed Barabbas’s eyes.

  “Thy words do comfort me,” he murmured huskily, ashamed of his emotion—” albeit I have been told that God is ever a God of vengeance. But Judas was so young,... and Judith” — He broke off — then added whisperingly—” I forgot — he bled at her touch!— ’twas horrible — horrible, — that stain of blood on her white fingers!”