TheProjectGutenbergeBook,TheStoryoftheOtherWiseMan,byHenryvanDykeThiseBookisfortheuseofanyoneanywhereatnocostandwithalmostnorestrictionswhatsoever.Youmaycopyit,giveitawayorre-useitunderthetermsoftheProjectGutenbergLicenseincludedwiththiseBookoronlineatwww.gutenberg.netTitle:TheStoryoftheOtherWiseMan

Author:HenryvanDyke

ReleaseDate:January11,2004[eBook#10679]

Language:English

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THESTORYOFTHEOTHERWISEMAN

BYHENRYVANDYKE

CONTENTSINTRODUCTION

THESIGNINTHESKYBYTHEWATERSOFBABYLON

FORTHESAKEOFALITTLECHILDINTHEHIDDENWAYOFSORROW

APEARLOFGREATPRICE

ILLUSTRATIONS

“‘ITISTHESIGN,’HESAID”“HECAUGHTITUPANDREAD”

“‘THEREISNONEHERESAVEME”’“HEHEALEDTHESICK”

“THEOLDMANFOLLOWEDTHEMULTITUDE”“THEOTHERWISEMANHADFOUNDTHEKING”

THESTORYOFOTHERWISEMAN.Whoseeksforheavenalonetosavehissoul,Maykeepthepath,butwillnotreachthegoal;Whilehewhowalksinlovemaywanderfar,YetGodwillbringhimwheretheblessedare.

You know the story of the ThreeWise Men of the East, and how theytravelledfromfarawaytooffertheirgiftsatthemanger-cradleinBethlehem.ButhaveyoueverheardthestoryoftheOtherWiseMan,whoalsosawthestarinitsrising,andsetouttofollowit,yetdidnotarrivewithhisbrethreninthe presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great desire of this fourthpilgrim,andhowitwasdenied,yetaccomplishedinthedenial;ofhismanywanderingsandtheprobationsofhissoul;ofthelongwayofhisseeking,andthestrangewayofhisfinding,theOnewhomhesought—Iwouldtellthetaleas I have heard fragments of it in theHall ofDreams, in the palace of theHeartofMan.

THESIGNINTHESKY

In thedayswhenAugustusCaesarwasmasterofmanykingsandHerodreigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among themountains of Persia, a certainman namedArtaban, theMedian.His housestood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the royaltreasury.Fromhisroofhecouldlookovertherisingbattlementsofblackandwhiteandcrimsonandblueandredandsilverandgold,tothehillwherethesummerpalaceoftheParthianemperorsglitteredlikeajewelinasevenfoldcrown.

Around thedwellingofArtabanspreada fairgarden, a tangleof flowersandfruit-trees,wateredbyascoreofstreamsdescendingfromtheslopesofMountOrontes,andmademusicalbyinnumerablebirds.Butallcolourwaslost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and allsoundswerehushedinthedeepcharmofitssilence,savetheplashingofthewater, likeavoicehalf sobbingandhalf laughingunder the shadows.Highabovethetreesadimglowoflightshonethroughthecurtainedarchesoftheupperchamber,where themasterof thehousewasholdingcouncilwithhisfriends.

He stood by the doorway to greet his guests—a tall, darkman of aboutforty years,with brilliant eyes set near together under his broad brow, andfirm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the brow of a dreamer and themouthofasoldier,amanofsensitivefeelingbutinflexiblewill—oneofthosewho,inwhateveragetheymaylive,arebornforinwardconflictandalifeofquest.

Hisrobewasofpurewhitewool,thrownoveratunicofsilk;andawhite,pointedcap,withlonglapelsatthesides,restedonhisflowingblackhair.Itwas the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.

“Welcome!”hesaid,inhislow,pleasantvoice,asoneafteranotherenteredthe room—“welcome,Abdus; peace bewith you,Rhodaspes andTigranes,andwithyoumyfather,Abgarus.Youareallwelcome,andthishousegrowsbrightwiththejoyofyourpresence.”

There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in therichness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the massive goldencollars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and in thewingedcirclesofgoldrestingupontheirbreasts,thesignofthefollowersof

Zoroaster.

They took theirplacesarounda smallblackaltarat theendof the room,where a tiny flamewas burning.Artaban, standing beside it, andwaving abarsomofthintamariskbranchesabovethefire,feditwithdrysticksofpineand fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant of the Yasna, and thevoicesofhiscompanionsjoinedinthebeautifulhymntoAhura-Mazda:WeworshiptheSpiritDivine,allwisdomandgoodnesspossessing,SurroundedbyHolyImmortals,thegiversofbountyandblessing.WejoyintheworksofHishands,HistruthandHispowerconfessing.

Wepraiseallthethingsthatarepure,fortheseareHisonlyCreation;Thethoughtsthataretrue,andthewordsanddeedsthathavewonapprobation;ThesearesupportedbyHim,andforthesewemakeadoration.

Hearus,OMazda!Thoulivestintruthandinheavenlygladness;Cleanseusfromfalsehood,andkeepusfromevilandbondagetobadness;PouroutthelightandthejoyofThylifeonourdarknessandsadness.

Shineonourgardensandfields,Shineonourworkingandweaving;Shineonthewholeraceofman,Believingandunbelieving;Shineonusnowthroughthenight,ShineonusnowinThymight,Theflameofourholyloveandthesongofourworshipreceiving.

Thefirerosewiththechant,throbbingasifitweremadeofmusicalflame,until it cast abright illumination through thewholeapartment, revealing itssimplicityandsplendour.

The floorwas laidwith tiles of darkblue veinedwithwhite; pilasters oftwistedsilverstoodoutagainstthebluewalls;theclearstoryofround-archedwindows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaulted ceiling was apavement of sapphires, like the body of heaven in its clearness, sownwithsilverstars.Fromthefourcornersoftheroofhungfourgoldenmagic-wheels,calledthetonguesofthegods.Attheeasternend,behindthealtar,thereweretwodark-redpillarsofporphyry; above thema lintel of the same stone,onwhichwas carved the figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to thestringandhisbowdrawn.

The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of theroof,wascoveredwithaheavycurtainof thecolourofaripepomegranate,embroideredwithinnumerablegoldenraysshootingupwardfromthefloor.Ineffecttheroomwaslikeaquiet,starrynight,allazureandsilver,flushedintheEastwithrosypromiseofthedawn.Itwas,asthehouseofamanshould

be,anexpressionofthecharacterandspiritofthemaster.

Heturnedtohisfriendswhenthesongwasended,andinvitedthemtobeseatedonthedivanatthewesternendoftheroom.

“Youhavecometo-night,”saidhe,lookingaroundthecircle,“atmycall,asthefaithfulscholarsofZoroaster,torenewyourworshipandrekindleyourfaithintheGodofPurity,evenasthisfirehasbeenrekindledonthealtar.Weworshipnotthefire,butHimofwhomitisthechosensymbol,becauseitisthepurestofallcreatedthings.ItspeakstousofonewhoisLightandTruth.Isitnotso,myfather?”

“It is well said, my son,” answered the venerable Abgarus. “Theenlightenedareneveridolaters.Theylifttheveiloftheformandgointotheshrineofthereality,andnewlightandtrutharecomingtothemcontinuallythrough theold symbols.” “Hearme, then,my father andmy friends,” saidArtaban,veryquietly, “while I tellyouof thenew light and truth thathavecome to me through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched thesecretsofnaturetogether,andstudiedthehealingvirtuesofwaterandfireandthe plants.Wehave read also the books of prophecy inwhich the future isdimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highest of alllearningistheknowledgeofthestars.Totracetheircoursesistountanglethethreads of the mystery of life from the beginning to the end. If we couldfollow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. But is not ourknowledgeofthemstillincomplete?Aretherenotmanystarsstillbeyondourhorizon—lights that are known only to the dwellers in the far south-land,amongthespice-treesofPuntandthegoldminesofOphir?”

Therewasamurmurofassentamongthelisteners.

“The stars,” said Tigranes, “are the thoughts of the Eternal. They arenumberless.Butthethoughtsofmancanbecounted,liketheyearsofhislife.Thewisdomof theMagi is thegreatestof allwisdomsonearth,because itknows its own ignorance. And that is the secret of power. We keep menalwayslookingandwaitingforanewsunrise.Butweourselvesknowthatthedarknessisequaltothelight,andthattheconflictbetweenthemwillneverbeended.”

“Thatdoesnotsatisfyme,”answeredArtaban,“for,ifthewaitingmustbeendless,iftherecouldbenofulfilmentofit,thenitwouldnotbewisdomtolookandwait.WeshouldbecomelikethosenewteachersoftheGreeks,whosaythatthereisnotruth,andthattheonlywisemenarethosewhospendtheirlives in discovering and exposing the lies that have been believed in theworld.Butthenewsunrisewillcertainlydawnintheappointedtime.Donotourownbooks tellus that thiswillcome topass,and thatmenwillsee the

brightnessofagreatlight?”

“That is true,” said the voice of Abgarus; “every faithful disciple ofZoroasterknowstheprophecyoftheAvestaandcarriesthewordinhisheart.‘In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the number of theprophetsintheeastcountry.Aroundhimshallshineamightybrightness,andheshallmakelifeeverlasting,incorruptible,andimmortal,andthedeadshallriseagain.’”

“Thisisadarksaying,”saidTigranes,“anditmaybethatweshallneverunderstand it. It isbetter toconsider the things thatarenearathand,and toincreasetheinfluenceoftheMagiintheirowncountry,ratherthantolookforonewhomaybeastranger,andtowhomwemustresignourpower.”

Theothers seemed to approve thesewords.Therewas a silent feelingofagreementmanifestamongthem;theirlooksrespondedwiththatindefinableexpressionwhichalwaysfollowswhenaspeakerhasutteredthethoughtthathas been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. But Artaban turned toAbgaruswithaglowonhisface,andsaid:

“My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul.Religionwithoutagreathopewouldbelikeanaltarwithoutalivingfire.Andnow the flame has burnedmore brightly, and by the light of it I have readotherwordswhichalsohavecomefromthefountainofTruth,andspeakyetmoreclearlyoftherisingoftheVictoriousOneinhisbrightness.”

He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine linen, withwritinguponthem,andunfoldedthemcarefullyuponhisknee.

“Intheyearsthatarelostinthepast,longbeforeourfatherscameintothelandofBabylon,therewerewisemeninChaldea,fromwhomthefirstoftheMagilearnedthesecretoftheheavens.AndoftheseBalaamthesonofBeorwasoneofthemightiest.Hearthewordsofhisprophecy:‘ThereshallcomeastaroutofJacob,andasceptreshallariseoutofIsrael.’”

ThelipsofTigranesdrewdownwardwithcontempt,ashesaid:

“JudahwasacaptivebythewatersofBabylon,andthesonsofJacobwerein bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered through themountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant thatdwells in JudeaundertheyokeofRomeneitherstarnorsceptreshallarise.”

“And yet,” answered Artaban, “it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mightysearcherofdreams, thecounsellorofkings, thewiseBelteshazzar,whowasmosthonoredandbelovedofourgreatKingCyrus.Aprophetofsurethingsand a reader of the thoughts ofGod,Daniel proved himself to our people.Andthesearethewordsthathewrote.”(Artabanreadfromthesecondroll:)

“‘Know, therefore, and understand that from the going forth of thecommandment to restore Jerusalem,unto theAnointedOne, thePrince, thetimeshallbesevenandthreescoreandtwoweeks.’”

“But,myson,”saidAbgarus,doubtfully,“thesearemysticalnumbers.Whocaninterpretthem,orwhocanfindthekeythatshallunlocktheirmeaning?”

Artabananswered:“Ithasbeenshowntomeandtomythreecompanionsamong the Magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have searched theancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It falls in this year.Wehavestudiedthesky,andinthespringoftheyearwesawtwoofthegreateststars draw near together in the sign of the Fish, which is the house of theHebrews.Wealsosawanewstarthere,whichshoneforonenightandthenvanished.Now again the two great planets aremeeting. This night is theirconjunction. My three brothers are watching at the ancient temple of theSevenSpheres,atBorsippa,inBabylonia,andIamwatchinghere.Ifthestarshinesagain,theywillwaittendaysformeatthetemple,andthenwewillsetouttogetherforJerusalem,toseeandworshipthepromisedonewhoshallbebornKingofIsrael.Ibelievethesignwillcome.Ihavemadereadyfor thejourney. I have soldmy house andmy possessions, and bought these threejewels—asapphire,aruby,andapearl—tocarrythemastributetotheKing.AndIaskyoutogowithmeonthepilgrimage,thatwemayhavejoytogetherinfindingthePrincewhoisworthytobeserved.”

Whilehewasspeakinghethrusthishandintotheinmostfoldofhisgirdleanddrewoutthreegreatgems—oneblueasafragmentofthenightsky,oneredderthanarayofsunrise,andoneaspureasthepeakofasnowmountainattwilight—andlaidthemontheoutspreadlinenscrollsbeforehim.

Buthisfriendslookedonwithstrangeandalieneyes.Aveilofdoubtandmistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up from themarshes tohide thehills.Theyglancedateachotherwith looksofwonderandpity,asthosewhohave listened to incredible sayings, thestoryofawildvision,ortheproposalofanimpossibleenterprise.

At last Tigranes said: “Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from toomuchlookinguponthestarsandthecherishingofloftythoughts.Itwouldbewisertospendthetimeingatheringmoneyforthenewfire-templeatChala.Nokingwill ever rise from thebroken raceof Israel, andnoendwill evercometotheeternalstrifeoflightanddarkness.Hewholooksforitisachaserofshadows.Farewell.”

Andanothersaid:“Artaban,Ihavenoknowledgeofthesethings,andmyofficeasguardianoftheroyaltreasurebindsmehere.Thequestisnotforme.Butifthoumustfollowit,faretheewell.”

And another said: “In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannotleavehernortakeherwithmeonthisstrangejourney.Thisquest isnotforme.Butmaythystepsbeprosperedwhereverthougoest.So,farewell.”

Andanothersaid:“Iamillandunfitforhardship,butthereisamanamongmyservantswhomIwillsendwiththeewhenthougoest,tobringmewordhowthoufarest.”

ButAbgarus,theoldestandtheonewholovedArtabanthebest, lingeredaftertheothershadgone,andsaid,gravely:“Myson,itmaybethatthelightof truth is in thissign thathasappeared in theskies,and then itwill surelylead to thePrince and themighty brightness.Or itmaybe that it is only ashadowofthelight,asTigraneshassaid,andthenhewhofollowsitwillhaveonlyalongpilgrimageandanemptysearch.Butitisbettertofolloweventheshadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. And those whowouldseewonderfulthingsmustoftenbereadytotravelalone.Iamtoooldforthisjourney,butmyheartshallbeacompanionofthepilgrimagedayandnight,andIshallknowtheendofthyquest.Goinpeace.”

Soonebyonetheywentoutoftheazurechamberwithitssilverstars,andArtabanwasleftinsolitude.

Hegatheredupthejewelsandreplacedtheminhisgirdle.Foralongtimehestoodandwatchedtheflamethatflickeredandsankuponthealtar.Thenhecrossedthehall,liftedtheheavycurtain,andpassedoutbetweenthedullredpillarsofporphyrytotheterraceontheroof.

Theshiverthatthrillsthroughtheeartheresherousesfromhernightsleephadalreadybegun,andthecoolwindthatheraldsthedaybreakwasdrawingdownwardfromtheloftysnow-tracedravinesofMountOrontes.Birds,halfawakened, crept and chirped among the rustling leaves, and the smell ofripenedgrapescameinbriefwaftsfromthearbours.

Farovertheeasternplainawhitemiststretchedlikealake.ButwherethedistantpeakofZagrosserratedthewesternhorizontheskywasclear.JupiterandSaturnrolledtogetherlikedropsoflambentflameabouttoblendinone.

As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of thedarknessbeneath,roundingitselfwithpurplesplendourstoacrimsonsphere,andspiringupwardthroughraysofsaffronandorangeintoapointofwhiteradiance.Tinyand infinitely remote,yetperfect ineverypart, itpulsated intheenormousvaultasifthethreejewelsintheMagian’sbreasthadmingledand been transformed into a living heart of light. He bowed his head. Hecoveredhisbrowwithhishands.

“Itisthesign,”hesaid.“TheKingiscoming,andIwillgotomeethim.”

BYTHEWATERSOFBABYLON

All night longVasda, the swiftest ofArtaban’s horses, hadbeenwaiting,saddledandbridled,inherstall,pawingthegroundimpatiently,andshakingher bit as if she shared the eagerness of her master’s purpose, though sheknewnotitsmeaning.

Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant ofmorningsong,before thewhitemisthadbegun to lift lazily fromtheplain,the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the high-road,whichskirtedthebaseofMountOrontes,westward.

How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and hisfavouritehorseonalongjourney.Itisasilent,comprehensivefriendship,anintercourse beyond the need of words. They drink at the same way-sidesprings,andsleepunderthesameguardianstars.Theyareconscioustogetherof the subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. Themastershareshiseveningmealwithhishungrycompanion,andfeelsthesoft,moist lips caressing the palm of his hand as they close over themorsel ofbread.Inthegraydawnheisrousedfromhisbivouacbythegentlestirofawarm,sweetbreathoverhissleepingface,andlooksupintotheeyesofhisfaithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil of the day. Surely,unlesshe isapaganandanunbeliever,bywhatevernamehecallsuponhisGod,hewillthankHimforthisvoicelesssympathy,thisdumbaffection,andhismorningprayerwillembraceadoubleblessing—Godblessusboth,andkeepourfeetfromfallingandoursoulsfromdeath!

Andthen,throughthekeenmorningair,theswifthoofsbeattheirspiritedmusic along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of two hearts that aremovedwiththesameeagerdesire—toconquerspace,todevourthedistance,toattainthegoalofthejourney.

Artabanmustindeedridewiselyandwell ifhewouldkeeptheappointedhourwiththeotherMagi;fortheroutewasahundredandfiftyparasangs,andfifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But he knewVasda’sstrength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the fixed distanceeveryday,thoughhemusttravellateintothenight,andinthemorninglongbeforesunrise.

HepassedalongthebrownslopesofMt.Orontes, furrowedby therockycoursesofahundredtorrents.

He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans, where the famous herds ofhorses,feedingin thewidepastures, tossedtheirheadsatVasda’sapproach,and galloped awaywith a thunder ofmany hoofs, and flocks ofwild birdsrose suddenly from the swampymeadows,wheeling in great circleswith ashiningflutterofinnumerablewingsandshrillcriesofsurprise.

He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from thethreshing-floorsfilledtheairwithagoldenmist,halfhidingthehugetempleofAstartewithitsfourhundredpillars.

AtBaghistan,amongtherichgardenswateredbyfountainsfromtherock,helookedupatthemountainthrustingitsimmenseruggedbrowoutovertheroad,andsawthefigureofKingDarius tramplinguponhisfallenfoes,andthe proud list of his wars and conquests graven high upon the face of theeternalcliff.

Overmanya cold anddesolatepass, crawlingpainfully across thewind-sweptshouldersof thehills;downmanyablackmountain-gorge,where theriverroaredandracedbeforehimlikeasavageguide;acrossmanyasmilingvale,with terracesofyellow limestone fullofvinesand fruit-trees; throughthe oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates of Zagros, walled in byprecipices; into the ancient city ofChala,where the people ofSamaria hadbeen kept in captivity long ago; and out again by themighty portal, riventhroughtheencirclinghills,wherehesawtheimageoftheHighPriestoftheMagi sculptured on the wall of rock, with hand uplifted as if to bless thecenturiesofpilgrims;pasttheentranceofthenarrowdefile,filledfromendtoend with orchards of peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndesfoamed down to meet him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnalvapours spread their deathlymists; following along the course of the river,undertremulousshadowsofpoplarandtamarind,amongthelowerhills;andoutupon the flatplain,where the road ran straight as anarrow through thestubble-fields and parchedmeadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, where theParthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia whichAlexanderbuilt;acrosstheswirlingfloodsofTigrisandthemanychannelsofEuphrates, flowingyellow through thecorn-lands—Artabanpressedonwarduntil he arrived, at nightfall of the tenthday,beneath the shatteredwallsofpopulousBabylon.

Vasdawasalmostspent,andhewouldgladlyhave turned into thecity tofind rest and refreshment for himself and for her. But he knew that it wasthree hours’ journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and hemustreachtheplacebymidnightifhewouldfindhiscomradeswaiting.Sohedidnothalt,butrodesteadilyacrossthestubble-fields.

Agroveofdate-palmsmadeanislandofgloominthepaleyellowsea.As

shepassedintotheshadowVasdaslackenedherpace,andbegantopickherwaymorecarefully.

Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution seemed to falluponher.Shescentedsomedangerordifficulty;itwasnotinherhearttoflyfrom it—only to be prepared for it, and tomeet itwisely, as a good horseshoulddo.Thegrovewascloseandsilentasthetomb;notaleafrustled,notabirdsang.

Shefeltherstepsbeforeherdelicately,carryingherheadlow,andsighingnowand thenwithapprehension.At lastshegaveaquickbreathofanxietyand dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in everymuscle, before a darkobjectintheshadowofthelastpalm-tree.

Artaban dismounted.The dim starlight revealed the formof aman lyingacrosstheroad.Hishumbledressandtheoutlineofhishaggardfaceshowedthathewasprobablyoneof thepoorHebrewexileswhostilldwelt ingreatnumbersinthevicinity.Hispallidskin,dryandyellowasparchment,borethemarkofthedeadlyfeverwhichravagedthemarsh-landsinautumn.Thechillofdeathwas inhis leanhand,and,asArtabanreleasedit, thearmfellbackinertlyuponthemotionlessbreast.

Heturnedawaywithathoughtofpity,consigningthebodytothatstrangeburialwhichtheMagiansdeemmostfitting—thefuneralofthedesert,fromwhichthekitesandvulturesriseondarkwings,andthebeastsofpreyslinkfurtivelyaway,leavingonlyaheapofwhitebonesinthesand.

But,asheturned,along,faint,ghostlysighcamefromtheman’slips.Thebrown,bonyfingersclosedconvulsivelyonthehemoftheMagian’srobeandheldhimfast.

Artaban’s heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumbresentmentat theimportunityof thisblinddelay.Howcouldhestayhereinthedarkness tominister to adying stranger?What claimhad thisunknownfragmentofhumanlifeuponhiscompassionorhisservice?Ifhelingeredbutfor an hour he could hardly reach Borsippa at the appointed time. Hiscompanionswouldthinkhehadgivenupthejourney.Theywouldgowithouthim.Hewouldlosehisquest.

Butifhewentonnow,themanwouldsurelydie.Ifhestayed,lifemightberestored. His spirit throbbed and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis.Shouldheriskthegreatrewardofhisdivinefaithforthesakeofasingledeedof human love? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from thefollowingofthestar,togiveacupofcoldwatertoapoor,perishingHebrew?

“Godoftruthandpurity,”heprayed,“directmeintheholypath,theway

ofwisdomwhichThouonlyknowest.”

Thenheturnedbacktothesickman.Looseningthegraspofhishand,hecarried him to a littlemound at the foot of the palm-tree.He unbound thethickfoldsoftheturbanandopenedthegarmentabovethesunkenbreast.Hebrought water from one of the small canals near by, and moistened thesufferer’sbrowandmouth.Hemingledadraughtofoneofthosesimplebutpotentremedieswhichhecarriedalwaysinhisgirdle—fortheMagianswerephysicians as well as astrologers—and poured it slowly between thecolourlesslips.Hourafterhourhelaboredasonlyaskilfulhealerofdiseasecando;and,at last, theman’sstrengthreturned;hesatupandlookedabouthim.

“Whoartthou?”hesaid,intherudedialectofthecountry,“andwhyhastthousoughtmeheretobringbackmylife?”

“I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going toJerusaleminsearchofonewhoistobebornKingoftheJews,agreatPrinceandDelivererforallmen.Idarenotdelayanylongeruponmyjourney,forthecaravanthathaswaitedformemaydepartwithoutme.Butsee,hereisallthatIhaveleftofbreadandwine,andhereisapotionofhealingherbs.Whenthystrengthisrestoredthoucan’stfindthedwellingsoftheHebrewsamongthehousesofBabylon.”

TheJewraisedhistremblinghandssolemnlytoheaven.

“NowmaytheGodofAbrahamandIsaacandJacobblessandprosperthejourneyofthemerciful,andbringhiminpeacetohisdesiredhaven.Butstay;Ihavenothingtogivetheeinreturn—onlythis:thatIcantelltheewheretheMessiahmustbesought.Forourprophetshavesaid thatheshouldbebornnot in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the Lord bring thee insafetytothatplace,becausethouhasthadpityuponthesick.”

It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,restoredby thebrief rest, raneagerly through thesilentplainandswamthechannelsoftheriver.Sheputforththeremnantofherstrength,andfledoverthegroundlikeagazelle.

But the first beam of the sun sent her shadow before her as she enteredupon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes of Artaban anxiouslyscanning thegreatmoundofNimrodand theTempleof theSevenSpheres,coulddiscernnotraceofhisfriends.

Themany-coloured terracesof black andorange and red andyellowandgreen and blue and white, shattered by the convulsions of nature, andcrumblingunder the repeatedblowsofhumanviolence, stillglittered likea

ruinedrainbowinthemorninglight.

Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to thehighestterrace,lookingouttowardsthewest.

Thehugedesolationofthemarshesstretchedawaytothehorizonandtheborderofthedesert.Bitternsstoodbythestagnantpoolsandjackalsskulkedthroughthelowbushes;buttherewasnosignofthecaravanofthewisemen,farornear.

Attheedgeoftheterracehesawalittlecairnofbrokenbricks,andunderthemapieceofparchment.Hecaught itupandread:“Wehavewaitedpastthemidnight, and can delay no longer.We go to find theKing. Follow usacrossthedesert.”Artabansatdownuponthegroundandcoveredhisheadindespair.

“How can I cross the desert,” said he, “with no food and with a spenthorse?ImustreturntoBabylon,sellmysapphire,andbuyatrainofcamels,andprovisionforthejourney.Imayneverovertakemyfriends.OnlyGodthemercifulknowswhetherIshallnotlosethesightoftheKingbecauseItarriedtoshowmercy.”

FORTHESAKEOFALITTLECHILD

Therewas a silence in theHall ofDreams,where Iwas listening to thestoryoftheotherwiseman.AndthroughthissilenceIsaw,butverydimly,his figure passing over the dreary undulations of the desert, high upon thebackofhiscamel,rockingsteadilyonwardlikeashipoverthewaves.

Thelandofdeathspreaditscruelnetaroundhim.Thestonywastesborenofruitbutbriersand thorns.Thedark ledgesof rock thrust themselvesabovethe surface here and there, like the bones of perished monsters. Arid andinhospitablemountainrangesrosebeforehim,furrowedwithdrychannelsofancienttorrents,whiteandghastlyasscarsonthefaceofnature.Shiftinghillsof treacherous sandwere heaped like tombs along the horizon.Byday, thefierceheatpressed its intolerableburdenon thequiveringair;andno livingcreature moved, on the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttlingthroughtheparchedbushes,orlizardsvanishinginthecleftsoftherock.Bynight the jackalsprowledandbarked in thedistance,and the lionmade theblack ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting chillfollowed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the Magian movedsteadilyonward.

ThenIsawthegardensandorchardsofDamascus,wateredbythestreamsofAbanaandPharpar,withtheirslopingswardsinlaidwithbloom,andtheirthicketsofmyrrhandroses.Isawalsothelong,snowyridgeofHermon,andthedarkgrovesofcedars,andthevalleyoftheJordan,andthebluewatersofthe Lake of Galilee, and the fertile plain of Esdraelon, and the hills ofEphraim,andthehighlandsofJudah.ThroughalltheseIfollowedthefigureofArtabanmovingsteadilyonward,untilhearrivedatBethlehem.AnditwasthethirddayafterthethreewisemenhadcometothatplaceandhadfoundMaryandJoseph,withtheyoungchild,Jesus,andhadlaidtheirgiftsofgoldandfrankincenseandmyrrhathisfeet.

Then the otherwiseman drew near,weary, but full of hope, bearing hisruby and his pearl to offer to theKing. “For now at last,” he said, “I shallsurely find him, though it be alone, and later thanmybrethren.This is theplaceofwhich theHebrewexile toldme that theprophetshadspoken,andhereIshallbeholdtherisingofthegreatlight.ButImustinquireaboutthevisitofmybrethren,andtowhathousethestardirectedthem,andtowhomtheypresentedtheirtribute.”

The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and Artaban wondered

whether the men had all gone up to the hill-pastures to bring down theirsheep. From the open door of a low stone cottage he heard the sound of awoman’svoicesingingsoftly.Heenteredandfoundayoungmotherhushingher baby to rest. She told him of the strangers from the far East who hadappeared in the village three days ago, and how they said that a star hadguidedthemtotheplacewhereJosephofNazarethwaslodgingwithhiswifeand her new-born child, and how they had paid reverence to the child andgivenhimmanyrichgifts.

“Butthetravellersdisappearedagain,”shecontinued,“assuddenlyastheyhad come. We were afraid at the strangeness of their visit. We could notunderstand it. Theman ofNazareth took the babe and hismother and fledawaythatsamenightsecretly,anditwaswhisperedthattheyweregoingfarawaytoEgypt.Eversince,therehasbeenaspelluponthevillage;somethingevil hangs over it. They say that the Roman soldiers are coming fromJerusalemtoforceanewtaxfromus,andthemenhavedriventheflocksandherdsfarbackamongthehills,andhiddenthemselvestoescapeit.”

Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the child in her armslookedupinhisfaceandsmiled,stretchingoutitsrosyhandstograspatthewingedcircleofgoldonhisbreast.Hisheartwarmedtothetouch.Itseemedlikeagreetingofloveandtrusttoonewhohadjourneyedlonginlonelinessandperplexity,fightingwithhisowndoubtsandfears,andfollowingalightthatwasveiledinclouds.

“Might not this child have been the promised Prince?” he asked withinhimself, as he touched its soft cheek. “Kings have been born ere now inlowlierhousesthanthis,andthefavouriteof thestarsmayriseevenfromacottage. But it has not seemed good to the God of wisdom to reward mysearchsosoonandsoeasily.TheonewhomIseekhasgonebeforeme;andnowImustfollowtheKingtoEgypt.”

Theyoungmother laid thebabe in its cradle, and rose tominister to thewantsofthestrangeguestthatfatehadbroughtintoherhouse.Shesetfoodbeforehim,theplainfareofpeasants,butwillinglyoffered,andthereforefullof refreshment for the soul as well as for the body. Artaban accepted itgratefully;and,asheate,thechildfellintoahappyslumber,andmurmuredsweetlyinitsdreams,andagreatpeacefilledthequietroom.

But suddenly there came thenoiseof awild confusionanduproar in thestreetsofthevillage,ashriekingandwailingofwomen’svoices,aclangorofbrazentrumpetsandaclashingofswords,andadesperatecry:“Thesoldiers!thesoldiersofHerod!Theyarekillingourchildren.”

Theyoungmother’sfacegrewwhitewithterror.Sheclaspedherchild to

her bosom, and crouched motionless in the darkest corner of the room,coveringhimwiththefoldsofherrobe,lestheshouldwakeandcry.

ButArtabanwentquicklyandstoodinthedoorwayofthehouse.Hisbroadshouldersfilledtheportalfromsidetoside,andthepeakofhiswhitecapallbuttouchedthelintel.

Thesoldierscamehurryingdownthestreetwithbloodyhandsanddrippingswords.Atthesightofthestrangerinhisimposingdresstheyhesitatedwithsurprise.Thecaptainofthebandapproachedthethresholdtothrusthimaside.ButArtabandidnotstir.Hisfacewasascalmasthoughhewerewatchingthestars,andinhiseyesthereburnedthatsteadyradiancebeforewhicheventhehalf-tamedhunting leopardshrinks,and thefiercebloodhoundpauses inhisleap.Heheldthesoldiersilentlyforaninstant,andthensaidinalowvoice:

“Thereisnooneinthisplacebutme,andIamwaitingtogivethisjeweltotheprudentcaptainwhowillleavemeinpeace.”

Heshowedtheruby,glisteninginthehollowofhishandlikeagreatdropofblood.

Thecaptainwasamazedatthesplendourofthegem.Thepupilsofhiseyesexpandedwithdesire,andthehardlinesofgreedwrinkledaroundhislips.Hestretchedouthishandandtooktheruby.

“Marchon!”hecriedtohismen,“thereisnochildhere.Thehouseisstill.”

Theclamourandtheclangofarmspasseddownthestreetastheheadlongfury of the chase sweeps by the secret covert where the trembling deer ishidden. Artaban re-entered the cottage. He turned his face to the east andprayed:

“Godoftruth,forgivemysin!Ihavesaidthethingthatisnot,tosavethelifeofachild.Andtwoofmygiftsaregone.IhavespentformanthatwhichwasmeantforGod.ShallIeverbeworthytoseethefaceoftheKing?”

But thevoiceof thewoman,weeping for joy in the shadowbehindhim,saidverygently:

“Becausethouhastsavedthelifeofmylittleone,maytheLordblesstheeand keep thee; theLordmakeHis face to shine upon thee and be graciousuntothee;theLordliftupHiscountenanceupontheeandgivetheepeace.”

INTHEHIDDENWAYOFSORROW

Then again therewas a silence in theHall ofDreams, deeper andmoremysteriousthanthefirstinterval,andIunderstoodthattheyearsofArtabanwereflowingveryswiftlyunderthestillnessofthatclingingfog,andIcaughtonly a glimpse, here and there, of the river of his life shining through theshadowsthatconcealeditscourse.

Isawhimmovingamong the throngsofmen inpopulousEgypt,seekingeverywherefortracesofthehouseholdthathadcomedownfromBethlehem,and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees of Heliopolis, andbeneath thewallsof theRoman fortressofNewBabylonbeside theNile—tracessofaintanddimthattheyvanishedbeforehimcontinually,asfootprintsonthehardriver-sandglistenforamomentwithmoistureandthendisappear.

Isawhimagainatthefootofthepyramids,whichliftedtheirsharppointsintotheintensesaffronglowofthesunsetsky,changelessmonumentsoftheperishablegloryandtheimperishablehopeofman.HelookedupintothevastcountenanceofthecrouchingSphinxandvainlytriedtoreadthemeaningofher calmeyes and smilingmouth.Was it, indeed, themockeryof all effortandallaspiration,asTigraneshadsaid—thecrueljestofariddlethathasnoanswer, a search that never can succeed?Orwas there a touch of pity andencouragement in that inscrutable smile—a promise that even the defeatedshouldattainavictory,andthedisappointedshoulddiscoveraprize,andtheignorant shouldbemadewise, and theblind should see, and thewanderingshouldcomeintothehavenatlast?

IsawhimagaininanobscurehouseofAlexandria,takingcounselwithaHebrew rabbi. The venerableman, bending over the rolls of parchment onwhich the prophecies of Israel werewritten, read aloud the pathetic wordswhich foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah—the despised andrejectedofmen,themanofsorrowsandtheacquaintanceofgrief.

“Andremember,myson,”saidhe,fixinghisdeep-seteyesuponthefaceofArtaban,“theKingwhomyouareseekingisnottobefoundinapalace,noramongtherichandpowerful.IfthelightoftheworldandthegloryofIsraelhadbeenappointed tocomewith thegreatnessofearthlysplendour, itmusthave appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham will ever again rival thepower which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, or the magnificence ofSolomonthronedbetweenthelionsinJerusalem.Butthelightforwhichtheworld iswaiting is a new light, the glory that shall rise out of patient and

triumphantsuffering.Andthekingdomwhichistobeestablishedforeverisanewkingdom,theroyaltyofperfectandunconquerablelove.Idonotknowhowthisshallcometopass,norhowtheturbulentkingsandpeoplesofearthshallbebroughttoacknowledgetheMessiahandpayhomagetohim.ButthisI know.Thosewho seekHimwill dowell to look among thepoor and thelowly,thesorrowfulandtheoppressed.”

SoIsawtheotherwisemanagainandagain,travellingfromplacetoplace,andsearchingamongthepeopleofthedispersion,withwhomthelittlefamilyfrom Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. He passed throughcountrieswherefaminelayheavyupontheland,andthepoorwerecryingforbread. Hemade his dwelling in plague-stricken cities where the sick werelanguishing in the bitter companionship of helpless misery. He visited theoppressed and the afflicted in the gloom of subterranean prisons, and thecrowdedwretchednessofslave-markets,andthewearytoilofgalley-ships.Inall this populous and intricate world of anguish, though he found none toworship,he foundmany tohelp.He fed thehungry,andclothed thenaked,andhealed thesick,andcomforted thecaptive;andhisyearswentbymoreswiftlythantheweaver’sshuttlethatflashesbackandforththroughtheloomwhilethewebgrowsandtheinvisiblepatterniscompleted.

Itseemedalmostasifhehadforgottenhisquest.ButonceIsawhimforamomentashestoodaloneatsunrise,waitingatthegateofaRomanprison.Hehadtakenfromasecretresting-placeinhisbosomthepearl,thelastofhisjewels.Ashelookedatit,amellowerlustre,asoftandiridescentlight,fullofshifting gleams of azure and rose, trembled upon its surface. It seemed tohaveabsorbedsomereflectionofthecoloursofthelostsapphireandruby.Sotheprofound,secretpurposeofanoblelifedrawsintoitselfthememoriesofpast joy and past sorrow.All that has helped it, all that has hindered it, istransfusedbyasubtlemagicintoitsveryessence.Itbecomesmoreluminousandpreciousthelongeritiscarriedclosetothewarmthofthebeatingheart.Then,atlast,whileIwasthinkingofthispearl,andofitsmeaning,Iheardtheendofthestoryoftheotherwiseman.

APEARLOFGREATPRICE

Three-and-thirtyyearsofthelifeofArtabanhadpassedaway,andhewasstillapilgrimandaseekerafterlight.Hishair,oncedarkerthanthecliffsofZagros,wasnowwhiteasthewintrysnowthatcoveredthem.Hiseyes,thatonceflashedlikeflamesoffire,weredullasemberssmoulderingamongtheashes.

Worn andweary and ready to die, but still looking for theKing, he hadcomeforthelasttimetoJerusalem.Hehadoftenvisitedtheholycitybefore,andhadsearchedthroughallitslanesandcrowdedhovelsandblackprisonswithout finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had fled fromBethlehemlongago.Butnowitseemedasifhemustmakeonemoreeffort,andsomethingwhisperedinhisheartthat,atlast,hemightsucceed.ItwastheseasonofthePassover.Thecitywasthrongedwithstrangers.ThechildrenofIsrael,scatteredinfarlandsallovertheworld,hadreturnedtotheTempleforthegreatfeast,andtherehadbeenaconfusionoftonguesinthenarrowstreetsformanydays.

Butonthisdaytherewasasingularagitationvisibleinthemultitude.Theskywasveiledwithaportentousgloom,andcurrentsofexcitementseemedtoflashthroughthecrowdlikethethrillwhichshakestheforestontheeveofastorm.Asecret tidewassweeping themalloneway.Theclatterofsandals,andthesoft,thicksoundofthousandsofbarefeetshufflingoverthestones,flowedunceasinglyalongthestreetthatleadstotheDamascusgate.

Artaban joined company with a group of people from his own country,ParthianJewswhohadcomeuptokeepthePassover,andinquiredof themthecauseofthetumult,andwheretheyweregoing.

“Wearegoing,”theyanswered,“totheplacecalledGolgotha,outsidethecitywalls,where there is tobe an execution.Haveyounot heardwhathashappened?Two famous robbers are to be crucified, andwith them another,calledJesusofNazareth,amanwhohasdonemanywonderfulworksamongthepeople,sothattheylovehimgreatly.Butthepriestsandeldershavesaidthat hemust die, because he gave himself out to be the Son of God. AndPilatehassenthimtothecrossbecausehesaidthathewasthe‘KingoftheJews.’”

How strangely these familiarwords fell upon the tired heart ofArtaban!Theyhadledhimforalifetimeoverlandandsea.Andnowtheycametohimdarklyandmysteriouslylikeamessageofdespair.TheKinghadarisen,but

he had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he wasalreadydying.CoulditbethesamewhohadbeenborninBethlehem,thirty-threeyearsago,atwhosebirththestarhadappearedinheaven,andofwhosecomingtheprophetshadspoken?

Artaban’s heart beat unsteadilywith that troubled, doubtful apprehensionwhichistheexcitementofoldage.Buthesaidwithinhimself,“ThewaysofGodarestrangerthanthethoughtsofmen,anditmaybethatIshallfindtheKing,atlast,inthehandsofHisenemies,andshallcomeintimetooffermypearlforHisransombeforeHedies.”

SotheoldmanfollowedthemultitudewithslowandpainfulstepstowardstheDamascusgateofthecity.Justbeyondtheentranceoftheguard-houseatroop ofMacedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging a young girlwithtorndressanddishevelledhair.AstheMagianpausedtolookatherwithcompassion,shebrokesuddenlyfromthehandsofhertormentors,andthrewherselfathisfeet,claspinghimaroundtheknees.Shehadseenhiswhitecapandthewingedcircleonhisbreast.

“Have pity onme,” she cried, “and saveme, for the sake of theGod ofPurity!IalsoamadaughterofthetruereligionwhichistaughtbytheMagi.MyfatherwasamerchantofParthia,butheisdead,andIamseizedforhisdebtstobesoldasaslave.Savemefromworsethandeath!”

Artabantrembled.

Itwastheoldconflictinhissoul,whichhadcometohiminthepalm-groveof Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem—the conflict between theexpectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift which he hadconsecrated to theworshipof religionhadbeendrawnfromhishand to theserviceofhumanity.Thiswasthethirdtrial,theultimateprobation,thefinalandirrevocablechoice.

Wasithisgreatopportunity,orhislasttemptation?Hecouldnottell.Onethingonlywasclearinthedarknessofhismind—itwasinevitable.AnddoesnottheinevitablecomefromGod?

One thingonlywassure tohisdividedheart—to rescue thishelplessgirlwouldbeatruedeedoflove.Andisnotlovethelightofthesoul?

He took the pearl fromhis bosom.Never had it seemed so luminous, soradiant,sofulloftender,livinglustre.Helaiditinthehandoftheslave.

“Thisisthyransom,daughter!ItisthelastofmytreasureswhichIkeptfortheKing.”

Whilehespokethedarknessoftheskythickened,andshudderingtremors

ran through the earth, heaving convulsively like the breast of one whostruggleswithmightygrief.

The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened andcrashed into thestreet.Dustclouds filled theair.Thesoldiers fled in terror,reeling likedrunkenmen.ButArtabanand thegirlwhomhehad ransomedcrouchedhelplessbeneaththewallofthePraetorium.

Whathadhetofear?Whathadhetolivefor?Hehadgivenawaythelastremnant of his tribute for the King. He had parted with the last hope offindingHim.Thequestwasover,andithadfailed.But,eveninthatthought,accepted and embraced, therewas peace. Itwas not resignation. Itwas notsubmission.Itwassomethingmoreprofoundandsearching.Heknewthatallwaswell,becausehehaddonethebestthathecould,fromdaytoday.Hehadbeen true to the light that hadbeengiven tohim.Hehad looked formore.And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life,doubtlessthatwasthebestthatwaspossible.Hehadnotseentherevelationof“lifeeverlasting,incorruptibleandimmortal.”Butheknewthatevenifhecould live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it hadbeen.

One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through theground.Aheavytile,shakenfromtheroof,fellandstrucktheoldmanonthetemple.He laybreathlessandpale,withhisgrayheadrestingon theyounggirl’sshoulder,andthebloodtricklingfromthewound.Asshebentoverhim,fearingthathewasdead,therecameavoicethroughthetwilight,verysmallandstill,likemusicsoundingfromadistance,inwhichthenotesareclearbutthewords are lost.Thegirl turned to see if someonehad spoken from thewindowabovethem,butshesawnoone.

Thentheoldman’slipsbegantomove,asifinanswer,andsheheardhimsayintheParthiantongue:

“Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered, and fed thee? Orthirsty,andgavetheedrink?WhensawItheeastranger,andtooktheein?Ornaked,andclothed thee?WhensawI theesickor inprison,andcameuntothee?Three-and-thirtyyearshaveIlookedforthee;butIhaveneverseenthyface,norministeredtothee,myKing.”

Heceased,and thesweetvoicecameagain.Andagain themaidheard it,very faintlyand far away.Butnow it seemedas though sheunderstood thewords:

“VerilyIsayuntothee,inasmuchasthouhastdoneituntooneoftheleastofthesemybrethren,thouhastdoneituntome.”

AcalmradianceofwonderandjoylightedthepalefaceofArtabanlikethefirst rayofdawnonasnowymountain-peak.One long, lastbreathof reliefexhaledgentlyfromhislips.

Hisjourneywasended.Histreasureswereaccepted.TheotherWiseManhadfoundtheKing.

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THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MANCONTENTSILLUSTRATIONSTHE STORY OF OTHER WISE MAN.THE SIGN IN THE SKYFOR THE SAKE OF A LITTLE CHILDIN THE HIDDEN WAY OF SORROWA PEARL OF GREAT PRICE