Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
which genealogy was the first chapter and the last; they could not
become unknown, while, wherever they went In Israel, acquaintance drew
after it a respect amounting to reverence.
If this were so in Jerusalem and elsewhere, certainly one of the sacred
line might reasonably rely upon it at the door of the khan of
Bethlehem. To say, as Joseph said, “This is the house of my fathers,”
was to say the truth most simply and literally; for it was the very
house Ruth ruled as the wife of Boaz, the very house in which Jesse and
his ten sons, David the youngest, were born, the very house in which
Samuel came seeking a king, and found him; the very house which David
gave to the son of Barzillai, the friendly Gileadite; the very house in
which Jeremiah, by prayer, rescued the remnant of his race flying
before the Babylonians.
The appeal was not without effect. The keeper of the gate slid down
from the cedar block, and, laying his hand upon his beard, said,
respectfully, “Rabbi, I cannot tell you when this door first opened in
welcome to the traveller, but it was more than a thousand years ago;
and in all that time there is no known instance of a good man turned
away, save when there was no room to rest him in. If it has been so
with the stranger, just cause must the steward have who says no to one
of the line of David. Wherefore, I salute you again; and, if you care
to go with me, I will show you that there is not a lodging-place left
in the house; neither in the chambers, nor in the lewens, nor in the
court—not even on the roof. May I ask when you came?”
“But now.”
The keeper smiled.
“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born among you,
and thou shalt love him as thyself.’ Is not that the law, Rabbi?”
Joseph was silent.
“If it be the law, can I say to one a long time come, ‘Go thy way;
another is here to take thy place?’”
Yet Joseph held his peace.
“And, if I said so, to whom would the place belong? See the many that
have been waiting, some of them since noon.”
“Who are all these people?” asked Joseph, turning to the crowd. “And
why are they here at this time?”
“That which doubtless brought you, Rabbi—the decree of the Cæsar”—the
keeper threw an interrogative glance at the Nazarene, then
continued—“brought most of those who have lodging in the house. And
yesterday the caravan passing from Damascus to Arabia and Lower Egypt
arrived. These you see here belong to it—men and camels.”
Still Joseph persisted.
“The court is large,” he said.
“Yes, but it is heaped with cargoes—with bales of silk, and pockets of
spices, and goods of every kind.”
Then for a moment the face of the applicant lost its stolidity; the
lustreless, staring eyes dropped. With some warmth he next said, “I do
not care for myself, but I have with me my wife, and the night is
cold—colder on these heights than in Nazareth. She cannot live in the
open air. Is there not room in the town?”
“These people”—the keeper waved his hand to the throng before the
door—“have all besought the town, and they report its accommodations
all engaged.”
Again Joseph studied the ground, saying, half to himself, “She is so
young! if I make her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her.”
Then he spoke to the keeper again.
“It may be you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem,
and, like myself, of the line of David.”
“Yes, I knew them. They were good people. That was in my youth.”
This time the keeper’s eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly he
raised his head.
“If I cannot make room for you,” he said, “I cannot turn you away.
Rabbi, I will do the best I can for you. How many are of your party?”
Joseph reflected, then replied, “My wife and a friend with his family,
from Beth-Dagon, a little town over by Joppa; in all, six of us.”
“Very well. You shall not lie out on the ridge. Bring your people, and
hasten; for, when the sun goes down behind the mountain, you know the
night comes quickly, and it is nearly there now.”
“I give you the blessing of the houseless traveller; that of the
sojourner will follow.”
So saying, the Nazarene went back joyfully to Mary and the
Beth-Dagonite. In a little while the latter brought up his family, the
women mounted on donkeys. The wife was matronly, the daughters were
images of what she must have been in youth; and as they drew nigh the
door, the keeper knew them to be of the humble class.
“This is she of whom I spoke,” said the Nazarene; “and these are our
friends.”
Mary’s veil was raised.
“Blue eyes and hair of gold,” muttered the steward to himself, seeing
but her. “So looked the young king when he went to sing before Saul.”
Then he took the leading-strap from Joseph, and said to Mary, “Peace to
you, O daughter of David!” Then to the others, “Peace to you all!” Then
to Joseph, “Rabbi, follow me.”
The party were conducted into a wide passage paved with stone, from
which they entered the court of the khan. To a stranger the scene would
have been curious; but they noticed the lewens that yawned darkly upon
them from all sides, and the court itself, only to remark how crowded
they were. By a lane reserved in the stowage of the cargoes, and thence
by a passage similar to the one at the entrance, they emerged into the
enclosure adjoining the house, and came upon camels, horses, and
donkeys, tethered and dozing in close groups; among them were the
keepers, men of many lands; and they, too, slept or kept silent watch.
They went down the slope of the crowded yard slowly, for the dull
carriers of the women had wills of their own. At length they turned
into a path running towards the gray limestone bluff overlooking the
khan on the west.
“We are going to the cave,” said Joseph, laconically.
The guide lingered till Mary came to his side.
“The cave to which we are going,” he said to her, “must have been a
resort of your ancestor David. From the field below us, and from the
well down in the valley, he used to drive his flocks to it for safety;
and afterwards, when he was king, he came back to the old house here
for rest and health, bringing great trains of animals. The mangers yet
remain as they were in his day. Better a bed on the floor where he has
slept than one in the court-yard or out by the roadside. Ah, here is
the house before the cave!”
This speech must not be taken as an apology for the lodging offered.
There was no need of apology. The place was the best then at disposal.
The guests were simple folks, by habits of life easily satisfied. To
the Jew of that period, moreover, abode in caverns was a familiar idea,
made so by every-day occurrences, and by what he heard of Sabbaths in
the synagogues. How much of Jewish history, how many of the many
exciting incidents in that history, had transpired in caves! Yet
further, these people were Jews of Bethlehem, with whom the idea was
especially commonplace; for their locality abounded with caves great
and small, some of which had been dwelling-places from the time of the
Emim and Horites. No more was there offence to them in the fact that
the cavern to which they were being taken had been, or was, a stable.
They were the descendants of a race of herdsmen, whose flocks
habitually shared both their habitations and wanderings. In keeping
with a custom derived from Abraham, the tent of the Bedawin yet
shelters his horses and children alike. So they obeyed the keeper
cheerfully, and gazed at the house, feeling only a natural curiosity.
Everything associated with the history of David was interesting to
them.
The building was low and narrow, projecting but a little from the rock
to which it was joined at the rear, and wholly without a window. In its
blank front there was a door, swung on enormous hinges, and thickly
daubed with ochreous clay. While the wooden bolt of the lock was being
pushed back, the women were assisted from their pillions. Upon the
opening of the door, the keeper called out,
“Come in!”
The guests entered, and stared about them. It became apparent
immediately that the house was but a mask or covering for the mouth of
a natural cave or grotto, probably forty feet long, nine or ten high,
and twelve or fifteen in width. The light streamed through the doorway,
over an uneven floor, falling upon piles of grain and fodder, and
earthenware and household property, occupying the centre of the
chamber. Along the sides were mangers, low enough for sheep, and built
of stones laid in cement. There were no stalls or partitions of any
kind. Dust and chaff yellowed the floor, filled all the crevices and
hollows, and thickened the spider-webs, which dropped from the ceiling
like bits of dirty linen; otherwise the place was cleanly, and, to
appearance, as comfortable as any of the arched lewens of the khan
proper. In fact, a cave was the model and first suggestion of the
lewen.
“Come in!” said the guide. “These piles upon the floor are for
travellers like yourselves. Take what of them you need.”
Then he spoke to Mary.
“Can you rest here?”
“The place is sanctified,” she answered.
“I leave you then. Peace be with you all!”
When he was gone, they busied themselves making the cave habitable.
CHAPTER X.
At a certain hour in the evening the shouting and stir of the people in
and about the khan ceased; at the same time, every Israelite, if not
already upon his feet, arose, solemnized his face, looked towards
Jerusalem, crossed his hands upon his breast, and prayed; for it was
the sacred ninth hour, when sacrifices were offered in the temple on
Moriah, and God was supposed to be there. When the hands of the
worshippers fell down, the commotion broke forth again; everybody
hastened to bread, or to make his pallet. A little later, the lights
were put out, and there was silence, and then sleep.
About midnight some one on the roof cried out, “What light is that in
the sky? Awake, brethren, awake and see!”
The people, half asleep, sat up and looked; then they became
wide-awake, though wonder-struck. And the stir spread to the court
below, and into the lewens; soon the entire tenantry of the house and
court and enclosure were out gazing at the sky.
And this was what they saw. A ray of light, beginning at a height
immeasurably beyond the nearest stars, and dropping obliquely to the
earth; at its top, a diminishing point; at its base, many furlongs in
width; its sides blending softly with the darkness of the night, its
core a roseate electrical splendor. The apparition seemed to rest on
the nearest mountain southeast of the town, making a pale corona along
the line of the summit. The khan was touched luminously, so that those
upon the roof saw each other’s faces, all filled with wonder.
Steadily, through minutes, the ray lingered, and then the wonder
changed to awe and fear; the timid trembled; the boldest spoke in
whispers.
“Saw you ever the like?” asked one.
“It seems just over the mountain there. I cannot tell what it is, nor
did I ever see anything like it,” was the answer.
“Can it be that a star has burst and fallen?” asked another, his tongue
faltering.
“When a star falls, its light goes out.”
“I have it!” cried one, confidently. “The shepherds have seen a lion,
and made fires to keep him from the flocks.”
The men next the speaker drew a breath of relief, and said, “Yes, that
is it! The flocks were grazing in the valley over there to-day.”
A bystander dispelled the comfort.
“No, no! Though all the wood in all the valleys of Judah was brought
together in one pile and fired, the blaze would not throw a light so
strong and high.”
After that there was silence on the house-top, broken but once again
while the mystery continued.
“Brethren!” exclaimed a Jew of venerable mien, “what we see is the