Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
now did not occur to her; nor did it enter her mind that he might have
put by or lost his boyish tastes; to please him, she thought to go on
her old round of services. He used to be fond of confections; she
remembered the things in that line which delighted him most, and
resolved to make them, and have a supply always ready when he came.
Could anything be happier? So next night, earlier than usual, she stole
out with her basket, and went over to the Fish Gate Market. Wandering
about, seeking the best honey, she chanced to hear a man telling a
story.
What the story was the reader can arrive at with sufficient certainty
when told that the narrator was one of the men who had held torches for
the commandant of the Tower of Antonia when, down in cell VI., the Hurs
were found. The particulars of the finding were all told, and she heard
them, with the names of the prisoners, and the widow’s account of
herself.
The feelings with which Amrah listened to the recital were such as
became the devoted creature she was. She made her purchases, and
returned home in a dream. What a happiness she had in store for her
boy! She had found his mother!
She put the basket away, now laughing, now crying. Suddenly she stopped
and thought. It would kill him to be told that his mother and Tirzah
were lepers. He would go through the awful city over on the Hill of
Evil Counsel—into each infected tomb he would go without rest, asking
for them, and the disease would catch him, and their fate would be his.
She wrung her hands. What should she do?
Like many a one before her, and many a one since, she derived
inspiration, if not wisdom, from her affection, and came to a singular
conclusion.
The lepers, she knew, were accustomed of mornings to come down from
their sepulchral abodes in the hill, and take a supply of water for the
day from the well En-rogel. Bringing their jars, they would set them on
the ground and wait, standing afar until they were filled. To that the
mistress and Tirzah must come; for the law was inexorable, and admitted
no distinction. A rich leper was no better than a poor one.
So Amrah decided not to speak to Ben-Hur of the story she had heard,
but go alone to the well and wait. Hunger and thirst would drive the
unfortunates thither, and she believed she could recognize them at
sight; if not, they might recognize her.
Meantime Ben-Hur came, and they talked much. To-morrow Malluch would
arrive; then the search should be immediately begun. He was impatient
to be about it. To amuse himself he would visit the sacred places in
the vicinity. The secret, we may be sure, weighed heavily on the woman,
but she held her peace.
When he was gone she busied herself in the preparation of things good
to eat, applying her utmost skill to the work. At the approach of day,
as signalled by the stars, she filled the basket, selected a jar, and
took the road to En-rogel, going out by the Fish Gate which was
earliest open, and arriving as we have seen.
Shortly after sunrise, when business at the well was most pressing, and
the drawer of water most hurried; when, in fact, half a dozen buckets
were in use at the same time, everybody making haste to get away before
the cool of the morning melted into the heat of the day, the tenantry
of the hill began to appear and move about the doors of their tombs.
Somewhat later they were discernible in groups, of which not a few were
children so young that they suggested the holiest relation. Numbers
came momentarily around the turn of the bluff—women with jars upon
their shoulders, old and very feeble men hobbling along on staffs and
crutches. Some leaned upon the shoulders of others; a few—the utterly
helpless—lay, like heaps of rags, upon litters. Even that community of
superlative sorrow had its love-light to make life endurable and
attractive. Distance softened without entirely veiling the misery of
the outcasts.
From her seat by the well Amrah kept watch upon the spectral groups.
She scarcely moved. More than once she imagined she saw those she
sought. That they were there upon the hill she had no doubt; that they
must come down and near she knew; when the people at the well were all
served they would come.
Now, quite at the base of the bluff there was a tomb which had more
than once attracted Amrah by its wide gaping. A stone of large
dimensions stood near its mouth. The sun looked into it through the
hottest hours of the day, and altogether it seemed uninhabitable by
anything living, unless, perchance, by some wild dogs returning from
scavenger duty down in Gehenna. Thence, however, and greatly to her
surprise, the patient Egyptian beheld two women come, one half
supporting, half leading, the other. They were both white-haired; both
looked old; but their garments were not rent, and they gazed about them
as if the locality were new. The witness below thought she even saw
them shrink terrified at the spectacle offered by the hideous
assemblage of which they found themselves part. Slight reasons,
certainly, to make her heart beat faster, and draw her attention to
them exclusively; but so they did.
The two remained by the stone awhile; then they moved slowly,
painfully, and with much fear towards the well, whereat several voices
were raised to stop them; yet they kept on. The drawer of water picked
up some pebbles, and made ready to drive them back. The company cursed
them. The greater company on the hill shouted shrilly, “Unclean,
unclean!”
“Surely,” thought Amrah of the two, as they kept coming—“surely, they
are strangers to the usage of lepers.”
She arose, and went to meet them, taking the basket and jar. The alarm
at the well immediately subsided.
“What a fool,” said one, laughing, “what a fool to give good bread to
the dead in that way!”
“And to think of her coming so far!” said another. “I would at least
make them meet me at the gate.”
Amrah, with better impulse, proceeded. If she should be mistaken! Her
heart arose into her throat. And the farther she went the more doubtful
and confused she became. Four or five yards from where they stood
waiting for her she stopped.
That the mistress she loved! whose hand she had so often kissed in
gratitude! whose image of matronly loveliness she had treasured in
memory so faithfully! And that the Tirzah she had nursed through
babyhood! whose pains she had soothed, whose sports she had shared!
that the smiling, sweet-faced, songful Tirzah, the light of the great
house, the promised blessing of her old age! Her mistress, her
darling—they? The soul of the woman sickened at the sight.
“These are old women,” she said to herself. “I never saw them before. I
will go back.”
She turned away.
“Amrah,” said one of the lepers.
The Egyptian dropped the jar, and looked back, trembling.
“Who called me?” she asked.
“Amrah.”
The servant’s wondering eyes settled upon the speaker’s face.
“Who are you?” she cried.
“We are they you are seeking.”
Amrah fell upon her knees.
“O my mistress, my mistress! As I have made your God my God, be he
praised that he has led me to you!”
And upon her knees the poor overwhelmed creature began moving forward.
“Stay, Amrah! Come not nearer. Unclean, unclean!”
The words sufficed. Amrah fell upon her face, sobbing so loud the
people at the well heard her. Suddenly she arose upon her knees again.
“O my mistress, where is Tirzah?”
“Here I am, Amrah, here! Will you not bring me a little water?”
The habit of the servant renewed itself. Putting back the coarse hair
fallen over her face, Amrah arose and went to the basket and uncovered
it.
“See,” she said, “here are bread and meat.”
She would have spread the napkin upon the ground, but the mistress
spoke again,
“Do not so, Amrah. Those yonder may stone you, and refuse us drink.
Leave the basket with me. Take up the jar and fill it, and bring it
here. We will carry them to the tomb with us. For this day you will
then have rendered all the service that is lawful. Haste, Amrah.”
The people under whose eyes all this had passed made way for the
servant, and even helped her fill the jar, so piteous was the grief her
countenance showed.
“Who are they?” a woman asked.
Amrah meekly answered, “They used to be good to me.”
Raising the jar upon her shoulder, she hurried back. In forgetfulness,
she would have gone to them, but the cry “Unclean, unclean! Beware!”
arrested her. Placing the water by the basket, she stepped back, and
stood off a little way.
“Thank you, Amrah,” said the mistress, taking the articles into
possession. “This is very good of you.”
“Is there nothing more I can do?” asked Amrah.
The mother’s hand was upon the jar, and she was fevered with thirst;
yet she paused, and rising, said firmly, “Yes, I know that Judah has
come home. I saw him at the gate night before last asleep on the step.
I saw you wake him.”
Amrah clasped her hands.
“O my mistress! You saw it, and did not come!”
“That would have been to kill him. I can never take him in my arms
again. I can never kiss him more. O Amrah, Amrah, you love him, I
know!”
“Yes,” said the true heart, bursting into tears again, and kneeling. “I
would die for him.”
“Prove to me what you say, Amrah.”
“I am ready.”
“Then you shall not tell him where we are or that you have seen us—only
that, Amrah.”
“But he is looking for you. He has come from afar to find you.”
“He must not find us. He shall not become what we are. Hear, Amrah. You
shall serve us as you have this day. You shall bring us the little we
need—not long now—not long. You shall come every morning and evening
thus, and—and”—the voice trembled, the strong will almost broke
down—“and you shall tell us of him, Amrah; but to him you shall say
nothing of us. Hear you?”
“Oh, it will be so hard to hear him speak of you, and see him going
about looking for you—to see all his love, and not tell him so much as
that you are alive!”
“Can you tell him we are well, Amrah?”
The servant bowed her head in her arms.
“No,” the mistress continued; “wherefore to be silent altogether. Go
now, and come this evening. We will look for you. Till then, farewell.”
“The burden will be heavy, O my mistress, and hard to bear,” said
Amrah, falling upon her face.
“How much harder would it be to see him as we are,” the mother answered
as she gave the basket to Tirzah. “Come again this evening,” she
repeated, taking up the water, and starting for the tomb.
Amrah waited kneeling until they had disappeared; then she took the
road sorrowfully home.
In the evening she returned; and thereafter it became her custom to
serve them in the morning and evening, so that they wanted for nothing
needful. The tomb, though ever so stony and desolate, was less
cheerless than the cell in the Tower had been. Daylight gilded its
door, and it was in the beautiful world. Then, one can wait death with
so much more faith out under the open sky.
CHAPTER VI
The morning of the first day of the seventh month—Tishri in the Hebrew,
October in English—Ben-Hur arose from his couch in the khan ill
satisfied with the whole world.
Little time had been lost in consultation upon the arrival of Malluch.
The latter began the search at the Tower of Antonia, and began it
boldly, by a direct inquiry of the tribune commanding. He gave the
officer a history of the Hurs, and all the particulars of the accident
to Gratus, describing the affair as wholly without criminality. The
object of the quest now, he said, was if any of the unhappy family were
discovered alive to carry a petition to the feet of Cæsar, praying
restitution of the estate and return to their civil rights. Such a
petition, he had no doubt, would result in an investigation by the