A great beauty illumined his dark features, — his eyes were soft and earnest, — on his lips there rested a faint grave smile.
The gaoler stared at him, perplexed and dimly touched.
“An’ thou art civil-tongued I will not vex thy last hours” — he said, in friendlier accents—” Thou’lt have a full days penitence, — the Council will not sit to-morrow. Thou shalt not starve or thirst meanwhile, — for though I know thou art a rank villain I’ll see to that, — more I cannot do for thee, — so make the best of thy old lodging.”
He closed the iron door, bolting and barring it with heavy noise, — Barabbas listened, with an instinctive sense that for him it barred out the world eternally. Standing upright, he looked about him. The same dungeon! — the same narrow line of light piercing the thick obscurity! It fell from the moon, a pure stream of silver, — and he sat down presently on a stone projection of the wall to watch it. In this attitude, with face lifted to the mild radiance, he was happy and at rest, — his wretched prison seemed beautiful to him, — and the prospect of a speedy death contained no terror but rather joy.
He passed the night tranquilly, in wakeful meditation, till the arrowy moonbeam in his cell changed to a golden shaft shot aslant from the rising sun. With the morning the gaoler brought him food and drink, and asked him whether he had slept.
“Not I!” he answered cheerfully—”’Twas nigh on the approach of dawn when I came hither, and the pleasure of my thoughts did banish slumber. Is it a fair day?”
“Yea, ’tis a fair day,” — replied the gaoler, secretly marvelling at the composure of the captive— “Though methinks thou shouldst be little interested in the weather fair or foul. Thou hast another day and night to pass alive, in the pleasure of thy thoughts, as thou sayest, — and after that thou wilt think no more! Knowest thou of what thou art suspect?”
“Something have I heard,” — responded Barabbas—” But truly I suspect myself of more sins than Councils wot of!”
The gaoler stared and shrugged his shoulders.
“Thou speakest in riddles,” he said—” And thou art altogether a strange rascal. Nevertheless I have made inquiry concerning thee. Thy case is hopeless — for ’tis Caiaphas who doth accuse thee.”
“This doth not astonish me,” — said Barabbas.
“He hath reason then?”
“Nay, he hath no reason. But I find nothing marvellous in that a priest should lie!”
The gaoler chuckled hoarsely.
“I like thee for that saying! — rogue as thou art I like thee!” and he rubbed his hands complacently— “Thou hast wit and sense withal! — Why, man, if God is anything of the likeness His priests would make Him out to be, He is the worst and most boastful tyrant that ever wreaked havoc on mankind! But take heed to thyself! — speak not thus rashly, — think on the ‘Nazarene’ who set Himself against this priestcraft, and would have had it all abolished or made new had He obtained His will. He had a daring spirit, that young Man of Nazareth! — I myself once heard Him say that it was not well to pray in public places to be seen of men. This was a blow direct at the keeping of temples and fat priests to serve in them — but look you He suffered for His boldness — and though ’twas said He was the Son of God, that did not save Him” —
“Prithee be reverent in thy speech,” — interposed Barabbas gently—” Take heed thyself that thou blaspheme not! He was, — He is the Son of God! — the Risen from the Dead, the Saviour of the world, — as such I know and do acknowledge Him!”
“By Israel, now do I see that thou art mad!” cried the gaoler backing away from him— “Mad, raving mad! — touched by the fever of miracles that hath lately plagued Jerusalem; this ‘Nazarene’ hath bewitched the very air! Prate to thyself of such follies, not to me; — I have no patience with distempered brains. Prepare thee for thy cross to-morrow! — this will be more wholesome meditation for thy mind. Thou wilt see me no more; — I was sorry for thy ups and downs of fortune, thy brief glimpse of freedom finishing in new imprisonment; but now, — verily as I live, I think thee dangerous and only fit to die!”
With these words he turned to leave the dungeon; Barabbas extended his fettered hands.
“Farewell, friend!” he said.
The gaoler looked round grudgingly and in ill-humour, — he was vexed with himself at the singular interest this man Barabbas had awakened in him, and he was ashamed to show it. He eyed the tall, muscular figure up and down severely, and met the full calm gaze of the dark earnest eyes, — then, as it were against his own will, he hastily grasped the hands and as hastily let them go.
“Farewell!” he responded curtly—” When thou diest, die bravely!”
And he disappeared, making more clanging noise than usual in his impatient bolting and barring of the door.
Left alone, Barabbas fell back into his former train of happy musing. Of the narrow discomfort, heat, and darkness of his miserable dungeon he was scarcely conscious, — he was more triumpnant than any conquering king in the fulness and joy of the knowledge of things eternal. He had been lifted to the sublimity and supremacy of pure faith which alone enables a man to bear sorrow nobly, to dare all things and hope all things; the warm sweet certainty of something higher, grander and lovelier than this life and all that it contains, nestled in his heart like a brooding bird and kept him glad and tranquil. At times he felt a strong desire to pray to that Divine Friend who after guiding him a little way had suddenly departed from him on the hills above Nazareth, — to ask Him to bestow the beauty of His glorious Presence on His worshipping servant once again. But he checked this longing, — it seemed like a renewal of doubt, — as if he sought to be convinced and reconvinced of truth immutably declared. To pray for further benefit after so much had been bestowed would surely be both selfish and ungrateful. Therefore he made no appeal, but sat in solitary communing with his own soul, which now, completely aroused to the long-withheld consciousness of immortality, already aspired to its native sovereignty in glorious worlds unseen.
The day wore slowly onward, — and again the night dropped down its dusky purple curtain patterned with the stars and moon. A pleasant sense of weariness overcame Barabbas at last, — he took no thought for the morrow on which it seemed likely he would be tried before Caiaphas, found guilty and put to death, — except in so far that he had resolved to make no defence, as he could not do so without implicating the dead Judith. Also, he had determined that when questioned concerning the supposed theft of the body of the Christ from the sepulchre, he would openly declare his faith, and would pronounce before all the scribes and Pharisees the adjuration: “Jesus of Nazareth, Son of the living God!” And with this very phrase upon his lips, he threw himself down upon the straw that was heaped in one corner of his dungeon, closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.
In his sleep he dreamed a pleasing dream. He fancied he was lying on a couch of emerald moss, softer than softest velvet, — that flowers of every hue and every fragrance were blossoming round him, — and that beside him sat a shining figure in white, weaving a crown of thornless roses. “Where have I wandered?” he murmured—” Into what wondrous country of fair sights and sounds?” And the angelic shape beside him made musical response, “ Thou hast reached a place of shelter out of storm, — and after many days of watching and of trouble we have persuaded thee hither. Rest now and take thy joy freely; — thou art safe in the King’s Garden!”
With these words ringing yet in his ears he suddenly awoke, and waking, wondered what ailed him. He felt faint and giddy; the walls of his prison appeared to rock to and fro as in an earthquake, and the nightly moonbeam falling aslant struck his eyes sharply like a whip of fire. Something cold and heavy pressed with numbing force upon his heart, — an icy sense of suffocation rose in his throat, — and in acute suffering of the moment, he struggled to his feet, though he could scarcely stand and only breathed with difficulty. The blood galloped feverishly in his veins, then abruptly stilled itself and seemed to freeze, —
the chill pang at his heart ceased, leaving his limbs numb and quivering. Exhausted by this spasm of physical agony, his head dropped feebly on his breast and he leaned against the wall for support, panting for breath,... when,... all at once a great light, like the pouring-out of liquid gold, flashed dazzlingly into his cell! He looked up,... and uttered a cry of rapture! — Again, again! — face to face with him in his lonely dungeon, — he beheld the “Nazarene!” The Vision Beautiful! — the shining Figure, the radiant Face of the Divine “Man of Sorrows!” — this was the marvellous Glory revealed within the gloom!
Awed, but not afraid, Barabbas raised his eyes to his supernal Visitant.
“Lord — Lord!” he gasped faintly, stretching his manacled hands blindly forth—” I am not worthy! Why hast Thou come to me? — I, Barabbas, am unfit to look upon Thee! I should have died upon the cross, not Thou! — Command me therefore to some place of punishment, — some desert in the darkest ways of death! — there let me rid myself of sin, if this be possible, by faith in Thee — by love!” —— —
He broke off, trembling, — and the great Christ seemed to smile. Filled with excess of joy, he now beheld that Divine Figure bending tenderly towards him, — gentle Hands were laid upon his bruised and fettered wrists; Hands that drew him close and closer yet, slowly and surely upwards, — upwards into such light and air as never gladdened earth, — and a thrilling Voice whispered —
“Whosoever believeth in Me shall not abide in Darkness! Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!”
The light widened into a rippling sea of gold and azure, — the dungeon walls appeared to totter and crumble to nothingness, — bright forms of beauty grew up like flowers out of the clear pure space; and such symphonic music sounded as made the rolling of planets in their orbits seem but the distant lesser notes of the vast eternal melody; and thus, — clinging close to the strong Hands that held his, and looking with wondering grateful ecstasy into the Divine eyes that smiled their pardon and eternal love upon him, Barabbas left his prison and went forth, into the “glorious liberty of the free!”
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With the early dawn of the next day two men descended together in haste to visit the dungeon. One was the gaoler — the other was the stranger Melchior.
“They shall not crucify Barabbas” — said the latter resolvedly—” I will be answerable for him, and myself defend him at his trial.”
“Thou speakest boldly!” returned the gaoler, eyeing him dubiously—” But though thou hast the Emperor’s signet, and Caiaphas hath given thee permit to see the prisoner, these favours will not stay the progress of the law.”
“Maybe not!” — said Melchior impatiently— “Nevertheless the makers of the law in Jerusalem are corrupt; and their corruption shall be blazoned to the world if this lately pardoned man be again made to suffer. What influence can be obtained for him shall most assuredly be used. There is much good in this Barabbas.”
Here they reached the dungeon. Quickly unlocking the door, the gaoler peered in.
“Barabbas!”
No answer was returned.
“Barabbas, come forth!”
Still silence.
“He sleeps soundly,” — said the gaoler, taking down a lantern which hung on the outside wall for use and lighting it, “ We must needs go in and rouse him.”
Lamp in hand he entered the dismal cell, Melchior following. Barabbas lay on the ground, apparently sunk in a deep and peaceful slumber; his manacled hands were folded cross-wise on his breast. Melchior stepped hurriedly forward and bent down over him.
“Barabbas!”
But Barabbas rested gravely mute. A flash from the prison-lantern showed that a smile was on his face, and that his dark and rugged features were smoothed and tranquillised into an expression of exceeding beauty. There was something grand and impressive in the aspect of his powerful figure lying thus passive in an attitude of such complete repose, — his crossed hands and closed eyes suggested that eternal calm wherein, as in a deep sea is found the pearl of Infinite Knowledge.
Melchior rose from his brief examination of the quiet form; a vague melancholy shadowed his face.
“We need argue no more concerning the fate of Barabbas!” he said in hushed accents—” Neither signets of emperors nor authority of priests can avail him now! We come too late. Whatever were his passions or crimes they are pardoned, — and a Higher Power than ours hath given him his liberty. Carry him forth gently; he is dead!”
EPILOGUE.
ONE afternoon at sunset two travellers stood together, looking their last on the white walls and enclosed gardens of Jerusalem. Silently absorbing the scene, they watched from a little hill above the city, the red sky glow like a furnace over the roofs and turrets, and flash fire upon the architectural splendour of that “jewel of the earth” known as Solomon’s Temple. They could see the summit of Calvary, bare and brown and deserted, — and in the lower distance the thick green foliage of Gethsemane. One of them, a man of singular height and massive build, knelt on the turf, and fixed his eyes with a passionate intensity on Calvary alone, — there his looks lingered with deep and wondering tenderness as though he saw some beatific vision on that lonely point which shone with a blood-red hue in the ardent flame of the descending sun. His companion, no other than Melchior, turned and saw him thus entranced.
“Sorrowest thou, Simon,” he said gently—” to leave this land which God hath visited? Vex not thy soul, — for God is ever with thee; and Calvary is not the wonder of Judæa, but of the wider world from henceforth. Judæa hath rejected the Divine, wherefore she herself shall be rejected.”
Simon of Cyrene, for it was he, looked up.
“Yea, thou dost speak truly,” he answered, “in this as in other things. Nevertheless I can but remember how I bore the Cross up yonder hill! Words can never tell the sweetness of the toil, — the joy and glory that surrounded me! And greater still the marvel of the raising of that Cross! — methought I held Salvation! Let me not speak of it, — my soul doth reel to near the verge of Heaven! — and once again I see His face — the face of God that smiled on me!”
Melchior did not speak for some minutes, — his own eyes were turned thoughtfully towards some scattered rocks on a plain to the left of the city, which was sometimes called the “Place of Tombs” on account of its numerous hewn-out sepulchres and burial-caves.
“Over there,” — he said presently, pointing thither—” sleeps Barabbas whom I told thee of, — there where the solitary palm nods its half-withered leaves. ’Twas I who gave him burial, — no other living friend he seemed to have in all Jerusalem, despite the rapture of the foolish crowd the day he was set free. He was an untaught erring soul, yet not without some nobleness — a type of human Doubt aspiring unto Truth; methinks out of this aspiration only, he hath found both peace and pardon.”
He was silent a little, — then continued, —
“Cyrenian, to thee was given the strength to bear the Cross, and in thy task thou didst obtain both faith and knowledge. All men may not win such sweet and sudden happiness, — for humanity is weak, not strong. Humanity can rarely sacrifice itself for God, and doth not willingly accept a burden not its own. Thou, who dost now resign thy home and kindred, thy fertile valleys of Cyrene, thy free and thoughtless serving of thyself, for the sake of serving the Divine, art wise before the days of wisdom, and will perchance know swiftly and at once what it will take this wild unspiritual world long centuries to learn. The Messenger has come, and the Message has been given, — the Christ hath been slain and hath arisen from the dead, as symbol of the truth that Good shall triumph over Evil everlastingly, — nevertheless it will be long ere the lesson of Divine perfection is understood by man.”
Simon, rising from his kneeling attitude, looked wistfully and with some curiosity at the speaker.
“Why should it be long?” he asked—” Since thou so speedily hast learned to rec
ognise the Christ? Art thou more skilled in mysteries than other men?”
“If I should say so, ’twould be a boast unworthy” — Melchior answered slowly— “And of the things occult I may not tell thee. But this much thou shalt hear. In early youth I was a king,... nay, man, wonder not! — kings are no marvel! The puppets of the nations merely, prisoned round with vain trappings and idle shows, — the very scorn of all who have obtained a true and glorious independence! I learned in my brief kingship the worthlessness of sovereignty, the fickleness of crowds, the instability of friends, the foolishness of earthly power. When Christ was born in Bethlehem, a vision came upon me in the midwatches of the night, and an Angel stood before me saying—’ Arise, Melchior! be thou the first monarch in the world to resign monarchy! for the time hath come when crowns and kingdoms shall be utterly destroyed as obstacles to the Brotherhood of Man. Get thee to Bethlehem of Judæa, — there shalt thou find the new-born God, the Prince of Peace, who will unite in one all nations, and link Humanity to Heaven by the splendour of His Everlasting Name!’”
He paused enrapt, — Simon of Cyrene watched him awed and fascinated.
“The Angel vanished” — he continued—” And I arose straightway and went, and stayed not on my journey till I came to Bethlehem; there did I lay my crown before the Child of Mary, and swear to Him my faith. I have followed Him from the cradle to the Cross; I follow Him now from the rent sepulchre of Earth to the unbarred gate of Heaven!”
“And I with thee!” exclaimed Simon with eager fervour, “ Lo, I am humble as a child — and I will learn of thee all that I should do!”
“Nay, I can teach thee nothing” — said Melchior gently— “Thou hast borne the Cross — thou hast lifted the Christ, — the rest will be granted thee.”
He looked once more over the city which now seemed to float like a glittering mirage in the circling glory of the afterglow: the sun had sunk.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 323