^orttitoeätern ÍHníberóitp Uíbrarp
€ban£íton, ÜQinotsí
THE GIFT OF
- 1
94694
THE VICTORY
OP
THE VANQUISHED
A 8T0RY OF THB
FIRST CENTURY.
r: V
s
i
THE AUTHOR OF THE
Chronicles ot the Schonberg-Cotta family.*'
P
NEW YORK:
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, 755 BROADWAY.
Publishers.
94694
" The Author of the ' Schonberg Cotta-Family
wishes it to be generally known among the read¬
ers of her books in America, that the American
Editions issued by Messrs. Dodd & Mead,
of N'ew York, alone have the Author's sanction^
BT a?E ÄTÜHOft ÙÉ
tbs
bchonberg-cotta fam'lt.
» '■
C ch<onicles OK THl ScHÓNBERG-COTT> F^MlUS
The Early Dawn.
(Diary of Kitty Trevylyan
ÇWiNiFRED Bertram«
The Draytons and the DAVENAirrib
On Both Sides of the Sea.
(Vhe Victory of the Vanquished.
Watchwords for the Warfare of Lirti
Mary, the Handmaid of the Lobiv ^ -
Ç^he Song without Word».
Poem».
the
Victory of the Vanquished.
CHAPTER i.
T was the eve of the Triumph of
Germánicas. The Roman camp on
the hills above the Campagna was
hushed in sleep. A tall fair woman
—one of the German captives who were to
grace the triumph—had crept to the door of
one of the tents, and was gazing with eyes
dreamily fixed on the long reach of Roman
Road which stretched before her into the
darkness.
To her, as to us, that road was a great sym¬
bol. It was no mere pliant highway of com
merce, in gracious windings accommodating
itself to the needs of men and the difficulties
of nature. Rigid as the Roman rulé, it scaled
the hills and spanned the valleys : the crooked
must be made straight before it, and the rough
I* • (9)
VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUIBHED.
places plain. No kindly chain, gently binding
nation to nation with friendly links ; but a
weapon of war, straight as the spear of the
soldier, as the rod of the lictor, as the flight
of an arrow, it shot over mountain and chasm,
through forest and marsh—not to link the na¬
tions to each other, but to bind the ends of
the earth to Rome. To the Roman, a ray of
light from the great focus of the Empire ; to
the German captive, a transverse strand of
the great mystic web in which tribe after tribe
of her race had been entangled and crushed.
Far back into her inner life those arrowy
lines led her : mystic Runes bringing up shad¬
owy forms from the icy hollows or flery abys¬
ses of the past—bringing down royal shapes
from its sunny heights. Far back to a hut on
the edge of a Northern forest ; one of those
huge, impenetrable forests which gave mys¬
tery and poetry to the prosaic levels of her
North German land ; the great Teutoberger
• Forest between the rivers Lippe and Weser.
Murmurs of waters and of pines had min¬
gled with her mother's cradle - songs. Fo»-
she, too, sitting there so solitary, so helpless,
had been welcomed into the world as if it
were to be a joyous home to her—as if it were
the abiding-place, the city of the shining pal¬
aces where dwelt the .¿Esir, the mighty gods.
She, too, had once been a jewel and a treas-
VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaUBB.
nre, cherished and guarded as if she were
worth it : in that earliest home, and then in
another.
The last was too near to bear looking at -
yet. Her thoughts went back to the first.
Brothers and sisters growing up in one home :
their training, the necessity of labor and the
example of brave and pure lives-; their play,
wild feats of daring, wrestling, climbing gi¬
gantic forest-trees, scaling all but inaccessible
rocks, leaping streams or breasting them at
• Hood, the mimicry of the labor of the men
and women they were to follow—of the hunts¬
man, the boatman, and the smith.
The soldier's was no distinctive calling then.
All the men had to fight—all free men ; and
free women too, if needed. The wolves and
the neighboring Sclaves had no respect for
sex or age ; and if the hand of maid and moth-
*
er could not grasp the spear as well as the
shepherd's staff and the reaper's hook, what
would become of the homes, and the harvests,
and the little ones, when the men were away
at the war or the chase, and the growl of the
hungry bear was heard across the snow, or
the form of some treacherous foe was seen
lurking behind the pine-stems ? The German
women had need to be strong, and brave, and
true—well-nigh as strong and altogether as'
brave as the men—if the race was to fight its
,2 VICTORY OF THE VANQVISHED.
way through the centuries, and Europe was
to be.
As Siguna, the German paptive, sate at the
tent door in the dusk, dreamily following the
white line of paved way—whose sharp out¬
line, defined against the dark borders of wood
or herbage, was the only thing yet clearly
visible—until it was lost in the darkness, her
thoughts also lost themselves with it in a
deeper darkness, and became more and more
dim and sombre. Once, indeed, there had
been need that she should be strong, and •
brave, and true : a free woman of noble birth ;
the wife of a brave free man, honored among
his tribe for his skill and strength in forging
weapons and wielding them, in wielding the
smith's hammer and the warrior's spear ; the
mother of boys and maidens who were to bear
on the good name and build up the house and
the tribe.
But now what use was there for strength,
or courage, or faith—in her, a captive slave ?
Her husband, they said, had fallen in the bat¬
tle which the General Caecina had won over
the hero Herman in the Teutoberger Wald ;
her sons with him—all save the youngest, who
now lay sleeping, a captive in the tent. She
herself, her young son Siward, and her little
daughter Hilda, had been betrayed by the
chief Segestes into the hands oí the Romans
TIOTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
at the same time with Thusnelda, bride of the
hero Herman, and the daughter of the traitor
Her strength would only make her a more
useful slave to the conquerors ; her courage
availed nothing to defend herself or her chil¬
dren ; and what were truth and honor to ont
who henceforth was a chattel, with no rec¬
ognized relationship, no rights, no hopes!
Would it not be well for her to do what Va¬
rus, the hapless Roman general, had so lately
done, when his entangled legions lay at the
mercy of the young hero Herman ? He fell
despairing, on his own sword ; and fled thus
not from one of his enemies, but from all for
ever.
" Fled !" yes, fled. Such an end she felt
would be flight, not rashly to be chosen by a
German freewoman.
Who could say whether, in that dim under¬
world also, there might not be a second burial
for the souls of cowards who thus deserted
their post ; as cowards among her people
were suffocated and buried in mud ?
Moreover, as she gazed into the darkness, a
strong persuasion came over her—not for the
first time, but each time gathering strength—
that Olave, her husband, was not slain, that
he still survived, and that she was bound to
live for him and fa his children. A strange
irresistible presentiment and persuasion, such
Í4 VICTORY OF THE VANQUIBHED.
as she had been wont to feel from her )'outh.
such as haunts an imaginative race like hers
—a,presentiment held sacred in those days
among her people, as a divine instinct or in¬
spiration, which was one of the spiritual pre¬
rogatives of brave and pure women.
This time it was quickened and reinforced
by a touch which awoke instincts at least as
sacred.
Her son Siward had crept to her side at
the tent door, noiselessly, and pressing her
hand against his cheek, he drew it around
him. A boy of sixteen, hardy and daring, as
boys of his race were wont to be ; had he been
at home and free, the men of his tribe would
ere this have gathered together and endued
him with the sword and buckler, wherewith
to prove and betoken his manhood. But for
nearly two years he had been a captive in the
Roman camp, the camp of Germánicos. His
mother had been in the household of Agrip-
pina, and he himself the play-fellow of the
child Caligula, darlings of the veterans—shod,
to please them, in his toy caligas, copies of
their rough military slioes. For Siward was
gentle, as the courage< us are wont to be, and
children trusted him. And the Emperor Ca¬
ligula was once a child ;—what he was to be>
• come, unknown to his play-fellows the vete¬
rans, or to himself.
VICTORY OF THE YANQUISHED.
• Mother," the boy whispered, pouring out
in a swift torrent the thoughts and purposes
that had been slowl} gathering within him,
you cannot sleep. Nor can I. You are
,;:inking of to-morrow ; of the Roman tri¬
umph, and of our shame. But do not heed
.ne triumph. I heed it not. We were not
conquered by the Romans ; we neither fled,
nor were taken in fair fight, but betrayed by
our own people. Traitors alike, those who
bought and sold us. The shame is theirs, not
ours. And, mother, I have been thinking it
matters little whether they call me slave or
fi-ee. If I choose to serve, I serve freely.
And I do choose to serve ; for by serving the
Romans we may leam to conquer them, as
our Herman did. And of all Romans I choose
to serve Germanicus and Agrippina. For she
is brave and true, and he is brave and gener¬
ous, save in the matter of buying us of the
traitor. Mother," he entreated, " do not heed
the triumph. I have heard some say, it is no
tiiumph to Germanicus. He had rather far
have been winning victories in Germany, than
dragging captives after him at Rome, leaving
our people to undo his victories. Think not
»
of the chains and jeers of these Romans
Think of us, your children, who will never
dishonor our father nor thee. Think of us,
and walk, not as a captive, but as a crowned
16 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
queen. For I have set my heart to be patient,
and to learn as Herman did, of these Romans,
until one day, if it may be, I may help to con.
quer freedom back, for us and for our race."
She looked proudly on his fair open brow,
and then answered in a low, murmuring
voice,—
"You will never dishonor me, nor will I
ever desert you. But I was thinking not of
the morrow, nor of any morrows. The mor~
rows are for you, not for me ; unless, indeed,
the inward voice speak true, and he lives,
your father yet lives !"
Her voice trembled, and the boy did not
interrupt her by a question.
" Remember, my son, I have this voice with¬
in me, dim and low, yet mightier than all men
can say to the contrary. Remember—but
speak not of it unless I tell you. Live you as
il ne were slain, and you alone bore his name.
I live as if he lived."
Then pointing to the reach of road, she
ccntinued, " I was not thinking of to-morrow,
but of yesterdays long past; tracing back that
fatal road to its beginning far away in the
Teutoberger Forest, far away in the days that
are gone. Listen, my son, and remember.
For the day is beginning to dawn, and who
knows how often we may be alone together
thus, and free to speak ?
VICTOBT OF THE VANqUlSHED.
*' We lived at the edge of the Forest. In
my childhood we knew no foes but the bears
and wolves which haunted it, and some stray
bands of Sclaves, wandering from their lands
beyond the Elbe, the hordes which ever press
Our people onward unless we stem their cease¬
less torrents back, or capture them and make
them slaves."
"The Sclaves were our slaves. Now we
a-e to be slaves of the Romans," said the boy
' I can understand now why our slaves hated
lis, and were not to be trusted."
" Slaves there must be of necessity," Siguna
replied ; " for men are not of one blood, nor
Oiie destiny, any more than trees. How could
the free do the noble work, unless there were
slaves to do the base ? The wrong is that we
Germans, who were born to be free, should
be ensnared and enslaved, instead of those
wild savage hordes who can speak no lan¬
guage fit for freemen, and were born to serve.
My brothers and sisters," she continued, " had
left the father's house. They had married, and
had houses and slaves of their own. I was
.'eft alone with my father and mother, he a
gray-haired man. We knew no ioes save the
'»vild beasts and the wild men ; until one sum¬
mer morning I heard my father's voice, grown
tremulous and feeble now, in tones more
tremulous than usual, as he came in from hia
r8 YIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
work. * Hilda, mother,' he said, ' and Siguna,
daughter : our days in the land of our fathers
are numbered. The Southern men are on
us. the men of Rome. My bones will be the
»ast laid among the dead of our race. You
will bury me, and then go hence to be free.'
We thought he must have seen an army, and
.istened hour after hour to hear the tread of
armed men ; but when, later in the day, we
followed him to a brow of a neighboring hill,
we could see nothing along the marshes and
far undulations of the heath but an orderly
band of workmen, digging trenches,- which
others were carefully filling up with stones.
" It seemed a harmless, peaceable employ¬
ment ; but my father said,—
" ' It is the end of the chain of the giants.
The other end is in the hands of the man who
rules all men, save a few of us Germans.
" ' Between us and the dwelling of the gods
is the Rainbow Bridge, whereon the gods and
heroes come to and fro.
" ' This is the bridge between us and the
dwelling of the destroyers. Thereon hence¬
forth for ever those who hate us will pass to
and fro, until they drive us from our homes.
Where* that straight way comes, the Roman
rules, and the Teuton must fly or become a
slave moulded unto the likeness of the stran¬
ger, speaking his Roman tongue, and wearing
VICTOBT OF TEE VANtiUlSHED.
his garb.' But 01a\ e the brave, your Mhcr
my betrothed from childhood, son of the smith
(whose arm could wield the hammer like a
god, and the spear like a hero, although he
was but a boy), saw hope where the aged saw
only fear, and he said afterwards, secretly, to
me,—
" ' A bridge for one is a bridge lor another.
Whence the Southern came, thither the North-
em men can go. At the other end of the
chain is the golden city, " glorious as Asgard,
the city of the gods." We will make thai
road as the Rainbow Bridge, and we will be
the heroes who shall tread it to storm the gc
den city, and make it ours and yours.'
" And I, too, was young, believed the voice
Df youth, and thought hope the true light that
shall endure, and fear mere twilight shadow,
Dorn of the darkness which is nothing, and
vanishing into the nothingness whence it
came.
W
" So from day to day we watched the stran¬
gers at their work. And we could not but
wonder at their skill. The ground was in
many parts soft and marshy, such as the
lightest-footed maiden could scarcely cross in
safety. But these strangers had determined
to make it solid and strong enough to bear
the weight of military wagons, laden baggage
mules, and the tread of heavily-armed legions,
20 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
4
And they did it. First, they dug the two
trenches straight as an arrow, to mark out
the rDad ; then the deep ditch between. Mean¬
time other laborers had been felling trees in
the forests ; piles were cut of the strongest
wood, and sunk deep in the marshy ground.
These were covered with a thick layer of
small stones and shingle—some of it gathered
from the river-bed, others broken fragments
of the stones they were shaping and cutting
for the surface. For each man had his given
work. There was no debating or hesitating
among them. Layer on layer lay the stones,
and layer on layer worked the men. The
wood-cutter did not interfere with the stone¬
cutter, nor the stone-cutter with the brick¬
layer, any more than the piles with the stones,
or the stones with the layer of rubble-work—
the crumbled stone cemented with lime which
lay above it—or that with the layer of broken
pottery and brick-work above again. Young
as I then was, I remember how the sense of
Law and Order, and the silent, continuous
work, among them, contrasted with our di¬
visions and debates, our eager talking over
work, and fitful intervals of work and lazy
revelling, fell on me with a crushing sense of
power.
"The very broken fragments of pottery,
which lay as unsightly encumbrances before
ríe TOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. a I
our huts, were treasures in those magical
hands.
" And at last came the smooth stones from
the quarries they made in the hills, carefully
shaped and levelled, and laid on the surface,
rammed down and cemented and fitted, sc ,
that the whole'was one unbroken building
smooth and solid, and strong enough, i
thought, for the walls of Asgard. And over
it passed the armed bands, man and horse,
the heavy wagons, and the laden mules. They
had made a way through the marsh as solid
as the everlasting rocks. What might they
not do ? Why not make a way through the
air or the sea ?
" Wood from our forests, shingle from our
rivers, potsherds from our rubbish heaps, rock
from our hills, they had gathered all into one
mighty weapon for our ruin.
" One evening after this, there was a gath¬
ering of men from many tribes in our home, to
debate how best to encounter the invader.
Some reproached the rest that they had ever
suffered the road to be made ; others debated
how best to destroy it. Clave your fathei,
who was older now, and began to take his
place among the men, smiled ; and when the
elders had all spoken, he said quietly, as was
his wont,—
' ' W hy hinder the bees from building? H
22 YICTORT OF TSE YASqUISSED.
we are strong and vigilant enough, they are .
but storing wax and honey for us. Is not
the hero Herman, the son of Sigimer, among
us? Has he not lived among the men q
Rortie, and learned their wisdom, while his
heart remains true to his people? If we are
united, and will obey hira, will he not lead us
to victory ? Then shall their wondrous road
—those long strands of their Roman web
—lead them to be our prey, not us to be
theirs.
" But at the name of Herman the strife
arose loud. Some said he was ambitious, and
would make himself a king. Some, ' that he
was of another tribe, and no one could expect
a freeman of the Attuarii to submit to a mafi
of the Cherusci, be he wise and brave as he
might. One tribe was as good as another,
and one freeman worth as much as another.
What right had any to rule where all were
free ?' And so, in si ri F« and debate, the meet¬
ing broke up.
" And Olave was gneved, and for once de¬
sponding; and he said, as we took leave by
the Roman road, winch now passed close be¬
fore our door,—
" ' Maybe y oui lather spoke too truly. Age
foresees ;• let youth prevent if possible. But
these Romans are the road, and we the shin¬
gle. They are one, and we are many- They
YICTORT OF THE VAHÍQUISHED. 23
many gathered into one. We one crumbled
into many.*
" Perhaps I remember these words so well,
because he spoke them on the eve of our mar¬
riage.
" Olave came to live in our home, and rear¬
ed his forge beside the hut, and was as a son
to my parents. And grandchildren grew up
to minister to them, and to bear on their name,
and to make their fading lives glad with new
life, until we laid them underneath the soil of
the forest, among the sires of our tribe.
" But meantime the road was slowly doing
its work. Roman soldiers traversed it north¬
ward into the land they knew not ; and soon
young Germans began to traverse it south¬
ward into the land we knew not. An altar to
Augustus Caesar had been erected beyond the
Elbe ; and many of our people saw that this
unseen Augustus was indeed the strongest,
and deemed it fit that he should be called di¬
vine, and that godlike honors should be paid
to him as to any of the gods of Asgard. For
our gods had not hindered the making of the
roads ; and they live far off in Asgard, and the
Rainbow Bridge between them and us could
be crossed at no man's will. But this road
could be trodden by ail freemen whensoever
and whithersoever they would. And there
26 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
And along the /cad wame not soldiers only,
but the tax-gatherer and the lictor. And we
learned what Roman rule meant. This Varus
had come from the East, where, they say, men
have had their manhood long crushed out of
them, and bear anything, like beasts of bur¬
den ; and he thought to rob and ruin us as
easily. We whose men had not had the free
manhood crushed out of them, whose women
could at need be as brave as the men !
" He thought to rule us with rods, as if we
had been slaves or beasts of burden. He
would compel our men to work at road and
wall. The labor we thought no shame. Our
bravest were smiths and builders—workers in
iron and wood. Nor did we think it shame
to leam, where the men of Rome were wiser
than we. Men who will not leam are for ever
babes. Labor and learning are no degrada¬
tion for the noblest ; Siward, my son, never
think they are. But to be driven to labor
like beasts ;—this no freeman or freewoman
would bear.
" Moreover the tyrant was base. He op¬
pressed us, not for his people or his City
Rome, but for himself—to fill his cofiers with
treasure, the produce of our blood and toil.
Tyranny, whose end was greed,—how could
that stafid ?
"So there was storm and tumult every.
VICTORY OF THE VANqUISHED. 27
where—fires at night, feuds by day; but no
great deliverance wrought, until Herraan the
hero rose, and ensnared the ensnarer, and the
three legions perished in the Teutoberger
Forest, And Varus, the covetous oppressor,
could not brave his fate, but fled from it, fall-
ing on his own sword.
" Among the pines of the Teutoberger For¬
est they fell, and to this day the turf is green
around their bones; nor, for all their boast¬
ing, are their eagles all won back.
" Then our people reared altars in the for¬
est. There were sacrifices to the powers of
darkness, for such there are ; and it is hard to
know which are the stronger, the powers of
evil or of good. Wherefore the evil powers
must be appeased.
" Y our íüther was there, and he told me the
men of Rome, the victims, for the most part
met their fate bravely as could the bravest
among us, so that his heart was grieved for
them. It is not wrong, I think, for women or
for men to pity. But pity must never weaken
the arm in striking for our people. For the
races of men are diverse, and their fathers, and
their gods ; and each must be true to his own,
" That was a glorious time for our people.
For once we were united. The oppressor
was slain ; the invaders fled ; the forts were
deserted.
28 riGTORT OF TBE VANQUISHED.
" And once more the great road stretched
before us, through the valley of the winding
Lippe, among the meadows and the forests,
untrodden by Roman feet; a bridge, your
father said, whereon the Germans should yet
cioss and storm tLe golden city, and win the
wisdom which holds the key of all the treas¬
ures.
" But they came back—^too surely the in¬
vaders came back. They say these Romans
have two sacred places, with their guardian
gods. The first is the hearth with the hearth-
gods, which every man must defend with life.
This we Germans understand. To us also the
hearth is sacred. Perchance more than to the
men of Rome.
" But the Romans have another sacred
place, and a god they call Boundary, the end
as the other is the beginning, the goal as the
other is the starting-point, of the ways of men ;
a god who advances but never retreats.
"To them the utmost limit of their empire
is sacred as the inmost sanctuary of their
home. And where once this god Boundary
sets up his stone, thither at last must the tide
of Rome reach, and thence must it never roll
back. Or if beaten back again and again,
there must the tide at the end rise and re-
main.
" In vain, therefore, had we driven these
VICTORY OF TUE VANqUISUEB.
Romans back, and given the bones of their
vanquished legions to blanch on the green sod
of our forests. Their god Boundary must be
avenged, and his sacred place maintained;
and back swept the overwhelming tide from
far-off inexhaustible sources, unknown to us.
Once more they come up the Lippe valley,
and the fatal road thundered with the roll of
. wagons and the tread of the legions.
" And there were battles and betrayals.
" This Caesar they call Germanicus came
against us again. Once more the Roman ar¬
mies were thrust through our confederate
tribes. The solid wedge among the crum¬
bling confederacies. The road against the
shingle. The strong among us were driven
back or crushed. The weak were split into
countless fragments. Once more their armies
passed along the road of thé Lippe valley into
the Teutoberger Forest. They saw the bones
of the slaughtered legions of Varus, and la--
mented over them, and raised over them the
funeral mound. And there, in the Teutobér-
ger Forest, our best and bravest fell at the
end of the fatal road. Your father and your
brothers fell within sight of our home ; and
ere they fell we whom they died to defend
had been betrayed to the foe by our own
people.
"They bring no captives taken by the
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
sword to grace this triumph. Nothing but a
few women and children basely sold. Did
I not see the legions return from the for-
est ?
"We were in captivity in the Roman camp
b}* the Rhine.
" The whole camp had been thrown into
confusion by rumors of the rout of the le¬
gions. Another slaughter of Varus, they said,
another army swallowed up in the depths of
the Teutoberger Forest.
" They did not feel secure behind their de¬
fences, though the Rhine lay. between them
and our people. They clamored to break
down the bridge, lest the conquering Ger¬
mans should rush into the camp after the fly¬
ing legions.
" The heart of many a German captive beat
high with hope that day. By evening whom
might we not be welcoming ?
" But no welcomes were in store for us.
" Agrippina, the brave matron, went to the
further end of the bridge — the end nearest
the dreaded foe—and thence none could in¬
duce her to move. . She stood there with her
boy Caligula, the darling of the camp, and
forbade them to touch the bridge until the
fugitives, if such there were to be, were safe
over it.
' And soon, instead of a rout of fugitives.
t
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
appeared the heads of the legions marching
in order. They marched before her, four un¬
broken legions; learning, doubtless, as they
passed what they owed to her. And as they
passed she spoke brave words of welcome to
them, and of cheer to the wounded. And
with her own hands she ministered to their
wants. A noble, helpful woman. I think it
no shame to serve her.
" Yet scarcely did that army come back like
conquerors. No spngs of triumph, such as
our Germans sing when they have over¬
come ; and no spoils, nor any prisoners.
" Neither did it seem to us glorious when,
a few weeks afterwards, Germanicus himself"
came back with his horsemen for the most.
part on foot, and the footmen lightened of
much of their armor, and poorly clad, and
their numbers sorely thinned.
" It was said that these legions had suffered
for their heroic faithfulness to the law and
order which makes their strength ; that being
commanded to march within sight of the
Northern Sea, they had obeyed too loyally,
and had been swept away in the rapid rising
of its tides.
" But when another weary year had passed
I way over us still captive in the camp, and
mce more Germanicus came back to winter
. .-svr+ers, and there was talk again of a great
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISUED.
Roman victory, the victors brought Ultl6
token of their conquests.
" Slowly his shattered fleet came up th«
broad waters of our Rhine to that Colonia
4hey have called Agrippina, after his brave
wife ; their oars often lost, soldiers* cloaks
hoisted instead of the torn sails, and the men
full of tales of dreadful fierce sea-monsters,
and of wrecks among wild men. Yet again
no spoils, and no prisoners, ànd no sign of the
god Boundary having set up his pillars deep¬
er in our forests.
%
" The only spoils, the only prisoners still
are we, betrayed women and children. Yet
to-morrow they will drag us before the con¬
queror's car, and will shout that the Germans
are vanquished.
" What matters it, my son ? Words do not
alter things that are, though they may hide
them for a time. If the spring has come, let
the ice glitter as it may, it will break under
their boastful tread. The betrayed Thusnel¬
da, the noble young wife of our Herman, need
not break her heart, although she bear his cap¬
tive babe in her arms at this Roman triumph.
" Her heart need not break ; save for the
treachery of her father. For Herman lives ;
and who knows who beside ?
" Our long, weary journey along the fatal
road is all but done.
riCTORT OF TEE VANqUISEED
33
" At the other end in the Teutoberger For¬
est lie the bones of the legions of Varus, and,
alas ! of many of our noblest Germans, before
whom Varus fell. The winds are sighing
among the pines above them, as I speak, and
the grass is slowly growing over them.
" The solid building has broken up the
shingle.
"We are coming at last to where the fatal
road begins. It has drawn us on at last into
the magic web it binds together. My father's
fears have proved true. It has done its evil
work for us. To-morrow we shall tread its
first steps, helpless captives, creeping slowly
up the hills of Rome !"
She was silent.
The two—mother and son—sate together at
the tent door on the hills, in imaginative sim¬
plicity, one almost as much a child as the
other.
Behind them their own forests: the scat¬
tered forest-huts, the keen individual life of
personal adventure and self-defence—the life
of the family or the clan, with its ideal of free¬
dom and of loyalty. Behind them the free
forest-life, with its precarious relations with
men, and its close relationships with the beasts
oí the field : the bear and the wolf endued foj
them with a kind of demoniac personality ; tlie
fox and the squirrel and the birds with a quaint
2*
VICTORY OF THE VANqUlSHED.
humorous mischief; the sheep and eren the
swine regarded as part of the family ; the dog
for the first time understood, his wistful speech¬
lessness interpreted, his kindly ways and his
loyal devotion appreciated, and, like so many
other good things, created by being compre¬
hended.
Behind them their own wild forests, with
their clearings and their wildernesses, their
little rounded green worlds of home, embo¬
somed in impenetrable mysteries of space,
multiplied visibly by the countless pillars of
the pines.
Before them Rome, the wonder-working
name which was a spell throughout the earth.
They had indeed passed many a fair city
GO their southward way—from Colonia and
Treves.
But these were mere gatherings of ordinary
men.
Rome was the inexhaustible source of ar¬
mies, the goal of all roads and their starting-
point, the city of kings, the empress of cities,
the throne of the empire
As the dusk sljwly dissolved before the
day, and the road ceased to be the one dis¬
tinctly defined object before them, and the
evergreen oaks and bays near at hand rose
from thar masses of shade into individual
existence and the forms of (ii.«tant rocks
VICTORY OF THE VANQUlbHED.
«ij woods became defined against the sky,
and through the openings of the hills came
glimpses of the rolling surges of the green
Campagna, and the tremulous shining of the
fai-off sea, the two watchers strained their
eyes in the vain expectation of catching the
glitter of golden roofs, or the shimmer of
walls which must surely have something in
them of a magical beauty and an imperial
stateliness different from all things else in the
world.
They sate gazing—^the mother and son—•
into the glory of the southern dawn. But no
earthly walls met their gaze—only the splen¬
dor of crimson and purple clouds and the
deep golden spaces between.
As they were watching the beautiful day
unfold like a flower, the silence was broken
by a low wail from a large building just be¬
coming visible through the shâdows of the
valley below. A low, helpless wail, breaking
every now and then into a shriek of agony.
" It is from the slave prison belonging to
the beautiful house among the trees," said
Siguna, with a shudder ; " some one is being
scourged or tortured there. Some one per-
haps of race higher than the master for whom
he toils."
The large building was indeed one of the
terrible slave-factories, from which the field-
36 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
work of the great Roman estates was dene—
scenes often of unutterable degradation and
suffering, being also prisons and places of
punisnment for refractory slaves sent thither
from the city households.
The beautiful morning was still calmly un¬
folding in the sky, and point after point of the
hills was kindling with her light, tree after
tree waking up its happy birds to welcome
her, and all the sweet flowers that had been
long ready with their cups of dew waiting for
her sisterly kiss and greeting her with the
fragrance which is their music.
But through all pierced those cries of hu¬
man pain. It was long before the shrieks
died away again into the low, helpless wail
with which they had begun. And till they
had ceased neither mother nor son spoke.
Then the boy said,—
" Is there not a city of the gods above ? I
used to think we caught glimpses of it at
• ^
dawn and sunset. And that when the com¬
mon working daylight hid it from us it was
still there, golden and glorious as ever for the
gods, shaded by the Tree of Life, with the
pure fountains where they feast and take
counsel. Is it true ? Is there a city of the
gods ?"
" So it was said bv them of old time,' she
replied
riCTOET OF THE VANqUISBED. 99
" !s Asgard then for the -¿Esir, as Rome is
for the Romans ? And do the gods heed the
miseries of all men as little as the Romans
the miseries of the Germans ?"
" It would almost seem so," she said.
" Yet," he said, " it is something that there
is one happy place in the world, where all are
good and just. In Asgard there are no cries
oí agony. No wrong and cruelty to mar the
feasting there ?"
" I know not, my son," she replied, mourn¬
fully. " Who knows ? Even there, it is said,
malice, and pain, and evil chance are strong.
It is said that the fairest hall in Asgard was
darkened by the shadow of death, when the
best and the brightest of all the gods fell on
his own hearth, slain by cunning and evil
chance, by an instrument so insignificant none
had deemed it worth while to guard against
it—by the little mistletoe, sent by the hand
of the darkest of all, the malicious one, who
was once a god. It is said the fairest home
in Asgard itself stands empty and desolate."
" But hereafter, one day, when all things
have been swept awa;y and made new again,"
he said, "after the stoim-age, and the wolf-
age, and the years of frost, then will not the
just reign, and death and malice be gone ?"
" I knew not, my son," she said ; " how can
I know ? Some say that the gods and the evil
38 riCTOB Y OF THE VANQ UI8HED.
giants will slay each other in that day, and
that if victory is with the gods, it will be foi
new gods and new men, not for those we
know. And Death, they say, can -never be
slain. But who knows ? Who can say which
ÎS the strongest ?—right or wrong ? the good
or the evil ? light or darkness ? death or
life ? in earth, or • in the under-world, or
above ?"
" On earth, there seems little doubt. Wrong
seems strongest here," said the boy—" wrong
and death. The cunning seem stronger than
the wise, and the wily than the brave. Els>,
why should Herman the hero be wandering
defeated "in the forests, and his young wife be
mourning betrayed and helpless here ? Is
there no place where wrong and death cannot
come ? no time when justice and truth will
rule?- Nowhere a happy city of the good?
never a victory for the light ? Does no one
know ? Do none of these Romans know ?"
" They seem not to know anything that
makes them pure and just," she replied.
" Mother," he murmured, " do the dead
know ?"
" They must icnow, I think—they who have
passed out of the strife and the illusions."
" Then surely," he said, " it is not worth
iving, and it were better to die, and know."
"To die to know w/ia¿, my son ? she said,
VKJTOKT OF THE VANQUISHED. 3g
«
wûu < quiet hopelessness sadder than the bit- ,
teresi cry of pain.
"Mother," he said, gently, "I spoke as a
coward. For thee-and Hilda it is worth while
to live ; for you and for hope."
So they sate, the mother and son, as long
afterwards Monica and Augustine, gazing
inte the depths of the sky.
But to them it held no City of God, stretch¬
ing up the heights of heaven, with gates on
earth open to man ; only a far-off city of the
go.ds, inaccessible to man, but not to sin or
death—or a dim Valhalla, with shadowy repe¬
titions of the wars and feastings of earth, the
self-sacrifice which ennobles wars of earth, the
home affections which consecrate its feasts,
left out ; no Fountain of Life ; no Just One,
human to understand and judge, mighty to
deliver, divine to forgive.
The universe for them rested on no eternal
pillars of justice, but was tossed on the abyss
of frost and fire from which it sprang.
Yet in their inmost hearts rose a temple in
ruins, yet never entirely leveled save by wil-
ml hands from within. Unquenchable love,
yearning for justice and truth, and undying
hope, were there, reflecting a light they could
not see.
Thus the hour of waiting passed. The
dawn came up and was gone. From an un-
VICTOR T OF THE ü/SHED.
fathomable sea of glory the sky became the
lighted roof of the dwelling-place of mará.
And the camp awoke with buzz of eager
voices, and the stir of thousands, and the_^
din of arms, to the day of the great triumph.
And all the while, as the weary feet of the
captives had been treading, step by step,
league after league of the Roman road, the
feet of the Holy and the Just were treading
the terraces and thymy slopes of the valley
of Nazareth.
From those heavens into which they had
been gazing so hopelessly, not twenty years
before, a great multitude of the heavenly host
had burst on the sight and hearing of men
with songs of peace and victory.
Deep in the stony heart of that magnificent
and corrupt empire, against which the tribes
of the north were breaking their strength,
was springing up the little germ of immortal
life which was to shiver the empire to its
foundations, and be the true Tree of Life to
the young nations of the north.
The whole world was tremulously astir in
dim expectation of the dawn. The whole earth
was waiting on the eve of the Great T riumph
And the Conqueror was already there. The
Light of the world had come into the world
Bjt the world knew Him not.
CHAPTER II
HE long march from the North was
over. Rewards and honors had
been assigned to the soldiers who
had distinguished themselves ; the
accustomed largesses to all the troops.
The Roman Senate, still following the forms
of the Republic, had met and welcomed the
army ; the conqueror had mounted his chariot,
and the splendid spectacle of the Triumph of
Germanicus began.
There was nothing to mar the outward
splendor and glory of the sight. No blots
of shapeless, colorless dress, or of poor gaudy
color among the spectators; no awkward
struggling with the peiplexities of unwonted
costume among the actors in the procession ;
no sense of incongruity or anachronism in any
one.
4
Outwardly not a discord. Priests and mag
istrates stepping with an easy dignity in their
accustomed robes, the flowing folds of thf
(41)
yiOTORY OP TEE VANQ^iSSED.
white togas made white as any fu.ler on earth
could white them, contrasting with the rich
purple of the borders, or the saffron robes of
the augurs, all the colors harmonizing as in¬
evitably as a bed of crocuses.
Then came the bands of trumpeters, with
the battle-music which more than any other
peals clear to us across the ages, with the un¬
varying intervals of the heart-stirring calls
which have to be heard above the din of arms
and the cries of conflict, or through the folds
of sleep.
Next, the spoils of war, with symbols and
pictures of the conquered places, borne aloft.
In this case there were few spoils to ex¬
hibit, Gold and silver vessels, embroidered
raiment, statue and picture, were not to be
found among these poor barbarians ; and
models of cities could not be constructed
where the cities were at best collections oi
mud huts. This part of the procession, there¬
fore, consisted of pictures of the mountains
and rivers, which 'were all the Germans had
to lose, and of battles, which, if the truth had
been told, tuey had not altogether lost. These,
carried aloft on horizontal trays, with large
. panels on which were blazoned the names of
the tribes said to be conquered—Chatti, Cher-
usci, Angrivarii — were all the results that
could be showr For, neither were the beasts
VICTOEF OF THE VÄFQUISBED. . 43
of the German forests glorious for triumphal
processions. No ponderous elephants to be
laden with barbaric trappings, no grand.tawny^
tropical wild beasts. Bears there might have
been, and wolves,—if the wolf foster-mother
were not too sacred a memory to be dragged
in derision by the people of Romulus.
After the spoils came the peace-music ; the
band of flute-players with their festive sug¬
gestions of dance and song.
Next, the priests with the sacred white ox¬
en, their gilied horns garlanded for sacrifice.
Then the only tangible spoils of the Ger¬
man war, the captive Germans themselves, a
goodly procession, chained, and drawn out in
long files, that the eyes of the Roman people
might feast on these signs of the humiliation
of their foes, a humiliation sweetened by the
recollection of recent terrors, by its being an
avenging of the legions of Varus, vanquished
and slaughtered by the fathers of these cap¬
tives among the rivers and mountains pic¬
tured in the front of the procession.
First came a fair young mother with a babe
in her arms, Thusnelda, paraded alone in the
front, that no eye might miss her ; yet " neith¬
er subdued to tears, nor using the language
of supplication the wife of Herman, so
lately conqueror of Varus
The band of captives was large and noble
VICTORY OF TBE VANQCISHED
It was perhaps possible for the spectators to
forget that neithêr Herman nor any of the
warriors who had fought by his side were
among them, but only these women and chil
dren, not captured in fair field, but betrayed
by a base kinsman.
Then, preceded by the lictors with laurel-
wreathed fasces, in single file, came the cha¬
riot of the Conqueror, himself a kingly-look¬
ing man, of the old Roman type, the object
of a genuine popular enthusiasm, unpurchased,
and indeed most jealousy discouraged by the
emperor ; the idol of the Roman people, and
worthy of the love of a nobler people than
they had sunk to be.
Twenty miles out, on his return, out they
had poured along the Flaminian Way, in the
heat of a Roman May, to welcome him back.
Pure and sacred memories of good women,
worthy of the Roman ideal days, made a halo
lound him, the grandson of the faithful and
heroic Octavia. His mother, the pure and
beautiful Antonia, still lived. His own wife,
Agrippina, had shown herself capable of cour¬
ageous devotion as high as that of any pa¬
triotic matron of the republic, or of the heroes
who kept the bridge " in the brave days of
old."
4
In those corrupt days the home and the
life of Gerraanicilii were such as to kindle a
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 4;
glow of affectionate admiration in a corrapt
and hardened people.
His five young sons stood in the chariot
beside him.
Happitv no eye in the admiring crowd
could see that one of these was to be the
Emperor Caligula, or that the daughter not
there was to be the mother of Nero.
He himself, if not the skillful general they
believed him; was a brave soldier, and a com¬
mander who inspired his troops with an en¬
thusiasm for his person such as only men of
genuine power of some kind can awaken.
% ' Ardent and impulsive, as more than one inci¬
dent in his life proves him, the fervor of his
character never led him beyond the sacred
bounds of duty, such as he understood it,
chiefly, in all probability, because his ambi¬
tion was not selfish.
Twice, it is said, he was almost on the
point of rushing, by his own act, out of life.
Once, some years before, when he had quelled
the perilous mutiny which arose, on the deata
of Augustus, in the army of the Rhine, and the
soldiers cried, ** Caesar Germanicus will not
endure to be a subject," and would have car¬
ried him to Rome and proclaimed him Em¬
peror in place of his adoptive father the new
Emf-eror Tiberius. To him the intended honor
was the threat of an impious disgrace. He
#
^6 VICTORY Oß THE VAEqUIBHED.
had risked his .ife to restore the legions to
their duty to Rome. Better die himself than
be seduced or driven from his duty to Caesar !
And once again, a few months since, when
jfiany of his faithful veterans had been wrecked
on the North German coast ; so keen was his
grief at their loss that he would gladly have
perished in the sea beside them. His soldiers'
lives were dear to him as his own life.
Eloquent words burned naturally on lips
enkindled by such a heart. He was held to
be a poet and orator of no mean stamp.
As he stood in the prime of his strength,
among his boys, in the triumphal chariot,
robed in the embroidered toga, sceptred and
laurel-crowned, all Rome did well to throng
every inch of the pavements and every step
of the temples along the SaCred Way in his
honor, and to send up clouds of incense from
every altar.
He stood before them, a pathetic witness
amidst all their degradation, of what their
inmost hearts held good, of what each Roman
was meant to be.
Behind the triumphal chariot marched the
soldiers, shouting, " lo Triumphe," singing
and jesting.
So the stately show swept along the Sacred
W ay—past the Forum,with its army of statues ; •
and up the Capitoline ; past the temples, with
VICTORY OF THE VAIS, ^UISHED. 47
the broad flights of steps crowded with gazers,
the May sunshine lighting up the dazzling
white robes, glowing on the purple and saftron.
flashing back from brazen spear and shield.
Slowly it swept up the old sacred hill through
air sweet with the fragrance of countless fresh
garlands and with incense from a thousand
shrines, vibrating with music martial and fes¬
tive, and with the triumphs and the welcomes
of all the people of Rome.
Slowly it swept on, until at a point on the
ascent it suddenly paused. The German cap¬
tives had reached the state-prison on the
Capitol. '
Then from the fettered band, according to
ancient Roman custom, were withdrawn some
of the noblest among them, never to reappear.
Young and in the prime of strength, with no
crime but that of being enemies of Rome,
they were led from the midst of the captives,
from the festive throng and the May sunshine,
within the door of the prison by the wayside.
And there, in the darkness of the Mamertine
dungeons, the exiles were cast down to die
unpitied, while all Rome was keeping holiday
Dutside.
Very slowly the moments of that terrible
pause passed for-three of the captives. A
deeper pallor spread over the face of the
txiothc Siguna as she drew the child Hiida*
48 VIÜTOBT OF THE VAN^ÜIBHED.
closer to her. Si-ward's brow flushed, and hs
looked round to see if there were one token
of pity in the festive throng. There was a
slight silence, a little more eager pressing for¬
ward of the crowd to see ;—and that was all.
The boy heard no sound of compassion, and
caught no glance of pity in man or woman.
Only from one little deformed girl, who hap¬
pened to be pushed near him in the throng.
He heard her ask an old man who was taking
care of her what they were doing with these
fair boys.
" They are going to kill them, and throw
them into the dungeons," he said.
" But it is a festival," she said ; " could they
not wait ?"
" It is part of the festivity," he replied.
" The Roman people enjoy strong contrasts.
They have a different idea of the drama from
that which we Greeks had. They like their
tragedy real."
The little maiden looked perplexed. There
was a quiet bitterness in the tone of the slave
which made Siward glance up in his face for
an explanation. The face was not bitter.
There was a sarcastic curve about the lips,
but the dark eyes met the boy's with a kind¬
liness so different from the expression of the
other faces around him, that it made fiira re«
member the countenance.
VICTORY OF TEE VAEQUISEEE,
The impression was deepened by n hat fol-
lowed.
At that moment there was a rush amongst
the crowd to catch a glimpse of the con¬
demned captives. In the pressure, the little
deformed girl was separated from the old man
and thrown down amidst the band of captives.
She might have been trodden on and hurt,
but that Siward, with an irresistible instinct
of protection, gently lifted her up, and, fet¬
tered as he was, bore her to a safe place on
some steps by the wayside. There the old
man quickly found and rejoined her, and
was beginning to thank him, when, with
rude words and blows, the boy was driven
back into the procession which he had disar¬
ranged.
The whole was the work of a moment, but
for Siward it was a moment of balm.
%
For that moment the bewildering pomp and
the bewildering sense of wrong were lifted
from his heart, and it was brought close to
other human hearts.
In Rome then, too, amidst that triumphant,
insulting crov/d, were infirmit f, and suffering,
and pity !
The large, soft eyes that had thanked him
from the wan, suffering little face, and the
words and tones of the old Greek slave,
haunted hiui, and seemed half to awaken hini
i
53 VICTORY OF THE VANqVlSHED.
from a terriole dream. All the more because
he but half understood them.
He had great need of some such drops of
' healing, for the day was bitterer than he had
thought.
It was not so easy to despise the contempt
and derision of a whole people—to be driven
or dragged chained and enslaved, a ga zing-
stock for thousands of hostile eyes—he, and
his mother, and the helpless little sister. Often
he wished he had not learned the Latin tongue
so well during that long captivity in the camp
by the Rhine. It might have been easier not
to understand the words of satisfied revenge
or scornful raillery, or, worse still, of scornful
praise, flung at them as at well-made dogs or
horses. He hoped his mother did not hear.
When he looked at her, her face seemed
calm.
It was bitterer than he had thought. To
have fought for his people and been fairly
• captured could have been borne ; but not
easily thus to be entrapped like vermin, and
then exhibited as a fair fruit of conquest, and
not to be able to say to the exulting crowd,—
"We were betrayed, we were not conquered.
If you had tried it fairly with us in battle, we
or you should have been ft on the field. We
would never have been here."
And worse than all was this terrible pause
VICTORY OF THE YANqUISHED,
51
wrenching of their brethren from them
without possibility of farewell or lamenuition.
AVith a fierce joy the boy's thoughts went
oack to the forest of the Teutoberg, to the
Roman victims slain there in honor of the
German gods—to the blanched bones of the
Regions left so long unburied and unavenged.
Slowly, drop by drop, the bitter venom dis¬
tilled into his heart.
And in all heaven and earth there was noth¬
ing to counteract or ward off the poison save
the patient sustaining face of the mother at
ais side, and the little touch of human sym¬
pathy which came to him through the eyes
of the deformed girl and in the tones of the
old slave.
For it was not in the Roman Forum that
men had erected an altar to Pity.
In all the temples by which they passed
there was no sanctuary of sorrow, no image
of a Divine Sufferer overcoming by enduring.
In all the sunny heavens through which he
gazed he-knew of no judgment-seat where
there was certainty of justice for all, far less
of a mercy-seat, where there was certainty
infinite pity for all.
At length the dreadful pause in the march
was over ; the sign was given that the execu¬
tions had been accomplished,, and the massa-
er ;d captives were lying dead in the dark'
VICTORY OF TEE VANt^UlSEED
ness oelow ; and the splendid show swept on
again in the May sunshine, with the battle
trumpets and festive flutings, through flow¬
ers and incense,^ to the Temple of the Capito-1
line Jove, where, beside the king of the gods,
the old god Boundary had kept his ancient
shrine,
Then came the sacrificing of oxen, and the
iaymg the wreath of victory on the lap of the
statue of Jove.
So Siguna and her children trod the last
steps of the fatal road, and finished the weary
march from the latest pillar of the god Bound¬
ary among the forests of their native northern
land, to his earliest shrine on the rock of the
Capitol.
The sacred services being ended in the tem¬
ple, the feastings began, the procession broke
up into numberless little knots of revellers,
each portion of it coalescing with some por¬
tion of the crowd, eager to entertain the tri¬
umphant army, to listen to stories of hair-
• breadth 'scapes among the unknown northern
seas, whose waves had risen against their le¬
gions, like some of the hideous monsters they .
contained, and swallowed up half an army.
CHAPTER III.
A
0
N the evening oí the Triumph the
boy Siward, having escaped for a
time from the revelries of the other
slaves of Germanicus, stood leaning
against a pillar of the palace portico.
It had been an embittering day for him.
The revelries among the slaves had been
worse than the ignominy of the procession ;
for they had given him a glimpse into the
unutterable debasement of the slave-house¬
hold of which that day the German captives
had been the scoff and jest.
If slavery did not debase the slave as well
as the slave-owner, it must soon put an end
to itself. The slave, purified by suffering,
must rise above the master, degraded by i*^
flicting it. But the crudest thing in cruelty
is its tendency to make the sufferer cruel.
And in this Roman slavery there were depths
both of cruelty and degradation scarcely to
be reached under any form of Christianity.
(ss)
54
riCTOET OF TEE VÄNQUJSHED.
In addition to his bitter sense of wrong, the
poor boy had also the pain of sorely bruised
limbs, not made easier to bear by the sense
that he had brought this pain on himself.
In his simplicity, when questioned as to his
parentage, he had said with some pride that
his father was of noble blood, and worked at
a smith's forge of his own ; the forge being in
his mind as much a subject to glory in as the
noble birth.
The torrent of derisive witticisms which
this confession had brought on the " patrician
blacksmith " and on his mother had altogether
overwhelmed the poor boy's resolutions to
practice silent endurance as the only dignity
of the slave. In a moment of uncontrollable
irritation, he had made up for his want of
Latin wit by dealing a very effective barba-
rian blow against the most unendurable of his
tormentors, which had brought on a general
assault, ending in his being thrown on the
ground, beaten, and trampled on. Indeed,
but for the fact of many of the assailants being
too much the worse for wine to aim their
blows well, he might scarcely have escaped
and contrived to creep away under the shadow
of the portico as he had done.
He had not been resting there long when
the sound of flutes and pipes echoed along
the slopes of the Palatine, and in a few mo-
VICTORY OF THE VANQUlSHEh. 55
ments the torch-bearers came in sight of the
palace, bringing Germanicus back with songs
and shouts to his home.
The captive boy shrank farther into the
fehadow. For a few minutes the laurel-gar¬
landed portico echoed with congratulations
and leave-takings. Then Germanicus retired
within the house, the festive band gradually
dispersed, the blaze of torches died out one
by one in the distance, and Siward was left
alone with the stars.
At last that bitter day had worn to its close !
The day of ignominy was over, he thought,
for the captives, and the life of bondage and
suffering haii begun. For Germanicus, the
day of triumph was over, and the life of glo¬
rious power and activity was but beginning !
How wide apart the beginning of the two
roads led ! " How much wider,'' the poor
boy thought, recalling with a shudder the
slave-revelers from whom he had escaped,
and the wail from the slave-prison among the
hills, might not the end be ! What could
he do but grow brutish or wicked like the
rest, and perhaps by and by be as cruel to
some new sufferer as they had been to him ?"
A terrible sense of being destined, not only
to suffer, but to sink through suffering, was
on him ; of a curse which reached not only
to the body but to the soul. These brutish
56 ■ VtöTORY OF THE VAEQUISHED.
bondsmen around him had sunk beneath it
What hand in heaven or on earth could save
him ?
The love which was a torch kindled by the
love he knew not, came once more to his
rescue.
The mother's gentle hand rested on his
drooping head. He knew her touch although
he did not at once look up. But the' ice be¬
gan to melt from his heart, and slow burning
tears fell through the. fingers clasped on his
brow.
" My son," she said, " you have done bravely
to day."
He shook his head.
4
She had not witnessed the scene among the
slave-revelers. He thought she did not know
and he would not for the world have told her,
" Siward," she continued, " your words in
the dawn on the hillside strengthened me to¬
day. I did walk like a crowned queen be¬
tween my children."
The hidden tears fell slower, but more bit¬
terly. " Little reason had she," he thought,
' to feel proud of her poor helpless, beaten,
Blave-boy."
" Siward," she went on, " I have had a great
proposal for you to-day. A Roman patrician
lady saw you to-day in the procession, and
■jhe and her husband coveted you. They
»
VICTORY OP TBE YANqUlSHED.
asked our Lady Agrippina about you. They
have no son, and they want to adopt you foi
their own. Once they thought they had too
many children, and, according to one of their
wicked customs, they cast out their own help-
less babes to die, that they might have no
more trouble with them. But a pestilence
. came and swept away those they had saved.
Now, they have no child but one, who is a
virgin priestess of some goddess, and one a
sickly mis-shapen girl, who was rescued by a
Greek slave. And the Roman lady envied
me as I walked beside you, my son, and wishes
to adopt you for her own, and to call you bv
their name, Clœlius."
He looked up.
" I am Siward the son of Siguna and Olave
. the smith," he said. " They can make me
their slave, \ will never call myself the son
of a Roman woman and a murderess. I am
thy son, mother, thine."
She said nothing. She had expected no¬
thing else. But with that free determination
of the will, the bondage had passed from his
soul.
Battered and bruised as he was, the sense
re-awoke within him of being something blows
could not crush, nor fetters bind. His inmost
self was free with the only freedom worth
having—the freedom of loving and choosing
3*
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED
of choosing rather to suffer anything than ta
desert those whom he loved.
Not that he reasoned this out, or could have
spoken of the immortal invisible spirit within«
What h'i was conscious of was not of having
a soul, but of having a mother whom he
loved.
" Mother," he said, " you had no hesitation
about the answer."
" Not any," she replied ; " we could not
give up your father's name."
"And I would not grow like these Romans,"
he said. " Better be their slave than be them¬
selves, mother," he added, after a pause. " I
have seen and heard terrible things to-day ;
and I have had a terrible dread. But you
have saved me."
" Dread of what ?" she said.
" Of growing like these Romans and their
slaves !" he said. " Of growing to despise all
women as if I had never had a mother ; to
disbelieve in all goodness, as if I had never
known you ; to be astamed of work : to dis¬
honor all that makes men men and women
women ; the terror of sinking through the
pleasures of swinish beasts reveling in gar.r
age and wallowing in the mire, to the plea¬
sures of wild beasts reveling in the torture of
their victims, as these Romans do in their
games, and (if the slaves speak truth) in theii
FZ6'7C»Ji" OF THE VANqUISiIED.
huxïies. But this dread is gone ; you have
come and saved me."
w
%
" What have I done ?" she said ; " what can
1 do ?"
" You have done what Siguna the wife of
Loki did. Surely it was a prophetess who
named thee," he said. " When the gods had
bound him fast, and the serpent had dropped
venom, did not Siguna hold the cup so that
the serpent's venom could not drop on him,
and burn into his heart? The cup is your
heart, mother, and you have saved me."
"Child," she said, "what are you saying;
you are not Loki the malignant ; you, my
brave, bright boy ?"
" No," he said, smiling, " I am not Loki.
Stay thou near me, and I will never be like
him."
So the boy interpreted the lovely legend of
Loki and Siguna.* For dark as were those
old heathen conceptions of the gods, often on
some subordinate in an obscure corner of the
picture, falls a strange beautiful light from a
source unseen and unexplained.
The gods were often hard and cruel, or
♦ It is not meant to intimate by this that this legend or
other Northern legends alluded to in these pages were ai
ancient ai the first century ; but to take them as types of
tne belief and imagination from which at one time or an
other the Northern Sagas sprang.
ûo VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
careless and cold. But in some human crea¬
ture, such as Siguna, burns a little lowly spark
of unquenchable love, or invincible patience
stronger and more divine, lovelier and loftier
than all the might of Asgard or Olympus.
For throughout those ages while men made
the gods, it was God who made man.
»
The mother went into the house and found a
mat and an old mantle, in which she wrapped
up her boy's bruised limbs ; and soon he fell
asleep with the sleep of youth.
But she watched above him and wept. For
very feeble she felt her hands to be to keep
off the poisonous drops. Feeble woman'o
hands, and fettered, and who could say how
long the gods, or the Romans who seemeo
their favorites and vicegerents on earth, would
allow even this ?
So she looked hopelessly up to the calm
bright stars, and the beautiful impenetrable
night. But she soon ceased to weep. For
there was no heart to appeal to, or to weep on.
If there were gods above those stars, either,
for some unknown offence they had turned
against her, or they did not rule as far south
as Rome, or the gods of Rome were strongei,
or, which was perhaps the most likely thing
of all, they were shining still in Asgard, brigh
and calm as the stars, and as inaccessible.
VICTORY OF THE YAHQUIi^EEn 61
The w.ail could not rise into prayer, theie-
fore it died into despairing silence. Y et Si
gnna and Siward, the German captives, were
not the only persons in Rome to whom that
day had been little of a festival.
In his new palace on the western slopes of
- the Palatine was dwelling one to whose heart
every shout of applause to Germanicus had
been a drop of the bitterest venom. And by
him on the icy summit where he sat was no
faithful hand to ward off the bitter drops.
From youth, Tiberius Csesar had breathed
the atmosphere of desecrated home. His mo¬
ther, the Empress Livia, had consented to be
divorced from his father to share the throne
of Augustus. He himself had reluctantly
ccftisented to abandon Vipsania, the beloved
wife of his youth, sister of Agrippina the
noble wife of Germanicus, to become the hus¬
band of Julia, the only daughter of Augustus,
a woman who despised him, and whom not
without reason he hated ; for her crimes,
afterwards banished by her own father to the
fatal island of Pandataria.
The bonds between him and his mother,
strong as they were, were not such as to soften
or ha)'*ow life. On her side rather a dramatic
impersonation than affection, accomplishing
in her son an ambition she could not fulfil in
her own person. On his, a habit of deference
62
/
riCTfJHY OF TEE VAUQUISHEE.
to her authority and reverence to her judg
ment which nothing but death could break
but from which he felt her death an emanci¬
pation ; identification of interest without union
of heart.
The sacred fire of his hearth being to him
thus early extinguished, in its place was sub¬
stituted a steel mirror, in which the world
was reflected with exactness, but altogether
without glow,—the world and himself.
Where the world, gazing within wall after
wall of his imperial palace, and fold within
fold of his purple draperies, caught glimpses
of a mysterious divinity ; he saw an imperil¬
led mortal " holding the Roman people as a
wolf by the ears."
On the icy summit where the dazzled na-
• tions saw a godlike form gloriously robed and
crowned, grasping the lightnings, he, chill
and undazzled, saw himself as he was, unillu-
mined by the splendor, quivering beneath the
lightnings he seemed to grasp. He knew
that he saw but a little space beyond him,
avhilst within that little space he saw a world
of perils, and beyond it a surging mist through
which from time to time loomed on his anx¬
ious vision the forms of men greater than he
thnîâtening to rise and hurl him from his seat.
At the centre of that omnipotent dominion he
knew himself to be a mortal man, and not a
riGTOET OF THE VÄFQUI8EED. 63
great man. Honestly therefore he recom¬
mended all men not to worship him : whilst
he watched with suspicious vigilance for ev
ery token of a real great man, one born a
king," that like Herod he might " come and
worship him,"—in Herod's fashion.
At the core of that Empire was a heart in
which hope and love, and faith in woman, in
man, or in heaven, were frozen to death ; a
heart not cruel for cruelty's sake, but pos¬
sessed by an ignoble fear and self-distrust, a
cynical contempt of all who did him homage,
and a desperate envious hatred of all whom
his keen wit perceived were too clear-sighted
or too noble to do him real homage in their
hearts. At this time the great objects of his
dread and envy were Caesar Germanicus and
Agrippina, whom his mother Livia also en¬
vied and disliked, and of whose lofty charac¬
ter, disbelieving in any noble source of such
loftiness, Tiberius had an especial distrust.
To the emperor, therefore, this day of the
Triumph of Germanicus had been a day of
humiliation. Not on account of the pomp
whose hollowness he knew, but because he
saw how the Roman people, the wolf whom
he held so desperately by the ears, fawned
with as fond a pride as the wolf foster-mothei
herself on the genial young soldier, nephew
of Augustus, grandson of Octavia and Antony
64 VICTORY OF THE VANQVISHED.
Nor to Germanicus himself (had the Gcr.
man captive known it as he saw him disaj»-
pear within the portico?) had that day been
any more a true triumph than to any fettered
captive in the procession.
He had been dragged in his triumphal
chariot as reluctantly as Thusnelda herself
before it.
Victory was what he had desired, not a
hollow show of triumph. One campaign
more in Germany, he believed, would have
made him a true conqueror, would have
driven back the German tribes effectually,
and made the short line of the Elbe, instead
of the long windings of the Rhine, the real
frontier of the Empire.
From this career of conquest he had been
torn, from purposes he deemed worthy of
Roman ambition—" through envy torn away
from a harvest of ripe glory"—to be detached
for ever from the army which loved him, and
for which he had cared with a true kingly
care, and despatched hither and thither at the
will of a man who would only envy and hate
hira the more successfully he served him.
To him and to Agrippina—taken from her
queenly place at the head of the veterans who
honored her as a matron of old Rome, and
loved her boys with a household affection aa
at once their princes and playfellows- to be
N
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED, 6f
entangled in the wretched intrigues of a co.irt
where a slight to her was regarded as a com
pliment to the emperor's mother—that day
was an evening, not a morning, a stepping
from a high place in a free, large world into
the narrow tortuous ways about a degraded
court.
No day of rejoicing to the conqueror, nor
to the faithful troops he had led so long!
They had not forgotten the day, years since,
when the young Germanicus had won them
back from mutiny by his presence, when they
had gathered around him with their wrongs,
showing him the limbs bruised and wounded
by the cruelty of under-officerj, and pressing
his hands on their toothless gu/ns to prove by
how long years of service they had merited a
better reward ; nor how he hvd soothed them
with promises, and with largesses from his
own private means, a royal generosity which
Tiberius could not forgive.
Nor would they forget the day not long
afterwards when once more he had shamed
»
them back to order and allegiance, by threat¬
ening to withdraw Agrippina and the Roman
ladies from the mutinous camp to the protec¬
tion of the German allies at Treves.
The armies of Rome, after ail, were them¬
selves no such iron machines as they seemed.
bu+ aggregates of imp'essille human crea
66
VICTORY OF THE VAKQUISHED.
tures — assemblies of impulsive passionate
Italians, keen to feel wrongs and to resent
them, capable of loving and trusting with ro-
mantic devotion when they found any one
like Germanicus, a man of like passion with
themselves, yet of keener insight and higher
self-control than themselves, with a heart to
care for them-
And now this strong, slowly-woven bond
was to be rent asunder for ever. This body
of living men, enthusiastically attached to a
commander, was to become again, outwardly,
a machine of state, and inwardly a conglom¬
eration of separate atoms.
To Germanicus and his army it was a day
of separation. The army dispersed among
the citizens, once more a mere fragment of
the empire. The conquering commander re-"
tired into his home a mere slave of the em¬
peror.
And sadly that night, in the homes ot many
a patrician palace, among its gardens on the
hills of Rome—and in many of the crowded
chambers of the people whose tall houses rose
, from the valleys below—among the few in
that degraded population to whom the tri¬
umph was anything higher than one of the
shows of the circus or the amphitheatre, came
back the memory of Drusus, father of Ger-
manicus; and Marcellus, his uncle; and o*
riüTOEY OF THE VANQUISHED. 67
lulius Caesar, first and noblest of the race,
throwing its shadow on the future of one
who, as the despairing presentiment of a cor.
.rupted and enslaved people told them, waá
too worthy of life to live long in such a time«
" For ever,' they said, "short-lived and un¬
fortunate are those whom the Roman people
love."
Thus, in the laughter of that day of triumph
there was heaviness, and its songs died into a
hopeless wail in other hearts than those of
the German captives.
And neither they nor any of the countless
suflFerers in that glittering, brilliant, hopeless
Roman world knew of the heart that was
beating for them in the home at Nazareth, the
heart of Him, indeed, " born a king," in which
fear had no place, glowing but with faith and
hope, and with unquenchable love for all ; nor
what cup was being prepared to gather into
itself the venom of all the bitter drops, and
ward them off from man.
CHAPTER IV
N the dusk of the May morning a
young Roman maiden stood on the
brink of a spring on the Cœlian hill,
in the garden of Clœlius Tullus. She
stood, or half leant against the rock, from be¬
neath which the pure fresh water was slowly
trickling into her pitcher. Slight and lithe in
form, from the firm poise of the graceful head
:o thè planting of the small sandalled feet,
which shone on the dark mossy turf below
the long white stole, there was nevertheless a
power blended with all the grace which encir¬
cled her with a kind of sweet awe. The joy¬
ous half-smiling lips, the dreamy dark eyes,
which sent .a light through the long lashes
like the morning sunshine on the pure shaded
spring she was watching; the hands folded
not in lassitude, but with a firm clasp, as if they
had embraced each other with a happj pur¬
pose, and would only part to help each other
I o execute it; the whole guileless expression
(68)
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 69
»
of the face, füll of soul as it was, seemed more
childlike than womanly. The look of extreme
youth was increased by the absence of long
feminine tresses, and of all feminine ornament.
The hair, of a golden brown, curled and clus¬
tered around the small head like a child's,
and was only bound with a purple fillet.
Yet there was a majesty about the light
delicate form and on the smooth straight
brows. No mere imperial stateliness, some¬
thing higher and freer—something to which
any canopy of state would have seemed a
tawdry appendage—something which in any
temple of her gods would have made .you feel
it a sanctuary.
There was a slight rustle among the ilexes
of the garden, and then a younger maiden,
kneeling down before her, embraced her knees
as if she had been the statue of a goddess.
"My beautiful!" said the child, "you arc
more divine than ever. No wonder they do
not need any sacred images in the temple
where you serve."
The maiden stooped, and, raising the kneel¬
ing child, encircled her with one arm.
" Poor little sister !" she said, and her voice
was simply the embodiment of her smile turn¬
ed into music. The ring of a little child's
laughter was in it, with the tenderness of a
heavenly pity. For different, indeed, to all
YIGT0R7 OF TBE VANQU18BEL '
oui ward seeming, from herself was the pool
misshapen child who clung to her with such
an adoring, passionate fondness. The form
that of a shrunken old woman ; the face thin
and wan, though not without beauty ; the
«
eyes deep with the sadness of a sorrowful wo¬
manhood.
" To-day is a great day with me, little sis¬
ter," said the elder maiden, " and I may well
be clothed with joy. Yesterday completed
the ten years of my discipleship. This day
ten years since our father led me to the High
Priest, and the old man welcomed me to the
^ service of Rome and the goddess, and conse¬
crated me as the vestals of our ancient Alba
were consecrated hundreds of years before
Rome was born. ' Thee, beloved, I take,' he
said, ' a vestal priestess, to minister in sacred
things, to do for the Roman people what the
best law has appointed.' And so, a little child,
I was committed to the care of the sacred
virgins, and had henceforth for my dwelling
the dwelling of the goddess, for my hearth-
fire the sacred hearth-fire of Rome.
"Ten years of training, sic wly unfoldiue
before me the meaning of that consecration,
and now I too am to serve Rome for myself.
This morning, for the first time, I shall sprin-
kle pure water on the shrine of the goddess.
To-night, for the first time, to me will be
riCTOEY OF TEE VANQUISHED.
committed the charge of the sacred lire, to
keep it for the Roman people, for the god-
dess, and for our Rome.
" Little sister, have I not reason to be glad ?
As she spoke she looked up. From the
southern slopes of the hill where they stood'
among the gardens, beyond the undulating
plain of the Campagna, still dusk, the dawn
was flowing in a golden flood around the Al¬
ban hills. Peak after peak rose boldly from
Ihe plain, and as she glanced towards them at
that moment a rosy light touched the highest
of all, the site of the ancient temple of Jupiter
Latiaris, the common shrine of the pristine
Latin race.
"See, little sister,** she said, "the finger of
the gods is touching the old temple of our fa¬
thers. Beneath it is lying in its deep hollow
the Alban lake, and the ridge of the White
City where our people were cradled, and the
vestal princess dwelt, and the twin heroes
were born. Here is the marshy valley which
the princQ our forefather drained,—the dic¬
tator, Clœlius, — making the marshy land a
fruitful field, and bringing the water to re¬
fresh the arid plain. The ancient channel is
there which our father cut through the solid
hills, and the waters are flowing through it
still—in the dark under the rock arches, in
the sunsl ine through the green Campagnrv
VICTORY OF THE VANQCISHED.
below us through the valley at our feet-—wa«
ters from our Alban hills, brought hither to
minister to the Roman people.
" Little sister, last night the gods sent me a
dream. Since the days of the Clœlius, who
made the water flow, whim our Alba was
razed, and our fathers were transplanted to
this Cœlian hill, and the Clœlii became a Ro¬
man house,—once again, thou knowest, our
name has had a high place in the story of old
Rome.
" When Lars Porsenna, the Etruscan king,
with his armies on the Janiculum, had driven
the Romans to submit, and to send him the
ivory throne, and twenty hostages, boys and
maidens of the noblest blood, a virgin, Clœ-
lia, was among them. She swam back through
the river, escaping the foe, leading the other
girls, and fled safely to Rome. But to the
Romans, our fathers, the faith of oaths was
dearer than life, or things dearer than life,
and they sent the maidens back. Noble deeds
breed nobler. Porsenna the king honored the
maiden, and honored the Roman fldelity, and
sent her back to Rome with some of the host¬
ages as the fruit of her courage, bidding her
choose which she would. The girl Clœlia had
a mother's heart in her, as all good women
have, and she had pity on the helpless little.
anes, and chose them. So the king gave her a
VWTORr OF TEE VANQVlSBED.
\
71
horse with royal trappings, and she rode home
%
to the city Rome. A fair sight it must have
been to our fathers to see the young maiden
coming back as a conqueror, on the king's
.'¿orse, with the little children she had rescued
;lustering around her. Her people would not
i\a.ve the beautiful vision fade away. They
.nade her a statue, and there it stands to this
Jay in the Sacred Way. The Sacred Pro¬
cessions pass by it, and the triumphs, as yes¬
terday—by the statue of Clœlia, the maiden
who rescued the captive children, seated on
the horse Lars Porsenna gave her.
"There are many lonely hours in the tem¬
ple, little sister ; the dreams, and the toys, and
the decorations of other maidens are not for
us. And often as I sat weaving the sacred
veils for the shrine, or in the night, I have
pictured to myself those two, of our blood,
who belonged to our house of old, until last
night, through the golden gates, the gods
sent me a dream.
" Clœlia, the brave maiden, came to me as
I slept—not on horseback, as the princely
heroine, but clad in a plain white stole, with
a little child clinging to each hand—and she
s.aid to me,—
" ' Clœlia, my sister, Vestai, thou shalt be
as the stream our father brought from Alba,
tl:e White City on the hills. Th^' life shal' be
a
74 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHEJ).
a sacred stream, flowing for the service of the
gods and of Rome. To-morrow thy days flow
forth into the sunshine, from the cool shadow
of the rock arches, where the)r have been kept
pure. Forth into the sunshine, on through
the City Rome. They may make thee no
statue in the Sacred Way ; thou mayst never
hear the praise of the people, nor feel the fond
clinging of the children thou art saving. But
what recks that? Statues crumble to dust,
and the praise of the people is a breath. The
work is real, and thou wilt do it. Thou wilt
keep the sacred charge for Rome.' "
The maiden ceased. Her pitcher was over¬
flowing : she stooped to take it up, and go
her way. But first she clasped the poor child
to her heart.
" Rejoice with me, little sister," she said;
"for my beautiful dream has come true. To¬
day I begin the service of Vesta and of Rome
This morning I have come hither to fetch
fresh water to sprinkle on her shrine ; for no
water save pure from the heart of mother-
earth must touch the altar of the Sacred Fire.
I would not draw it to-day from the ancient
grotto of Egeria on the slopes below. They
have imprisoned the fountain, and shut it out
from the sunlight under heavy porticoes.
Moreover, Jews dwell around it—the people
who arî said to hate all men-—and I would
VICTORY OF TEE VANÇc'JlSEED,
7S
not have an evil eye on me to-day. Where¬
fore I have come hither to the little rock-
spring in our old garden, where I used to
play when I was a little child. I hoped, too,
to see thee. Rejoice with me, little sister.
To-day I begin the sacred priesthood. To¬
day my life flows forth from the rhadow of
the rock arches into the sunshine, to serve
our Rome.**
" My beautiful, I do rejoice in thee," the
»
child replied. But then, turning away, and
bursting into tears, she sobbed—" Oh, Clœlia
Pulchra, my sister, ask thy gods to have some
pity on me. To me they have given nothing
beautiful or good. My mother is ashamed of
me, and never walks out with me. My father
is kind, and likes to hear me sing ; but I am
no joy to him, no joy to him nor to any. I
am no sweet stream of life like thee ;—but
only a marsh—a waste, unsightly, unwhole
some marsh.*'
The young priestess sat down on the mossy
bank, and drew the child to her, tenderly ca¬
ressing her, and smoothing the long tresses
of her raven hair.
D-iar/' she said 'this is not like thee.
Was 1 thoughtless to parade before thee a
]oy thou canst not share ? Then it is thy
iove which led me away. I thought all mine
was thine. What beauty or joy I have was
76
VICTOR F OF THE VAHQUmHED.
it nol always thy joy ?—thou whose heart ¡9
so much more beautiful and stronger than
mine. And art not thou a joy to me, as I to
thee ? Have I not delighted in thy wisdom
and goodness, in all the wise things old Laon
has taught thee, and in that great love of
th:ne for me ? Was I wrong to forget all but
thy love, in thee, to-day ?"
" Not wrong," sobbed the child, but more
quietly. " Never wrong," she added, with a
sudden light irradiating her face, " to trust
my love ; only wrong to trust my wisdom and
my goodness."
Then, hiding her face and her heaving
breast on her sister's heart—" Oh, Cloelia, my
beautiful," she said, " I never found it all out
till yesterday at the Triumph. I was pushed
down and trodden on in the crowd, and must
have been hurt, perhaps killed, if one of the
captives, a young German, had not lifted me
up in his fettered arms, and placed me on
some steps by the wayside, as tenderly as a
motlier could. But when I looked up to
thank him, I could see disgust struggling
with divine pity in his eyes ; for he was beau¬
tiful as one of the Greek gods—as the sun-
god,beautiful and strong. I would thou
couldst see him. And the people were angry
that the procession had been broken ; and
they called me a hunchback, a dwarf, and
YICTOUY OF THE VANqUlSHER 77
many hideous names. And all at once it
flashed upon me that it is true, and why it is
that my mother never takes me by her side
to walk with her, and my father looks so sadly
at me. Oh, Clœlia, my sister, 1 understand it
all now ! Would to Heaven the German bey
had never rescued me, but that I had been
trampled under his feet and under the con¬
queror's chariot. To-day I should have been
buried out of sight ; away from the beautiful
day, away from the scornful faces—out of,
sight, where only such mis-shapen things
should be. They would have gathered my
ashes ffenderly, even mine ; and my urn, even
mine, would have been something the sun
might shine on ; and thou wouldst have come
and wept over it, and yet been half glad that
the poor waste, hopeless life was over."
The Vestal had no hope wherewith to com¬
fort the child—nothing but love. But love
steals in to sorrowful hearts, when even hope
cannot enter, but has to shine outside. She
*
could only say,—
1 love thee, dear ; and old Laon loves thee.
Our mother and father would miss thee in the
house, be sure ! But Laon and I—what should
we do if thou wert gone ? Never make thine
obsequies, and put thyself in the urn again,
little sister. Thou wilt have to make mine
with them."
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED
And as the sisters sat clasped together, a
warmth crept over the poor child's heart, and
she looked up again in the beautiful face she
loved so dearly, and smiled. And in that
smile, on the wan, thin face, there was a beaut}''
deeper than that of the perfect face she gazed
on—the sacred spiritual beauty born of pain
and self-forgetting love. The Vestal saw it,
and understood if. Then she rose hastily,
and said,—
" I may not linger a moment longer from
the temple."
And, with another embrace, she took up h-;r
• pitcher and sprang lightly away, Buf befo' e
she glided out of sight among the myrtl es
and ilexes, she turned back, and said,—
" Sweet, there is a sacred fire, an altar 'jf
our goddess, on thy hearth, as well as on the
hearth of Rome, Keep charge of that."
At the garden door one of the lictors -met
her, whose office it was to guard the vestals
when they walked through the streets,.as a
part of the sacred state and magistracy of
Rome.
And so, in her white stole, with the fresh
water from the spring in her two-handled
pitcher, carefully held in both hands, she
glided through the narrow footpaths among
the gardens over the Cœlian hill to the tem¬
ple at the foo"^ of the Palatine. The low light
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED,
79
flamed through the vine leaves and the quiver¬
ing olives on her, like the fire from a Vestal
shnne in heaven ; and the dawn touched her
white robe and the clustering curls of her
brown hair with fond sisterly fingers as she
went, an embodiment of the loveliest vision
of that old Roman world, with pure womanly
hands to keep the shrine of the goddess pure ;
to keep the sacred fire, which was the light
and shield of her people, burning for ever,
to make the hearth of every home an altar,
by making the most sacred altar in the coun¬
try a hearth-fire.
The day of the young priestess's first min¬
istrations passed away, and the night came
for which she had longed, the night when first
the sacred fire was committed to her keeping,
for Rome, and every hearth in Rome.
At first, long after dark, the murmur of the
great city kept surging round the temple,
from the Palatine and Capitoline hills between
which it stood, and from the Forum outside.
Gradually the steady murmur died away. The
great sea of life was getting hushed, and only
now and then some intermittent wave of sound
broke against the silence. Revelers return-
mg through the Forum to the palaces of the
Palatine, or to the villas among the herbs and
gardens of the Pincian hill, or with noisier
RO tIGTORT OF TEE VANQUISEEJ}.
merriment to the crowded quarters on tJie
low ground—merriment not seldom ending
iti conflicts.
At length these intermittent sounds also
teased, and the Forum outside became as
empty and silent as the sorine within.
Still the young priestess watched on in the
midst of a silence more solemn than any other
—the silence in the midst of a great city—her
heart full of the old Roman ideal of duty, and
of the heroic legends of her race. And the
silence bathed and flowed around her spirit
like a sea of still pure waters, as she sate or
knelt beside the altar, from time to time feed¬
ing the sacred fire, or throwing frankincense
upon it, whilst the flames flickered on her
white stole, and lit up the purple border of
her sacrificial veil.
Through the open roof of the temple, open
as the impluvium of every Roman house, the
stars looked down on her, slowly entering
and leaving one by one the little space of sky
above her.
Her heart was full of glad and innocent
visions. " I am only doing what every Ro-
✓
man matron does for her home," she thought,
*' simple, humble, household work. This tem¬
ple is only a hearth, ( pen to the sky as every
Roman house. But I am doing it for Rome
and e^'ery hearth in Rome, awake, serving all
VlCTOm OF THE VANQUISHED, 8|
whihi they rest on sleeping and know not of
me."
Then gazing up through the clear depths
of the night to the stars, she wondered if the
stars also were hearth-fires, fed by pure divine
hands, and by loving hearts, loving and car¬
ing for those who knew not. The whole world
seemed to her an altar for the sacred fire.
The hearth-fire she guarded and fed so care¬
fully was linked on one side with the stars,
and on the other with the humblest hearth in
Rome.
So the maiden did her sacred woman's work
for her people, and kept the little island of
purity given to her charge, in the midst of
the great corrupt city.
Only one shadow lay on her heart, the
shadow of her little sister's blighted life. But
this fell heavily. For through that one irre¬
mediable wrong, the shadow of all the irre¬
mediable wrong and pain in the world laid its
burden on her heart. A burden which her
priesthood would not lighten.
So, from the mystery of pain and soi'row,
which she couid not relieve, or penetrate, she
turned away to the sacred fire her heart and
hands might help to keep burning.
She ministered in the temple, a bcautifu.
type, and a living witness to the sacred aspira¬
tions of better days, aspirations after purity
4^
82 VIGTOET OB' THE VANQUISHED
which all the corruption around could not
stifle, powerless as they were to purify.
Until again the dawn broke—and the great
lumuk of life began to surge around the sane-
iuary -in the city where the famil}'^ had ceased
10 be sacred, where the people had become
an idle populace of paupers living on the im¬
perial dole of corn, and the Senate a shadowy
company of courtiers living on the imperial
smiles ; where work was ignominious, and
murder an amusemênt ; and there were no
gods but Money and Tiberius Caesar.
She ministered alone within, clothed in
white raiment, keeping the sacred eternal
fire ; whilst outside reveled the woman ar¬
rayed in purple and scarlet color, having a
golden cup in her hand full of abominations,
with her merchandize of gold and silver,
wrung from tortured provinces, her cinna¬
mon and odors, her fine flour and wheat, her
slaves outnumbering her citizens, her traffic
ill the " bodies and souls of men."
The loveliest type of the purest aspkations
of that old perishing world.
******
But while the vestals kept vigil in tue tem¬
ple for Rome, through many a long night on
the lonely hills of Syria vigil was being kept
for the world, all night, in prayer to God.
One altar was in the world on which burned
ynrort of the vanquished.
83
the sacred eternal fire of unquenchable re¬
deeming love, the sacred fire linked with
heaven and with every hearth on earth ; a
fire not of mere aspiration, powerless to keep
anything pure but itself, but of redemption,
which was to purify the world by consuming
the heart in which it glowed.
A Priesthood had begun, not only tender
to sympathize, but strong to save, able to bear
the great burden of the world and take it
away, and to change the irrevocable wrong
from curse into blessing.
But the virgins at their vestal vigils knew
not of it.
Nor of the great multitude clothed in white
robes, whom the blood of that heart was to
redeem and cleanse, that they also might be
«
altars from which, day and night, the fi a-
granee of incense and the flames of the sacr :d
eternal lire might go up to heaven.
CHAPTER V
LD Labn, the Greek slave, sat on the
steps of the Temple of Vesta, look¬
ing down on the Forum, while his
young mistress, Cloelia, the deforftied
child, was within the sacred precincts with
her sister Clœlia Pulchra, the Vestal.
It was early in the morning. The sellers
of fruits and vegetables, just come in from the
country with their baskets on their heads, or
with their laden asses, were loudly crying
their wares, or bargaining with the slaves of
the great households, and with the poorer cit¬
izens themselves.
Time was a plentiful commodity in Rome
just then. Commerce being from of- old de¬
spised by the burghers as only fit for freed-
men, and manual work by all Romans as only
fit for slaves, whilst artistic work was chiefly
the prerogative of Greeks, and the work of
government was entirely undertaken by the
Emperor, there was abundant leisure for con¬
tri
VICTO H ^ 04r THE VANQUISHED, g 5
veiSfttion. There were also abundant oppor¬
tunities for cultivating it among a people of
whom the greater number were crowded into
a mass of tall houses intersected by narrow
winding alleys, compared with which the
most densely-peopled dwellings of our mod¬
ern cities would seem spacious, so that their
days were spent together in the open air.
Old Laon sat and watched with an amused
face the various eager groups forming and
breaking around him, until the crowd in¬
creased, and all grouping was merged in the
confused multitude.
From the Patrician Homes, large or small,
detached in the midst of pleasant old gardens
and shrubberies on the hills traversed by no
vulgar public roads but only by steps and
narrow foot-paths winding among the green
slopes and terraces, came slaves for early pur
chases, and occasionally some nobleman, fol
lowed by a troop of clients.
From the I'slands of towering houses, on the
low ground and on the ledges of the hills,
with their tangled" jungle of human life, troop¬
ing down the outside staircases, and through
the narrow lanes often roofed over by bal¬
conies, came the multitudes of the Roman
people.
To these their houses were mere sleeping-
places. The Forum, the Circus, the Amphi«
86 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
é
theatre, or the Baths were for them not mere
ly places of amusement, but living-rooms, par¬
lors, talking-places, meeting-places, and rest-
'ng-places.
The talk of the lips, therefore, was the gi-eat
ousiness of Rome. And talk of the lips most
strictly it behoved to be, essentially calculated
to lead to nothing. Any touching on deeper
. things had been made especially perilous in
the days of Tiberius by the. renewed law of
Treason, which ruled that the sacred Majesty
of the Emperor might be wounded by a
word. By the law of treason, and by the en¬
couragement of informers to the length of
making them the most real officers of state
Conversation, therefore, must be of the light¬
est kind ; light as the tread on the thinnest
lava-crust over a recent eruption ; and the
great majority of freemen had little to do but
vo talk.
Books, for the people, did not exist, and by
the wealthy, and even by the learned, were
little used. All the talking now done through
countless printing-offices had then to be done
through Roman lungs. Authors read their
own compositions, and the opinion of the p..-b-
4
lie came to them not through reviews, or
, tlirough the disappearance of editions but
through the hush or the acclamations oí their
listeners.
VICTORY OF THE VAFQUISHED.
I
*
Thus, on that May morning, A. D. 17, it may
6e imagined what a tumult of tongues there
was around old Laon in the Forum, when all
Rome awoke once more to talk.
And meanwhile, from the hills all around,
the silent guardian templçs looked down on
the eager, noisy throng, crowning the crowd¬
ed heights with the long lines of their marble
porticoes glowing in the morning sun.
Laon had many acquaintances among all
classes. From time to time one and another
branched off from the eager crowd to ex¬
change words with him.
First came Damaris, an old slave of Clœlius
Tullus, a fellow-slave with him. She seated
herself beside him, laying down her heavy
basket with a groan.
" You seem oppressed, my fair compatriot."
" Compátriot ! Thou, a .mere Antiochene, a
Macedonian, contaminated with Syrian blood
and manners, and I an Athenian!"
" It is true I have Syrian blood in my veins,
sweet Damaris. It is that which makes me
so gracious and amiable. Had I been only a
descendant of the race which conquered for
Alexander, life might have been as hard for
me as it seems to be for thee. Thanks to my
Syrian mother, and my philosophy, I can
bend, and so escape many a blow which thy
less pliable nature receives and resents The
88 VICTORY OF THE VANl¿UI8HED.
heroic firmness was good for heroic days, but
the new philosophy suits these. It is a pity,
Damaris, thou wouldst never be instructed
by me in philosophy."
" I would not give a rotten fig for thy phi¬
losophy. What would thy philosophy do for
thee in preparing lor a supper-party like this,
that we are toiling about to-day ? Nothing is
so embittering as the lot of the slaves of these
poor patricians."
" Excuse me, rich freedmen are worse mas¬
ters."
" It may be. But at any rate they do not
stint your oil and salt. My mistress grows
sourer and stingier every day. As grasping
as a usurer, and as proud as the Empress-
mother. All because one ancestor dug a fine
ditch some hundreds of years ago, and another
had an equestrian statue made to her, which
still stands in the Sacred Way. A choice
statue, doubtless, made by these Romans hun¬
dreds of years ago ! when now, after all they
have learnt of us, my son Callias says not one
of them in a thousand can tell a head by Prax¬
iteles from one by a stone-mason. A good
thing if the Clœlii, and their statues, were all
buried in tl e old Clcelian ditch."
" Softly, my good Damaris. Say what you
like about their statues. Their ditches are
irreproachable. These Latins made iinexcep».
VTG70BT OF THE VANQUmEED, gg
tionable ditches. And as to statues, let us re-
membei your Athenians did not agree so well
with their Praxiteles while they had him.
Even they would have spoilt his statues if he
nid obeyed them.*'
Well, we may let Praxiteles alone. My
son Callias has had an order for a statue from
a great Syrian prince, Herod Antipas. He is
building a palace in a new city he has founded
by a Syrian lake, called Tiberias after the
Emperor. These provincials pay well. .The
price will buy my son's freedom, and then he
will work for mine. And the noble house of
Clcelius may make their own ditches and sup
pers to the end of time, without my aid."
"You expect great guestr?"
"Yes, imperial, for aught I know; and ]
know not what fare, and Clϔia Tulla is come
herself to bargain about the provisions. She
would trust none of us. There are to
be thrushes, and dormice, and flamingoes*
tongues, and I know not what. Imagine how
our rations will be stinted for w eeks to come !
And imagine how the poor child you call Di-
odora suffers. The master is wise, and keeps
out of the way at the Campius MartiuvS or ihe
Amphitheatre. At us fly pins and sticks, oi
anything thai: comes to hand. But we can
often wriggle away and avoid them. IT-^p-
pily the gods have made anger blinvi P it
90
VIGTORY OF TEE VANQUISEED.
that poor child ! The heart is not so easily
guarded as the head. And sarcasms are worse
tnan pins. Better for her if you had not res¬
cued her. Better she had perished when they
cast her out, a helpless babe, to die in the
streets."
" Better altogether. Damaris, if we had not
these inconvenient, irregular things called
hearts. We should make far better working
machines. The world would go quite smooth- ,
ly, like the stars ; philosophy would find half
her work done ; and there would be no his¬
tory to write."
"Well," he continued, "that act of folly oí
mine had well-nigh been undone this week,
had it not been for another of those irregular
impulses of hearts. The child would have
been trampled to death in the Triumph if a
young German captive had not lifted her up
and placed her in safety, fettered as he was.
Poor fellow ! he caught some hard blows for
his pains. I would fain see him again. There
was something in his high, bold bearing which
made me think bondage is like to prove bit¬
ter to him."
" But, ah !" he exclaimed, suddenly, " who
is that tall lad, with fair long hair, in a dark
slave's dress, carrying a load of torchwood ?"
Whilst he spoke he had been steadily scan,
ning the crowd, as if in search of some one.
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
At that moment he started from the steps anu
made a dart into the thick of the throng.
Siward recognized at once the kindly eyes
in perpetual debate with the sarcastic mouth.
But he would not turn aside, as Laon asked
him, for a morning draught of wine. He
had been given a task, and he must hasten to
do it.
"You are new at the work," said the old
man, as he walked beside him. "No slave
thinks of going straight on a message. See
them hovering around the cook shops and the
wine shops, stuffing the fruit into their mouth
—jesting with the flower-girls from the Cam-
pagna. It costs them nothing. Their time
is their masters* ; and it is for the master,
doubtless, they are making these hard bar¬
gains 1 and what harm if they share the
profits ?"
" I am new at the work," said the boy, not
in a very gracious voice. "They have made
me a slave. But I will not make myself a
thief and a liar, nor as one of these lazy glut¬
tonous swine."
"Not so bad for a young barbarian,*' chuck-
^ed old Laon. " Not so bad, if it had been
declaimed at the Porch. Master thyself, aad
no man can make thee a slave."
" Boy," he continued, "the load hurts thee
tliOLi art lame."
VICTORY OF THE VÁKQÜISHED
The boy flushed ;• for a moment he was si¬
lent. But the kindness of the tone and of
the eyes into which he glanced unlocked his
heart.
" My shoulders are bruised ; but the load
.aad to be carried, and I am doing it as well
as I can."
" If thou hast to be beaten, it shall not be
for doing wrong, eh ?" said the old man.
" I have not been beaten by any one who
had a right," said the boy. " I have only been
knocked down and kicked about by a base
herd of slaves."
The old man shook his head, and laid his
hand on the boy's arm.
" Gently, my son, gently," he said. " Slaves
will not stand being called names by any but
their masters."
" I did not call them names," Siward re¬
plied ; " they called me names."
" For instance ?"
" They asked me of my parentage. And
when I said that my father was noble, and
that he worked at his own smithy, they called
me ' the patrician blacksmith,' and jeered at
my father and my mother, until I had no an¬
swer left but to knock one of them down."
" Not wise," said the old man drily; "he¬
roic, but not wise. A blacksmith's, son,
is not considered a patrician employment m
VICTOR! OF THE VANQUISHEH
Rome. It was a misunderstanding. The mis¬
fortune is this: Your people are living in a
different era from these Romans. You are
still in your heroic age. We also, Greeks and
I-atins, have had this ;—one of the Homeric
gods was a blacksmith, or at least a smith.
He made thrones and spears for the gods and
the goddesses. And they thought a great
deal of him. But that is a long while ago
We Greeks and Latins have long since out¬
lived our heroic age. And blacksmiths are
no longer honored amongst us as they should
be. Nor, indeed, workmen of any kind. The
Roman people decline to work. Why should
they ? Tiberius Caesar gives them their daily
bread—Alexandrian corn, and salt, and the
Games. The Roman patricians scorn com¬
merce. Naturally, They can plunder prov¬
inces."
The boy looked up, half doubting whether
he was being again made a butt of. The wits
of these southern people were so sharp that a
straightforward German did not perceive he
was hit by their jests, until he saw every one
around laughing at his discomfiture.
" I speak with feeling, my son," Laon re¬
sumed ; for I also am a blacksmith, or at
least a smith. And I am far from being hon¬
ored as I ought to be. I am also a slave.
Not ten days since iry mistress was na\
94
VICTOR 7 OF TUE VÂ FQ UlSHED
pleased with a brooch I had mended for her
and she called me a ugly, lame, old fool, and
scratched my face with the pin. It was not a
glorious wound, rather ignominious. But it
hurt considerably. You may still see the scar.
And the name she called me was not pleas¬
ant. Not the more so because it is true. You
see, I am old, and lame, and not beautiful.
But then it was easier for me to bear than for
you, because I was not brought up in the he¬
roic age. Therefore what seems to you high
tragedy, is to me simply uncomfortable com¬
edy. I feel the scratch, and the indignity ;
but I smile."
"You are a smith!" rejoined Siward, go¬
ing straight to the only point in Laon's dis¬
course that was quite clear to him. " I wish
I could learn of you. The Roman weapons
are better than ours. My father always said
SO.
"You wish you could learn of me? It
might perhaps be managed. You would be
more valuable to your master if you knew a
trade. And if that would be an inducement,
I would teach you for nothing. Clœlius Tul-
lus would, I think, permit this as a reward to
the boy who rescued his laughter. Not that
-we must presume much on that ; for I once
did the same ! Boy, you have a strong arrn,
and you used it well that day."
VJCTOBT OF THE VANQUISHER 95
" Poor deformed child said the boy ; "she
did not look as if she needed anything more
to make her life miserable. Was she hurt?"
" Only by the rough words of the crowd.
They spoke uncivilly of her deformity. She
did not like being called names, any more
than you or L None the more because they
are true. She is not well shaped ; and I am
•lame, and hardly to be called beautiful ; and
vou are the son of a blacksmith, and also
noble. We must try not to mind if people call
us so."
For the first time Siward caught the mean¬
ing of the old man, and smiled, a broad, frank
German smile—and then he even laughed, a
hearty German laugh.
" I have been a fool to mind them," he said.
' If you can get me into your smithy, I will
work for you as if it were at my father's forge
in the Lippe Valley. And you will make me
wise as you are."
^ Nay," said the old man. " Wait a little. I
did .lot throw my wisdom into the bargain!"
They had reached the door of the palace of
Germanicus.
Laon turned back tt» wait for his young
mistress.
And Siward said to Siguna, when he met
her next,—
• Mother, I have found an old man who
96 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
seems as wise as Odin's ravens. He says h«
will teach me to make swords. For Her¬
man !" he added, in a low voice—" for Her¬
man, and our people in the forests ! They
make good spears and swords at Rome."
Her heart bounded to see something of the
old light on his frank brow again.
And little Hilda stretched out her arms to
him, as if she felt the sunshine on his face,
and unfolded in it like a flower.
And for the time, in all the palace of the
brave Germanicus and his wife, with their
beautiful children (one of them the boy Calig¬
ula, darling of the Roman soldiers), there were
no hearts lighter than those of the German
captives.
For Hope had lit up the world for them.
And in all the empire of Tiberius Caesar Hope
had little free space to breathe in.
There was, however, one terrible sight in¬
delibly stamped on Siward's memory, of
which he had never spoken to his mother
or to any one.
On that May morning before the Triumph,
when he and Siguna had sat together at the
tent-door on the hills, watching the dawn
when the silence was pierced by those wails
from the slave-prison, an irresistible impulse
of curiosity and s)-mpathy had urged the boy
$
m
■
ViCTOET OF THE VANQUISHED. oy
to find out what had caused those cries of
anguish.
Alone, therefore, after his mother had been
summoned away, he had found an opportu¬
nity to creep down the hill-side to the place
whence the cries proceeded, and there on a
nlllock, visible from a great distance around,
he had seen a number of slaves set up two
cross pieces of wood, with a living man nailed
to them.
They supported his feet with a piece of
wood, so that he was not altogether suspended
and then the executioners and the spectators
dispersed, leaving the victim exposed in his
ignominy and agony to die slowly of pain and
hunger.
From the opposite slope where Si ward
stood the writhings of the tortured victim
were only too visible, and his cries only too
clearly heard. For a few minutes Siward
stood trembling, fascinated by the revolting
sight.
Then he turned back to the camp. As he
turned away, he met a fisherman carrying a
basket of fish to the villa to which the slave-
prison belonged.
There must have been a deep horror im¬
printed on the boy's face, for the man an¬
swered it-
" It is only a slave !" he said, as he passed«
98 VIGT0B7 OF THE VANqUlSUKD
" Noiie but the basest criminals, or slaves, are
punished thus."
" Will he be long dying ?" Siward askea.
" Not many days. It depends partly on
whethe' they can sleep. The masters think
this a good way to show the slaves, now and
then, what they can do if they like. It is not
so very long since the last slave-insurrection.
And they do not want another."
And the fisherman passed on.
But from Siward's mind that dreadful image
never faded.
He trusted his mother knew nothing of it.
But in many a lonely hour it came back on
him, and gave a feverish intensity to all his
endeavors to work for his own liberation and
that of his people from a tyranny which re-
ser^'ed such tortures for those it dreaded.
UNIVERSI
LIBRAR\
CHAPTER VI.
iots with four horses abreast, men crying
their wares in all ke3''s and dialects, which
thronged the Sacred Way, in a city which
counted its population by hundreds of thou¬
sands, and had only two carriage-roads, and
scarcely any shops.
At length they had skirted the Palatine,
ana branched off into a footpath among the
gardens on the Ccelian, slowly climbing the
steps together.
" I have seen thy deliverer, Cloelia Dio-
dora," said Laon. " He also finds life not al¬
together smooth, like so many, — from the
multitudes of the Roman people, who exist
on the crust and salt, and the Games, to the
Emperor, who gives them all things."
She laid her hand on his arm, looking up
(99)
íoo VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED
into his face with eyes that flashed alnioM
fiercely.
" Stop, Laon, stop !" she said. " I have
been with Clœlia the Vestal, my sister, and
that is like being among the gods on Olym¬
pus. I have been drinking in her beauty and
goodness like nectar. Do not make every¬
thing gray to me. I will not have it. I will
sit in my darkness, and call it darkness. But
1 will look out on the light, and see it glow
in the sky, and burn on the hills, and dance
on the waters. And I will not have the light
called darkness to please me, because I am
not in it." Then gently she added,—
" I will sit in the darkness, as in the old
days, when I did not know I was a blot on the
light, in the little dark room behind thy work¬
shop—looking through the lattice at thee, and
watching the sparks from thy fire, or listening
.,0 the wise talk. Oh, Laon," she concluded,
with a sudden change, impulsive and intense
as she was, " If I could only sit ther" always^
and dress thy olives and onions, and cook thy
hsh for thee, as I used to hope I should ! "
" Child, I did it for the best," he said. " Could
I withhold thee from thy mother, when I heard
her moaning and wailing for but one of her
dead children ? I thought that nurture and
culture better than I could give might yet le-
stoi-e thee."
VICTORT OF lEE VANQUISHED.
"Was I like what I am, when thou didst
first find me ?" she asked in a low voice, after
a pause, "when I lay, a little, helpless, wail-
ing babe by the wayside, abandoned by all,
and thou savedst me ?"
"Now I know little what thou weit like,"
he said. " It may be thy little tender frame
got some twist or hurt when they cast thee
out. I was not learned in the looks or ways
of babes. Thy cry went to my heart."
"And afterwards—was I like other chil¬
dren, at first ?"
" How can I tell ?" he said. " I knew not
the ways of other children. To me thou wert
aot like any other child—with thy innocent,
fondling ways, and thy sweet prattle, and thy
voice, which always will be the sweetest voice
in the world, and the wonderful wisdom of
thy questions, searching into depths Plato
could not have fathomed. To me thou wert as
the sweet childhood of the world—as the gol-
den age of Greece come back again—as a lyric
springing up ever fresh. All the fair legends
of the gods lived again in thee. Thou wert
to me as an image dropped down from Jupi¬
ter on my poor hearth to make it as glad as
Olympus. And I called thee Diodora. What
did it matter to me what others thought thee
like? Thou wort, and art, my god-given
Images dropped down from heaven are,sel
I02 VICTORY OF THE VÄNqmSHED.
dorn beautiful. Diana of the Ephesians is a
monster, ending in a shapeless piece of wood.
The olive-wood Athena the Parthenon had
little of the beauty of the golden and ivory
statue of Phidias. What did that matter ? It
had come down from heaven, and was the
most sacred treasure of Athens."
" It was hard then to thee to give me up."
" It was like taking the sun out of heaven,
but I loved thee. And I thought that I
should see my darling the delight of a Patri¬
cian house, one day wearing the bride's saff¬
ron veil."
" Hush ! hush ! Laon !"
He looked down at the drooping, quivering
eyelids and the flushed face. And he saw she
was no longer-a mere child.
" Laon," she said, " what if I could come
back to thee again. My mother has seen that
German boy thou callest my deliverer. She
and my father think they might adopt him.
And then, perhaps, I might come back to the
little room behind the workshop with thee.
I should leave little lack of sunshine in my
hotne, and it would be so sweet to get into
the shade again with thee. And I could live
oetween thy house and my sister's temple.
Perhaps, as she says, make thy house some¬
thing of a temple !"
"Would the lad consent to this?" Laoa
asked.
riOTOlîT OF THE VAHQUISEED.
"His mother says he would not;,that he
is a German, and will not be made a Roman ;
and that he added some terrible things about
women who expose their babes to die. He
called them murderesses, Laon. It seems the
Germans.think this a crime. But think of all
that can be suffered by a slave : the terrible
thong knotted with sharp stones, the furca,
and the degradation, and"—she added, in a
low voice—" the cross ! Surely he cannot re¬
fuse such a change."
" I do not know," Laon answered, musingly.
" I do not know. That boy could endure
much. And I think he has learned there are
things worse than pain or death. But he is
coming to me to learn my trade, Diodora,
and I will see."
" Thou wouldst not persuade him to any¬
thing against his good, for my sake, Laon ?"
she said, timidly. " I have never liked to
burden thee with complaints. But this pal¬
ace is no home to me."
" They are not cruel to thee, little one ?"
he said, in a low voice.
" No one means to be," she said ; " but my
mother, you know, was beautiful, and people
say my face is, or would hav e been, like hers,
and that displeases her. And her delight is
in jewels and in the toilette ; and sometimes,
when Damaris cannot make her quite as fair
«
to4 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
as she used to be, she is angry with the co»'
metics and with Damaris, and when she is
angry the sight of me seems to vex her past
endurance.
" But I am not angry with her," continued
the child, " for I think the truth is she is angry
with herself. If I had done what she has with
me, I should have hated myself, and hated
every one."
"Reason enough," murmured Laon, gut-
aurally.
" And my father likes me to sit in the
shadow and sing him lays of old Rome, es¬
pecially of our house, of the Cloelius who
made the aqueduct, and the Clcelia who saved
the children, or of Virginia and the Tarquins,
or of Egeria the nymph, whose grotto was in
the slopes of the hill below us. My father
might miss me, and yet, I think, not much.
For I heard him say bitterly, one day, I was
a symbol of what Rome had fallen to,—the
countenance and the voice of the old Rome
left, but the whole body of the people shape¬
less, helpless, a ruin and a disgrace."
" It would be sweet to thee to have thy
dwelling again with me," said the old man,
musing, " in the little dark room behind the
workshop."
They had reached the garden door on the
southern slopes of the hill, and suddenly as it
f
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. loj
opened, and they entered from the shadow of
the naiTOw pathway between the walls, ail
the wealth of the May sunshine burst on them,
lighting up the beds of purple and saffron cro¬
cuses, the broad reaches of the Campagnaand
beyond, the purple and saffron Alban hills,
Sweeter to thee than this ?" he asked.
" What is all the sunshine outside to being
a little bit of sunshine myself to thee, Laon?"
" Well, I did my best for thee," said the old
man, in a husky voice ; " but perhaps thou art
right, Diodora, my god-given. Perhaps thou
art right. In our Greece, of old, we might
have found thee a place of honor. Thou
shouldst have sung divine songs for all time
like Sappho, or Erinna. We would have
found thee a place »to make sunshine in."
"Would you?" said the girl, doubtingly.
" Sappho was beautiful, yet she died of love.
Erinna was chained to her spinning-wheel, .
and faded away early, being I suppose be¬
loved of the gods. Have you not told me it
was not the matrons and the good women
who were eloquent and wise in your Greece?
And," she added with a shudder, " I alwa)''s
think of Thersites. Lameness and deformity
were not not made easy for him among your
heroes!. I think you would have found lit¬
tle place for anything not beautiful in your
Greece, Laon, here, below, or on Olympus
5*
IOC VICTORY OF THE YANQUI SHED
You naturally think the ugly must be wicked
and malignant. And perhaps they are," she
concluded very sorrowfully ; " perhaps they
are, or become so. It is hard to be hated and
not to hate."
" Poor child," Laon replied in a tremulous
voice ; " poor child. Perhaps I did ill for thee.
Life is bitter for all ; more than to most for
thee. It were well to have as little as might
be of it. If only we were wise, and were not
so foolish as to love and miss each other.
And if one knew a little more surely what
death is !"
*
CHAPTER VIL
I
[WARD was permitted to learn La-
en's trade. And a great friendship
sprang up between the two.
Once Laon had attempted to sug¬
gest that the boy should consent to be adopt¬
ed into the Clœlian house.
But the storm that met the proposition pre¬
vented his ever making it again.
" My name is Siward, son of Olave and
Siguna, a freeman and freewoman, good and
brave and free, and German. Shall I submit
to the-infamy of being called the son of a
murderer and a murderess? Worst of all
murders, who cast out their own helpless
babe to perish !"
" Strong words, my son," said the old man, ^
strong words. Have a care, lad ; words are
held crimes now in Rome. They are always
weapons sharper and more perilous than any
I :an make. Keep them in a sheath, my son.'
But he pursued the subject no further
I08 VICTORY OH TEE VANQUISHED.
" Stidoge gifts have come to me in this beg.
garly little house," he would say. " First the
child Diodora, and then thou. Childhood and
youth. The golden age and the heroic age,
always recurring in this decrepit old world.
The leaves are always young, even when the
ti'ees are hollow with decay. What must it
have been when the world itself was young ?"
" But our world is not old," Siward would
say ; " our world in the forests is young."
And strange interchanges of legend passed
between them.
Laon told the beautiful Greek stories of
courage and endurance, of dragons and deliv¬
erers, of Siren voices resisted and the Golden
Fleece won, of labors persevered in to the
death, of noble battle, of the joy of hard-won
victory, and the nobleness higher even than
mat of the victors in the vanquished,—^all the
old legends moulded into perfect form and
mqsic through Greek art.
And in return Siward gave—shapeless as
the mists on his northern hills, and tangled as
the paths through his northern forests, not yet
fashioned even as far into definite shape as we
see them—old Teuton legends of the mighty-
.^sir and their golden Asgard ; of Loki, the
Malignant, who penetrated even into the city
of the gods, and the gods who could scarce
penetrate into the city of death, still less res-
VIVTOnT OF THE VA^QUlsnED.
cue any thence, even Baldur the Beautiful,
the beloved of gods, and men, and all crea»
tures; of Siguna, who loved her lost Loke,
fallen and black-hearted as he was, when the
gods and all creatures hated him, and kept
off the poison from him, age after age ; of the
dark unknown worlds, and the dark unknown
ages that encircle everywhere the little world
and little life of man ; of the cloud-dwellings
and the fire-abysses ; of the storm and chaos
in which all things began, and the chaotic
#
storm and wratn in which all things, even As-
gard and the gods, must end ; of the Tree of
Life, evermore gnawed at the root, and ever¬
more fed at the root by waters brought by
pure virgin hands from the living springs ; of
Odin, with the raven, foreseeing the wreck he
could not avert ; and through all of a veiled
light afar off, mystical and sweet ; of Baldur,
the beloved, the divine, whom all the creat¬
ures loved and wept, buried deep in the dark
dwellings of Death, unable to break through
them, unable to irradiate the darkness, yet
never assimilated to the darkness; living in
the heart of the death-kingdom ; always a dim
unquenchable hope glowing far down in the
depths.
Old Laon listened, and responded with
the great tragedy of the Bound Titan, who
brought the sacred fire to man ; of the stir
lio VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
rings of soft wings around his agony, of the
lament of the tortures, of the dim glimpses ol
a far-off hope, of some deliverer to be txîrn in
the after-ages out of much anguish.
" Srange !" he would murmur, " strange
Barbarians as these are, there is something in
them that vibrates to our music as these Lat¬
ins never can.
" These Romans are ever the centre of the
world to themselves, and see nothing above
their own stature. Of our Homeric legends
what can they make but a pioua .¿Eneas, from
whom can be traced in lineal succession the
pedigree of a divine Augustus? No unan¬
swerable riddles in the world for them : no
cloud-dwellings and fire-abysses ! A very
solid, definite world this to thern, requiring
solidly-built ditches to drain it, and well-made
roads to cross it,—which they make. In fact,
they never had more than one god whom they
really worshiped. The divinity of the Ro¬
mans in their noble days was Rome. Their
Jove was Jupiter the Capitoline, not Zeus the
Olympian. The lesser gods were all supreme¬
ly occupied, not with each other, but with
Rome. Nothing could tempt the god Bound¬
ary to desert his ancient home on the Capito¬
line, or to recede from the utmost pillar Ro¬
man ambition se' up to him at the furthest
limit of ODnquest Janus threw open hi« tern.
f
YIGTORY OF THE YANQUISHÈH ivi
ple-gates and poured thence a sudden lloodi
sweeping back the enemies of Rome ; where¬
fore in time of war his. temple is ever open.
They had temples to Roman virtues (when
there were Roman virtues)—to Industry, to
Fidelity, to Concord, to Hope, Hope in the
destiny of Rome, which once the whole peo¬
ple thanked a defeated general for not aban¬
doning. Each house had its lords and pro¬
tectors, its Lares and Penates, guardians of
Roman hearths. Their priests were no se¬
cluded worshipers of the Invisible, but minis¬
ters of state, augurs of battle, sacrificing, and
searching the will of the gods by auguries, for
Rome.
"In the temple of Vesta the virgin priest¬
esses guard the sacred fire for Rome ; and in
the camp or on the battle-field the Roman
eagles must be guarded as religiously as the
Sacred Fire. In their noblest legends, broth¬
er, sister, wife, husband, life, were sacrificed
unhesitatingly for Rome, for the republic, the
city, the country. Patriotism was the ancient
religion of Rome."
"And now?" said Siward.
" There is no Rome now, so say the noblest
Romans. The Roman senate is a name. The
Roman people a mob of idle beggars, l^he
old temples stand, and incense is burnei on
every shrine. But still the Romans have only
one god whom they really worship,"
112 VICTORY OF THE VANQVISHED.
' Who is he?" said the boy eagerly. "He
must be strong."
" Caesar !" said the old man in a loi»
voice.
" I have seen a temple to Julius Caesar on
the summit of the Velia, fronting the Temple
of Jove in the Capitol," said Si ward.
"Yes; he was the first. But he is only
adored now for the sake of the third ; the liv¬
ing Caesar. Tiberius Caesar is the real god
of Rome. Caesar is no shadowy dweller
among ihe Dii Manes, in Elysium, or any¬
where else. He must be terrible and living,.
He must be able to give the Roman daily
bread to cat, and provinces to plunder."
" He has no temples ?" asked Siward ; " I
have seen none."
" No," replied Laon. " His worshipers have
entreated permission to erect him altars and
temples ; but he will not suffer it. Strange to-
say, this divine man, whom all men worship,
does not worship himself. He does not be¬
lieve himself divine. But this religion has no
need of temples. Thete are no mysteries in
it. Its rites are practical as the Roman roads
and ditches. The Temple of Cassar is the
world. His symbols are in every man's hand.
Shall I show you one !"
The old man took out a coin with the hc'id
of Tiberius
VICT0R7 OF THE VANQUIBHEH uj
" Patriotism was the religion of the old Ro¬
mans," he concluded. " The religion of mod¬
ern Romans is the service of Caesar. Of the
#
living Caesar," he concluded, emphatically:
" since even tht Caesars continue not, by rea¬
son of Death."
" Death cannot be kept even out of As-
gard !" observed the boy. " But tell me, La-
on, what kind of a man is Caesar? For after
all he is a man. I have seen him talking with
our Caesar Germanicus like other men. I
have stood mute and motionless tor hours
through the night, waiting on the table be¬
hind him at a feast. And I have seen him eat.
I have seen his slaves cut up the meat for him
into small morsels, after the fashion of patri¬
cians here, and of babes among us. He needs
to eat, like other men, and to sleep. But this
also do they do in Valhalla. The monstrous
boar which the heroes eat by night is put to¬
gether by day, out of the bones, to be eaten
to-morrow. But Odin eats not. Wine is meat
and drink to him. Wliich of our gods, or of
}ours, is Tiberius like? Is he like Odin, or
Baldur ? Or like Apollo, who seems the great,
god of your Greece—the god with the lyre,
wairior and poet and king and sea-god, who
killed the dragon?''
Laon's eyes twinkled w^lh a svrange light
as he glanced round to see one was near.
114 VICTOR Y OF THE VANQ UlSHBD.
" It is not always safe to speak one's niind
of the gods. They are said to use lightnings
instead of swords. And this god, if he has no
1 lightnings, has axes and rods, which, to our
mortal eyes, hit with more precision and cer¬
tainty. There is a crime called the Wounded
Majesty of Caesar. A disrespectful word
spoken against Caesar is the blasphemy of this
Roman religion. For this blasphemy there is
no expiation. Which of the gods is Tiberius
Caesar like?" he continued, recurring to Si-
ward's question. " Did you not tell me your.
Odin had a raven which brings him tidings
of all that is said and done throughout the
world ? Tiberius Caesar has a countless num¬
ber of such ravens. They are called Inform¬
ers. They wear no livery of state. But they
are the chief police of the state. They watch
by every hearth. You might be such a raven
for Germanicus, if you wished. It is said the
voung Caesar does not too well love the reign¬
ing Caesar. It is certain Tiberius Caesar hates
Germanicus. You might hear one day some
careless word, and report it to the Emper¬
or. And for that word you might earn free¬
dom, riches, honors—honors svch as Caesar
can give "
" I earn such honors as those !" exclaimed
Siward. " In Germany we call that treach¬
ery. Does Tiberius choose to be served thus?
riöTom (íf tue vanquished, hj
This is not lik-c lîaldur or any noble being.
Can any love him and serve him freely ?"
" I certainly never heard that any one loved
T berius Caesar, unless it be the Empress
Mother, who won the sceptre for him," said
Laon; "or that any served him freely- Nor
did I ever hear that he loved any one, or
sought that any one should love him or serve
him freely. I myself once heard him say in
Greek as he came out of the senate, ' Hozv fit
these men are for slavery' But he can pay ;
and he can slay. What could his worshipers
want more ? For what is this love you speak
of? Are your gods or ours always or alto¬
gether good, that they should be loved ? At
least what we should call good. Are morals
the same for gods and men ? Is Tiberius Cae¬
sar to be judged as you and I should judge
ourselves? The gods are powerful. Crcsar
is powerful. Is not that enough ?"
" Is he the god of all Romans" asked Si-
ward, perplexed.
"Sorie Romans think they worship our
gods—the gods of Greece," said Laon; "as
they think they understanji the poets and phi¬
losophers of Greece, and even make Greek
poetry and philosophy themselves. They
profess great reverence for our Athens, ard
like to be considered fellow-citizens and fellc**'-
worshipers with the Greeks who made v »
Il6 TWTORY OF THF VANQUISHED.
Deautiful old statues and built the beautilu.
old temples. Bui I doubt if the tribes of men
can worship each other's gods. They borrow
the names. But through all the Grecian dra¬
peries comes the head, not of Zeus, the cloud-
compeller, throned in majestic calm, but the
strong soldier's face of the Capitoline Jove.
" Similarly, if you tried to adore our Apollo,
your heart would not see the joyous Apollo,
the radiant, the far-darting, with the lyre and
silver bow, but Baldur your beautiful, with a
divine sadness on his face, wept by all creat¬
ures, with the shadow of your clouds on his
brow. But every religion has lesser gods.
Among those of the Romans there is Juno
Moneta, the Counselor. She had her shrine
of old on the Citadel of Rome, opposite the
Capitol. It is now the Roman Mint. This
temple is erected still in the citadel of many
a heart. Money must ever be a god of nations
and men, among whom the Temple of Hope
is in ruins."
" The gods, of men are diverse, my mother
said, as their fathers and their dwellings. Let
each keep to his own."
"Your mother is wise. But so think not
the Romans. There is a restless searching
among them hither and thither for new gods,
especially among women. Reme is full of
new temples and new rites, brought from the
VIÜTORT OF THE YANQUISHED. | /
ends of the earth, from Egypt, from Persia.
Some Roman noble matrons have even em¬
braced a gloomy Syrian superstition peculiar
to a tribe called Jews, a misanthropic race,
who hate all other races of men—will not even
cat with them, nor enter the temples, nor as¬
sist at game or race ; and in their own sanc¬
tuaries have no symbol or sacred image, but
an ancient book, which they kiss, and seem to
listen to as if it were divine. Beyond this I
know not that they have any other shrine,
unless it be the shrine of the Mint goddess.
Money-lenders many of them are, with a mar¬
vellous faculty for growing rich. What beauty
or good there is in them, or in their worship,
it is difficult to say. But women are capri
cious and this worship of Csesar does not
seem to suit the hearts of women."
Siward looked earnestly into Laon's face,
as he was wont to do when perplexed with
his words, tq read the meaning in his eyes.
" Is Cassar your god, Laon ?" he asked ab¬
ruptly.
" I told you he had forbidden that men
should worship him. Should I disobey the
decree of Caesar? He has no temple. How
can I burn incense to him ?"
Laon," said the boy, " in what temple d
you burn incense?"
The old man paused a moment.
Il8 VICTORY OF THE } á HQUISHBD.
" In the nearest, my son," he replied at
length concisely. " Do not the immortals
know that I am lame ?"
Siward looked dissatisfied.
" What matters it," Laon continued, " in
what temple an old slave like Laon worships ?
Have my vows and supplications brought
iown such divine favors on me, that any nee'd
seek to imitate them ?"
" Laon," the boy replied, in his straigthfor-
ward way, "your gods, I think, have given
you the best gifts. They have rnade you pa¬
tient and kind and wise, and strong in heart.
I wish to know your gods."
" Boy," said the old man, gravely, " you
have scarcely yet needed the barber's skill.
Shall I ell you in a moment all the secrets of
seventy years? There is something we call
love of wisdom, which, when old faiths die,
may 'tplace them perhaps with what they
meant. But while the old faith lives, let it
live. 1 he meaning is there, if veiled. And
if it make the life brave and pure, what can
philosophy do more?, Our wisest said. De¬
stroy not the old legends, the truth is in them.
" But come," he added, turning the subject,
" I will show you what the divine government
of this Caesar is like."
And he took from a drawer a cast from the
cameo of the Apotheosis of Augustus. Si-
ward looked at it lo^g.
VICTORY OF THE VANqVJSUED. ¿¡g
Above, the Emperor enthroned in easj
majesty among the gods, beside the divine
city Rome, with her crown of towers, himself
placing on his own head the laurel crown.
Around, Roman soldiers, chariots, and horses,
triumphant men, a beautiful woman with the
horn of Plenty, and happy children.
Below, the vanquished, prostrate, half-
crushed, under yokes, dragged by the hair,
fettered, seeking to hide their faces in clasped
hands. No appeal to Caesar for them, nothing
but to be trampled under his feet. To the
vanquished Woe!
The boy turned away.
He never forgot that this Woe reached
down to slavery, and to the possibility of the
death of the Cross.
" No appeal for us to this god !" he mur¬
mured at length. " But in our north, Herman
the Deliverer lives still. Our gods dwell in
the north and look southward. When we
pray we turn to the north."
And he resumed his work at the metals
with redoubled purpose.
The old man understood, but did not re¬
monstrate. It was some time before either
spoke again. Siward was earnestly bending
over his work, so earnestly that he did not
observe a soft footstep approach the door, un¬
til something of unusual light fell on him, and
I20 VICTORY OF THE VAKQUISHED.
looking up suddenly he saw a young maiden
standing before him. She stood, erect and
radiant, entirely clothed in white, in marked
contrast to the languishing, jewelled, per¬
fumed women of her time. Not an ornament
nor a jewel drew the eye from the stately
grace of her figure or the delicate beauty of
her face. There was no color about her, ex¬
cept the golden glow on the brown hair and
the soft flush of youth on the cheek, no sparkle
except the beaming of her eyes, when at rare
moments the long lashes were raised and she
looked up.
Yet it seemed as if her presence brought
the light of the open heavens into the dark
workshop. The whiteness of her stole was not
like any whiteness he had seen on earth. Si-
ward thought. It was like the radiance of
clouds in the clearest moonlight, or of swans
basking in the sunshine among the green
shadows of a river. And so, with her move¬
ments. Like a cloud or a swan, she had float¬
ed on his sight.
Instinctively he laid down his tools, as if in
an imperial presence, and stood before her,
but with eyes that did not venture to seek
hers. He stood bathed in a heavenly light.
Until she spoke; and the tones of the sweet,
girlish voice seemed to wake him out of one
bright dream into another. At first he corn-
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 121
prchended nothing but the music of the tones.
They were music—music such as he had nev¬
er heard before. He no more thought of
words than if he had been listening to some
far-off melody of flutes across the waters, until
old Laon's voice broke in on the vision.
She was speaking ; and speaking of him.
" Clœlia the Vestal has come hither," Laon
said, " to thank thee for rescuing Clcelia Dio-
dora, her sister."
" Can I do anything for thee ?—thou hast
done well and bravely for us," she said, with
a simple kindness. "The Vestals have some
rights and special privileges. If by chance
we meet a criminal on his way to execution,
we can demand his pardon."
A great rush of hope came into the captive
boy's heart, and brought the power of man¬
hood into his face. He raised his eyes, looked
proudly into the pure, sweet face, and said,
calmly,—
" I am no criminal. I am no captive cap
tured in fair ñght. We were betrayed. We
were born free. But, now, I am a slave in
the household of Caesar Germanicus."
A cloud pased over her countenance.
" The house of the Caesars is above all laws
and rights," she said, " Would it had been
any one else !"
She stood with clasped hands, mournfullv
6
122 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
cast dvown. He would have given much to
recall his words, and brink back the radiance
to her face. At length he ventured to speak.
" Let not my evil chance darken thy heart,
lady," he said. " Others have won back free¬
dom : and so will I, for me and mine. Liberty
is better conquered than given."
She looked up, and her face shone once
more. There was a will in his words which
made them prophetic.
" Brave words," she said, and true. If I
can do anything to set thee free, I will. If not,
thou wilt do it ; and that will be better for
thee."
And with a smile, which to him was like a
sacred augury of victory, she went out of the
workshop ; and he watched her glide, under
the shadow of the balconies, down the narrow
crowded lane. The way was made for her,
he thought, among the throng, not by the lic-
tor, but by her own beauty. She passed
through the throng like a sunbeam.
Siward returned to his work, and lelt as if
(t had been consecrated by incense and sacri¬
fice. It was not till after a long silence that
he said,—
" Laon, she is no worshiper of Tiberius Cae¬
sar, nor of the Mint goddess."
"No," said the old man; "she lives in a
lovely vision—herself the loveliest part of it
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
Her religi on is the religion of old Rome. Da_y
and night she guards the Sacred Fire for her
country, for Rome ; and knows not that the
Rome she spends her life for lives no more.
The fire burns on the altar ; but the divinity,
the Patria, for whose sake it bums, is dust
and ashes !"
So the weeks and months passed on for Si-
ward. Not slowly, or altogether sadly. He
felt each day the bracing sense of power gain¬
ed ; gained for what to him were the noblest
ends. And meanwhile he was gaining uncon¬
sciously other powers higher than he could
estimate. Stores of wisdom from the old civ¬
ilization were penetrating his mind through
the words of old Laon.
He was still in the dawn. Continually new
fields of fact and thought were opening on
him. Every day the world grew larger and
wider to him, as the past of Greece and Rome
and of the old kingdoms of the world came
into the light before him.
Yet still he stood before the threshold of a
home. The sacred world lay still for him in
the home behind him, to which he meant to
return, with his mother and his sister, and
make it beautiful with all the treasures of
those new worlds.
Clcelia Diodora often came and sat in the lit¬
tle room behind the shop and listened to the
124
7IGT0RT OF TBE VANqUISHBD
talk of the two in the workshop. And some,
times she sang, in her rich southern voice,
lays and legends of old Rome.
He liked to listen. But no such magic
came with the poor child's tones to his heart
as with the slightest murmur of Qœlia the
V estai.
Only to the old man the poor deformed
child remained dearest of all. Sometimes he
would lay her small delicate hand on his fore¬
head, with an Oriental sign of homage, and
say,—
" Diodora, my god-given, thou and I are in
disguise here. Princely, but no one knows
us. What matters it? Does not our wise
man say we are in prison here? Have we
not heard a song fçw understand, and under¬
stood? But I too," he repeated, quoting
words well known to them both, " ' consider
myself a fellow-servant of the swans, and sa¬
cred to the same god, who, when they must
die, though they have been used to sing be¬
fore, sing then more than ever.' Read to me
the dying song of that swan-like soul of our
old Athens."
He had taught her the rare accomplishment
—for a girl—of reading. And of all reading,
he liked best to listen to the Phoedo in her
girlish tones, how "justice and goodness and
beauty are something, and really exist and
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISUEÍ).
" the soul, which is invisible, from the prison
of the body goes to another place like itself—
excellent, pure, and invisible/'
" That barbarian lad is brave and true, and
loves to leam," he said ; but we have to lead
him a little further before he can understand
our swan's singing."
Bat on the heart of Clcelia the Vestal the
shadows fell more frequently. She tried, but
could not effect Siward's liberation. As she
fed the fires in the Temple, the irremediable
sorrows around her, of Clœlia her suffering
sister, and of Si ward tne slave, and through
them of the great suffering world, pressed
closer and more heavily on her heart.
And with these, from time to time, came
rumors of the wickedness of the city ; a sti¬
fling fear that the Rome whose sacred hearth-
fire she kept was not the free-born Rome of
old, but something very different—more like
the city in the Apotheosis of Augustus, with
stony stateliness trampling the oppressed
world under her feet.
And with this fear, now and then, came
lovely, innocent dreams of some hearth she
might have kept bright and pure, and made a
source of light and joy.
Every evening Siward passed by the palace
of Tiberius C£esar on the Palatine, and thought
126 VICTORY OF THE VANQVISRED.
of the picture of the divine government of
Augustus with a defiant heart.
" God of this wicked, cruel, idle, mocking
Rome," he thought ; " but not of us, the sons
of the North. For us lives Herman the De¬
liverer."
With this hope in him, the sarcasms of his
fellow-slaves fell harmlessly. And with a
strong, light heart he went on to leam how
to fashion the liberating sword.
In many ways he was right.
All power in heaven and on earth was in¬
deed not given to Tiberius Cassar.
One universal Empire was at hand ; but it
was not his.
The Deliverer who could unbind the many
burdens and bid the oppressed go free, was
indeed on earth.
But it was not Herman.
The King who was to demand and receive
the homage of the world, and overthrow the
palace of the Palatine and the images of the
Capitoline, through many patient years to
come, was consecrating and ennobling the
labor of the humblest workshop in the Su-
bu^ra or the Velabrum.
The kingdom of God was at hand.
But its fcmndations were being laid in the
carpenter's workshop at Nazareth.
CHAPTER VIII.
HAT fine fortune has the New
Y ear brought thee ?" said old
Laon, looking from his work as
Si ward entered the workshop on
New Year's Day, his honest face radiant \ ith
life and hope. " You look indeed like ont of
your happy Hyperboreans. Make the n ost
of to-day by all means. Tiberius Caesar has
forbidden the New Year's presents to be con¬
tinued beyond to-day. Boy, have they b-îen
making thee glad with honey-cakes, and iigs,
and dates ; or what good news has cheered
thee ?"
" Nothing, but that Caesar Germanicus is
to leave this idle, miserable Rome for his gc v-
ernment in the East, and we go with him."
"Are thy happy fields then in the Ea&t?
Ours were in the West, or beyond the North
Wind. But, indeed, it matters little wheie.
Anywhere but where we have been, or where
we are."
("7)
128 VICTORY OF THE YANQUISHED.
" We are going first to thy Greece, Laon,
said Siward.
"To my Greece ? My Greece died and was
buried long years ago ; or rather was not bu¬
ried, which is worse. Dost thou not know
that nations, like ourselves, die a thousand
times before they are said to die. First the
child dies, then the boy, then the man. At
last old age must die, and with it we our¬
selves. So with Greece. First the gods died
—^that is, passed among the shades—then the
heroes, then the men. Dost thou think to
find Apolla in Greece, or Achilles, or the he¬
roes of Thermopylas, or the wise men of the
Grove, of the Porch, or of the Garden, that
thou rejoicest thus to quit old Laon and his
workshop in the Suburra ? As glad to go ac
to come. Like the rest, like the rest !"
Siward's countenance fell. He said littU
in reply, but settled down quietly to his work,
knowing well by this time that the way to
quiet his old friend's temper when ruffled was
to let him have his grumble out. Moreover,
when he put them to himself, he found Laon's
questions rather unanswerable. It was not
clear what good he expected from the change.
A slave in the Palatine, he would be equally
a slave in tiie Acropolis or on the Mediter¬
ranean. It was only clear that it would be a
relief to escape from this Rome. This and
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
a vague hope of learning something which
might bring him nearer freedom and Her¬
man, were what had made him glad.
Old Laon did not recover all that day, and
dismissed the boy early.
But the next morning, when Siward en¬
tered the workshop, he was greeted with a
grim smile,
" I also am going to the East with Caesar
Gcrmanicus," Laon said. " Not so eas)^ to
escape an old tyrant like me. Clœlius Tul-
lus has let me to young Caesar, to be one of
the armorers of the expedition. It will bring
my master a good sum, and at the end I am
to have my freedom, and perhaps may do
something for thee and for others. At An-
tioch I had some who knew me once. Who
knows but we might have a workshop there
together, in Antioch, the third city in the
world (for beauty, the first)—and find thee
there a bright-eyed Syrian bride?"
This was very far from the goal of Siward's
ambition. To him every stroke of work was
a step on the way to Herman, to the pine
forests, where smith was a title of honor, and
the hammer and anvil would be as much
needed and as much esteemed as the spear
or the sword in the liberation of his people.
He had thought Laon understood this; but
now the old man's kindly dreams of an old
6*
4
I30 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED,
age in Syria, to wrJch he was to be as a son,
fell painfully on him, and he worked on si¬
lently with a feeling of one who was purcliajs-
ujg a treasure by false coin.
Laon's talk meantime flowed far away into
fond descriptions of Antioch as he remem¬
bered it in his childhood, before he was or¬
phaned and sold to pay his father's debts.
The long sweep of the Orontes winding un¬
der the hills ; the colonnades traversing the
city ; the groves on the hill-sides, with their
temples, and fountains, and statues ; the
strange blending of nations—not crushed into
monotony by the overpowering presence of
the metropolis and the emperor, as at Rome,
but free to develop in the most vivid colors
and in the richest forms all varieties of life—■
Syrians, Greeks, Jews, Egyptians, not stiffened
Latins, but all equally at home and luxuriat¬
ing in that wilderness of beauty. On all this,
glowing with the sunshine of childhood, con¬
trasted with the monotonous years of drudg¬
ery along the gloomy paths between, and yet
to be lit up with the after glow of a freedom
not altogether too late restored, the old man
dwelt, until Siward's honesty could stand it
no longer, and with northern abruptness—all
the more abrupt because of the pain of giving
pain—he exclaimed,—
" Laon, this city of pleasures is no home int
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHEB. 131
me. I have a mother and a young sister to
guard ; perchance a father, in the North :
certainly a country. If ever I am free, and
can do anything worth doing, I am free for
• Germany, to work and fight for Herman and
the children of my people."
To his surprise, the old man betrayed no
distress or displeasure. He only said, in the
words of a wise man of old,—
" ' We step into the same rivers^ and we do not
step into them' You think Germany is the
Germany you left. I, foolish old man, have
been thinking of Antioch as the Antioch I
left. You of yourself as the boy made cap¬
tive on the Rhine. I of myself as the child
that wove garlands on the Orontes. It mat¬
ters not. Let both keep their dreams. The
Rhine and the Orontes are flowing still—have
been flowing all the time. Time will show
which tide is the strongest."
But when Clcelia Diodora heard of the pro¬
posed departure, the little color in her pale
face forsook it altogether.
All the quiet hidden hours in the little dark
room over; the sweet peaceful hours, out of
sight of every one, and within hearing of
the old man's talk, and of those wild north¬
ern sagas of Siward's which had bordered
her world with a forest-land of mystery ; the
singing of the old Latin lays to those two
132 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISUED.
who iDved to listen ; the readings in the w.se
books of old !
Moreover, between Clœlia and Siguna had
been growing a quiet strong affection. Si¬
guna, the homely, imaginative German moth¬
er, had been less repelled than the people of
the sunny artistic South by her deformity.
The Gothic poetry, with its humor and its
pathos, with its power of interweaving the
grotesque and quaint into its grandeur and
beauty, lay hidden in her heart. She had a
way of thinking of the poor girl with her
dark, wistful eyes and her shrunken face, as
of one of the JEsir disguised for some mys¬
terious purpose. Sometimes she would say
to Siward,—
"Those eyes are the only part of Clœlia
Diodora that really belong to her. All the
rest is a mask."
Little Hilda also had found out the treas¬
ures of imagery and legend in Clœlia, and
would sit listening to her enrapt for hours ;
so that between the captive mother and child
and the maiden—captive in the poor crippled
frame with a life-long captivity — a strong
triple bond had been woven.
And now as Laon told her of Antioch, and
how all this was to be rent away from her she
sat pale and speechless, with clasped haiiv Is.
" Child." said the old man—" Diodora, njy
VíGTOBY OF THE VANqUISHED, 133
god-given—I am going for thy sake. I am
going to earn freedom, perchance to make a
home for thee. Thy parents will find some
one to adopt, and then may be will spare thee
once more to the old man who thought thee
worth saving of old."
She shook her head.
"The sea!" she cried; "storms, shipwrecks,
perils of strange lands, of robbers, of pirates !"
" Child," he said, trying to smile, " there are
no pirates ndw. Have I not told thee how
the great Pompey swept the seas clear of
them more than half a century since ! Roads
through all the world, pirates swept from the
seas. Thy countrymen have done their work
well in making journeying safe. If only they
had better ends to journey for. Thou wouldst
not fear these perils for thyself?"
" For myself, no," she said. " What worse
have I to fear, for myself?" Then kindling
with the enthusiasm which always lay deep
within her—
"You are going," she said, "and going to
» Athens ! To the fields where the bravest men
fight and the sweetest singers sang, and the
olive-groves where Plato taught and listened
to Socrates ; perhaps to the sea-shore where
Thetis came up and with soft hands soothed
her son, grieving from the height of her di¬
vine deathlessness that he should sufifer--
134 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
he who knew hk life was but for a litt'e
while !"
"We shall not hear them, child 1" said thv
old man. Then looking fondly at her, ho
added, " Thou perchance mightest !"
" Laon," she said, suddenly, " by the Foun.
tain of Egeria dwell a people of a strange
Eastern race. I was sitting at our garden
door the other day when one of them, a ven¬
erable gray-headed old man, was resting on
the slopes outside. He told me a strange
story of One they are looking for—have been
looking for more than thoiisands of years—a
King, to set all the wrongs of the world right.
They have been waiting for Him a thousand
years ; but the strange thing is, now they feel
sure He is near."
The old man smiled with a mournful con¬
tempt.
" Only a Jew !" he said. " Who heeds what
the Jews say ? A race of misanthropes and
money-lenders."
" Some noble matrons have learned to wor¬
ship with them," she replied. " So the old
man said."
Laon looked in alarm into the girl's face.
" Do not fear for me," she said, answering
his look. " His words only made me think
of the Bound Prometheus, of lo wandering
hither and thither in wanderings without rest,
VICTORY OF TEE VANQULSHED.
and of the promise of a Deliverer to be born
of her."
Take heed, ïhild," said the old man—
" take need. Some vi omen are wicked—some
Roman women have great burdens of crime
on their souls—and therefore are superstitious.
Many women have a great burden of sorrow,
and therefore are superstitious. And all
women have a dangerous longing for happi¬
ness, and are therefore superstitious. But
thee, all the wisdom I have taught thee to
love will guurd from such delusions—from
the degradation of becoming a prey to some
base superstition or dark magic of Egypt or
Syria! Thou hast walked too much in the
daylight beneath the Porch and in the Grove
to choose these damp and noisome caves."
" Stay and guard me then, Laon," she said,
smiling ; " or come quickly back. It was only
your words that made me think again of the
Jew. I wondered (it may have been a foolish
thought) whether ah these great Roads you
spoke of have been made straight, and all the
ways of the Great Sea have been swept clear,
for some Great One, some Deliverer. The
world seems to me so very restless and sad,
wandering hither and thither, like Jo, seeking
rest and finding none. It came into my mind
■ whether some Deliverer might be near. There
ar>î so many who suffer; but until that Jew
136 VIOTOET OF THE VANquISUED
spoke, I do not remember to have met witj
any who had such a hope. And then it flash¬
ed on me, what if you should come on traces
of the Deliverer in the wonderful, mystical
old East ? The Son of lo, who was to deliver
the Titan from the rock to which he was
bound and from the -eagle tearing his heait,
was to come out of Egypt ! And this proph¬
ecy of the old Jew—it does seem strange !"
" Not strange at all," said the old man,
sharply. " The legend of lo has been mixed
with other Eg)'ptian legends of Isis, and with
the Apis worship. And the Jews were a race
.of slaves who escaped from Egypt. Born
slaves, they had no golden age in the past,
and so they made it in the future. Not strange
at all, Diodora—not strange at all."
But Si ward listened, as he went silei»tly
on with his work, and wonderfi. ponderng
many things in his mind.
CHAPTER IX.
IHK Y left the city by the Appian
Way, bordered by its miles of tombs
—Siguna, Siward, and the child Hil-
1 da, among the other slaves of Ger-
manicus. Only a few months before, they had
entered Rome as an unknown region of en¬
chantment. They left the mistress of the
world with no diminished faith in her witch-
eries, but with a terrible knowledge out of
what elements her cup of enchantments was
mixed.
As the lines of temples which crowned her
hills faded from their eyes, Siward thought
how Laon had said that the Romans had but
one gol—^that all those temples where men
burned incense to legendary divinities or to
personifications of virtues were, in fact, but
porticoes of the true temple, the Palace on
the Palatine, whence Tiberius Caesar sent his
ravens into every home, to bring him tidings
of men's words and deeds.
('37)
138 VICTORY OF THE Vj^HqVISHEH
Yet the. hearts of the German captives were
less bitter than when, on that May day in the
past year, on the Flaminian Way, they had
trodden the last weary steps of the Great
Northern Road.
Siguna's thoughts went fondly back to one
patrician house on the Cœlian, where she
and her child were at that hour missed and
mourned by as sorrowful and lonely a heart
as any among the countless bands of captives
throughout the world.
And in Siward's heart at least one pure vi¬
sion remained ; one sweet maidenly form, one
pure hallowing presence, b.eautiful within and
without, was enshrined in his inmost thoughts.
Far indeed above him as the Noma maidens,
Clcelia Pulchra the Vestal, like a Norn her¬
self, secretly poured the waters from the liv¬
ing wells, not only , on the shrine of Vesta, but
around the roots of the young German's Tree
of life.i He saw her always as she shone on
him first in her white stole, without a jewel
or a decoration, lighting up the drudgery of
his daily work with her bright presence, and
gladdening it by the music of her voice.
He heard her say, " Thou hast done well
and bravely !" and her words crowned him
better than any wreath or laurel. He heard
her say, " If I can set thee free, I will. If not,
thou wi'.t do it. And that will be better for
%
VICTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
thee. ' And her words were to him as the
oracle of a priestess or the prophecy of a Teu-
ton Wala. She had said it, and he would do
it How could he fail?
Before they had gone far from the city, they
overtook old Laon limping slowly along, and
in no amiable mood.
Yet old Laon also had done more to ward
off the poison drops than Siward knew, grate¬
ful as he was to the old man.
For always in the midst of the works of
destruction, the crimes'and the avengings, the
droppings of the serpent's venom, which máke
so large a portion of history, we may be sure
He who has never ceased to care for man has
had His silent ministers patiently warding off
the poison. Little acts of kindness, little in¬
terchanges of human pity and goodwill have
never ceased,—voices far too gentle and low
for history to hear, but without which the
world must long since have come to a point
where history would have had nothing to re¬
cord, and human life would have become a
mere brute-like monotonous round of fighting
and feeding, or as a chaos of demons.
Once only, as they went along the road to
the coast, did all the old bitterness come back
to Siward's heart.
He was walking beside his mother one
VIGTOBT OF THE VANqUlSHED.
evening, carrying a heavy burden, when on
the slope of an opposite hill he suddenly per-
ceived two Crosses standing out black against
the sunset. Whether the forms on them were
living or dead, at that distance could not be
seen.
He stood between his mother and the terri¬
ble sight, and, trusting she had not seen it,
endeavored to stand as erect as he could be¬
neath his burden, and to interest her in othei
thoughts.
But glancing anxiously at her, he met her
eyes, and from the horror in them he per¬
ceived that she had seen but too plainly, and
knew what the sight meant.
They made no further attempt at speech
that evening, but walked behind each other
in unbroken silence.
Lives like those oí Germánicos and Agrip-
pina make little echo. We should have known
little of their pure and pleasant life together
but for the tragedy which borders and breaks
it, making a highway for the tread of history,
as the burning deserts make a highway for
the feet of the Bedouin into the pleasant pas¬
tures of the Holy Land.
The young Caesar and his wife were doubt¬
less as glad as any of their train to escape the
oppressive presence of Tiberius and the Era.
press-mother.
»
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
There must have been refreshment for the
young conqueror of the North, even in the
storms which his ships encountered on the
Ionian sea. Once more he had to wage open
war, now with the winds and waves of the •
Adriatic, as lately with the wild Northern
Seas, and the wilder tribes which dwelt on
their shores. The stifling atmosphere of the
Imperial court was left behind. The grand¬
son of Octavia and the grand-daughter of
Octavius could breathe freely by the coast ol
that Actium where Octavius had defeated
Antony before Livia was Empress or her son
Tiberius had the most distant prospect of the
throne.
Yet this journey was to Germanicus a vir
tuai exile, a banishment from the work he
had aspired to do for Rome, and the men he
had trained to do it. New enemies, new
comrades, new difficulties and dangers lay
before him. One thing only remained un¬
changed.
The suspicions of Tiberius, the ''envy of
the god " of the Romans, followeu him unre¬
lentingly everywhere. His friend Silenus
had been purposely removed from the gov¬
ernment of Syria, and an unscrupulous, am¬
bitious man of the great old Calpurnian house,
Cneius Piso, appointed to dog his footsteps
and thwart his plans wherever he went.
ê
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED
It was b)' no accident that an associai e waj
given to the young Caesar who from the first
undisguisedly disobeyed his orders and mis¬
interpreted his acts, and whose wife Plancina,
a favorite of the Empress-mother, lost no op¬
portunity of arrogantly defying and insulting
Agrippina.
Tiberius ventured to rely much on the
fidelity to duty and the evenness of temper
to be expected from Germanicus.
It was believed by many that he relied on
Piso and Plancina for darker services than
could be confessed ; and that in neither re
liance was he disappointed.
CHAPTER X.
T length the storms of the Ionian Sea
had been mastered, and the ships of
Germanicus were tranquilly at an-
chor in the Piraeus, with the brazen
statue of the guardian Athena flashing on
their sight from the summit of the Acropolis.
To Germanicus thé past memories of the
place were as sacred as to any of its citizens,
and he chose to waive as much as possible of
the state of the Caesar, and to approach the
ancient free city reverently,—not as, a cen¬
tury before, Sulla had-entered, with a con¬
quering army, battering down her Long
Walls and their towers, but as a pilgrim to
her shrines, and a disciple of her philosophic
schools, attended by one tutor.
In that century Rome had passed as much
under the intellectual rule of Athens, as .
A
Athens under the Imperial rule of Rome.
And along the road from the Piraeus to the
nty, between the walls and towers which SuU
("4J)
144 VICTORY OF THE VANQUIbEED
a had reduced to ruins, Caesar Gernianicua
passed reverently to the'judgment-seat where
Demosthenes had uttered models of oratory
for Roman orators,—to the Painted Porch
whose masculine philosophy had power to
revive something of the spirit of old republi¬
can Rome in the degenerate Romans of the
Empire,—to the theatres once crowded with
ludiences which could appreciate ^schylus,
—to the temples where the Zeus and the
Athena of Phidias, and of Olympus, dwarfed
the Capitoline Jove to a mere tribal divinity
of yesterday ; yet where beside the altars of
the Olympians incense was burned by the
Athenians to " the goddess Rome," and to
Augustus, the brother of his grandmother
Octavia.
All Athens poured out along the roads and
on the quays to do honor and give welcome
to the adopted grandson of the divine Augus¬
tus, and " to represent to him the glories oí
Athens." But the most sensitive Roman
vanity could scarcely have been wounded by
the loftiest Athenian glorification of the Acro¬
polis, now that the Acropolis had become a
pedestal for Caesar.
Old Laon was in a tremor of suppressed
'enthusiasm as they approached the glorious
shores.
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 145
When he caught sight of the statue of
Athena, he seized Siward's arm and said,—
" Boy, that statue is made of the brazen spoils
of Marathon. No Persian could look at that
for centuries without having flashed in his
eyes the victory and freedom of Greece."
" Athens is free now ?" asked the boy.
" Free ! yes, a freed slave ! Free, as I shall
be a freed man when I have worked out this
expedition," said the old man bitterly. " Suf¬
fered to be free. But that old freedom, wrung
from a mighty foe, was worth having," he ad¬
ded ; " worth the three hundred lives freely
sacriflced for it in the dark cleft among the
• hills. It meant,—Herodotus, and ^Eschylus,
and Phidias, and Socrates, and Plato, and
Demosthenes ; the Academy, the Lyceum, the
Garden, the Porch. That was a liberty worth
conquering. It was no mere liberty," he con¬
cluded grimly, ''to hunt boars, and build
huts, and roam as free as wild beasts in the
forests."
Siward flushed slightly at the implied con¬
trast. He had been thinking of the spoils of
the legions of Varus, and of Herman the De¬
liverer, in the Teutoberger Forest, and won¬
dering when trophies would be reared of
these, and he felt abashed. But in a few min¬
utes he took courage and said,—" The free¬
dom came first, Laon, and then the wisdom
and the glorv • did it not?"
146 VBJTORY OF TU3! VAU(¿U1SHED.
" The cities worth keeping free, and the
men who conquered the freedom, and in
whose souls the wisdom sprang, came first,
said Laon. " The ages have scarcely a second
harvest like that. The old soil is worn out, the
crops degenerate and grow feebler year by
year. If you have yet virgin soil in your
North, where will you find a Sower to sow
new seed ?"
The ship nearcd the quay. In a few mo¬
ments came the shock of touching the shore,
and all the turmoil of landing amongst the
Athenians, eager to see and to hear some new
thing. In the confusion the German captives,
having to take their share of the work, were
separated from Laon.
4
It was not until some hours afterwards that
Siward overtook the old man limping alonp
the muddy road from the Piraeus.
His philosophy was sorely tried by the div
Acuities of the way.
" Those Romans have, after all, their use i»
the world ' he muttered. " I always said so
They made unexceptionable roads and drains.*
At that moment a young Greek came u|
to Laon and gave him a cordial welcome
" Do you not remember me," he said—" Cal
lias, the son of Damaris ? I am here studying
for my statu is."
** Statues are all very well, my excellent
Callias," said Laon, struggling out of a mud-
VWTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
hole into which he had plunged in tlie sur
prise of the meeting. " But is it possible that
Pericles and Phidias and Plato, and all the
wise men and artists, plunged through all
tnis filth ? That Socrates, for instance, tran¬
quilly pursued his divine discourses, uninter¬
rupted and unmoved by being plunged at
every second breath into these mud rivers ?"
" Possibly Socrates walked and talked after
fine weather," said Callias, in a tone which
implied that the difficulties and discourses of
Socrates were not of prime moment to him.
He would doubtless have echoed the senti¬
ment that " to be the living slave even of a
needy master was better than to be lord over
all the dead."
" Your mother told me you were in Syria."
" So I was. I came to make statues for
Herod Antipas, for what they call his Golden
House, in his new city of Tiberias."
"You scarcely needed to study after Phid¬
ias to meet the taste of a Jew!" said Laon,
contemptuously.
" I need it to meet my own," said Callias.
" Besides, the Herods are great builders, and
nave people around them who can tell them
what they ought to admire. But I should
scarcely need to copy Phidias, if I could have
such models as I have seen on the quay of the
Pirosus to-day."
148 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
" What ! have the Olympians descended
for thee also ?" said Laon, smiling.
" Scarcely Olympians. Happy Hyperbo¬
reans, perhaps. One a tall, majestic, matronly
woman, with a step stately enough, eyes soft
enough, and a brow grand and calm enough
for Juno. Another a child, who in a year or
two will be the perfection of a Hebe—fair,
with color in her cheeks like the tips of a
shell, and teeth like the pearly inside ; eyes
blue like the sea, and hair that made a sun¬
shine around her face. Mother and child,
they seemed,—simply dressed, yet well, liks
slaves of some great house."
Siward listened eagerly. With his imper¬
fect knowledge of the Greek which they were
speaking, he half caught the meaning, when
Laon addressed him,—
" Callias is speaking of your mother and
sister."
The young sculptor took a long look at Si-
ward.
" I see ! You must be of the same race," he
said. " Let me model you in a group. I can
pay well for models," he added softly to Laon,
apart.
"We are slaves," said Siward, proudly. " I
suppose the very reflection and image of us
is not Ol rs to sell ! And if it were we would
not sell it."
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 14g
%
I
" Nay, ^or that matter," said the young ar¬
tist ; " we are all slaves ; we are all bought
and sold. Only some have the advantage of
putting their price into their own purse. Our
forefathers created statues to make their old
city beautiful, and saw them live in thousands
of adoring eyes. I sell them to a barbarian
pripce, who values them by the cost of their
marble, and the praise of his courtiers, among
a people who, if they dared, would grind
them to powder, and make me drink them in
water, as their ancestors did."
" But you make the statues ! " said Siward ;
" and if I were a sculptor, that is what I would
like best. No one can rob you of that."
The sculptor turned towards the boy with
a penetrating glance.
''True!" he said, in a more serious tone.
" A little of that I understand. But you have
been born at the wrong time, if you mean to
live by that rule."
" Our friend comes from the North," inter¬
posed Laon, " where the v^orld is still young."
" The family look like it," said Callias.
" Such types belong only to pristine days."
" This boy interests me," he added to Laon
in rapid Greek. " Can it be that the soul is
ike the body—beautiful, vigorous, and sim¬
ple? Is there indeed a race like this ? Then
the Olympians may look to their thrones I
150 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
%
would fain see more of such a family. It is
like bathing in a pure mountain river to
breathe their presence. Are the mother and
sister the same ?"
" As pure and beautiful within and with¬
out " said Laon.
" Then, for old acquaintance' sake, bring
me to know them ! A bride from such a
stock would be a perpetual fountain of
youth '
"You talk of renewing youth, boy! You
have scarce begun your youth."
"Do you not know? No one is young
now." He spoke lightly. But a shade of
unfeigned melancholy came over the mobile
countenance, and took the light 'of the keen
dark eyes. " Long since the gods, and Youth
among them, have been banished among the
'shades. And, in revenge, they have taken
the sunshine and solidity from earth, and
have made mere shadows of us all."
" Wisdom remains," said Laon, severely.
"Yes, philosophy remains," replied the
young artist, bitterly, " the most shadowy
shade of us all. She wanders, mumbling old
saws, from the Lyceum to the Academy, from
ine Porch to the Garden, only in earnest
when she wakes to fight over some old battle,
or when she whispers to the initiated her last
secret,—that, not only are there no gods, and
riGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 151
no Patiia,—there is no truth, at least none dis.
ceraible for man."
As they talked, slow as their progress was,
Üiey had, nevertheless, approached the. City.
The glorious Acropolis, itself one great
Temple with a hundred shrines, of which
Greece was the platform, and the world the
outer court, rose above them.
They went on through the City ; through
the Agora, where the free people of old had
met. But now, among its hosts of beautiful
statues, lounged listlessly the idle throngs of
a degraded populace, pestering the new-com¬
ers for alms or traffic.
Laon turned round in disgust.
" Come again to-night," he said to Callias,
" when these chattering ghosts of old Athens
are laid. Then we shall see the real Athens
—the. only Athens that will ever live any
more. Meet us here, Siward," he added,
suddenly ; " here by the Altar of Pity. After
all," he added, " it is the only Altar to Pity in
the world. Siward, to-night we will come
back to it, and you shall see' our Athens
Bring your mother and the child, if you can
I suspect if there is another Altar to Pity in
the world, it is in thy mother's heart."
CHAPTER XI.
HIN, that«vening, old Laon led Si-
guna and the child Hilda to the Al¬
tar of Pity, by a sudden impulse she
knelt and embraced the stone, and
laid the soft cheek of the child against it.
"There is no Altar to Pity in Rome !" she
said softly, as if to herself, as she arose.
" But in Athens," said the young Athenian
sculptor, proudly, " there are no Crosses and
no gladiatorial games. The two could not
have the freedom of one city."
Siguna looked gratefully into his face.
" The young sculptor wished to see you,'
said Laon. " His mother Damaris you know
He himself is free ; lives often at Antioch ;
and may be of service to you in the strange
land, if the Caesar remains there, and I must
return to Rome."
He wished to say more. But Siguna was
not a woman to whom it was easy to pay
compliments. If indirect, she would scarcely
(•S^)
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
have perceived them ; if direct, she would
either have not heeded or have resented them
#
Laon was, inoreoA er, not clear as to what the
German theories might be as to models.
More than one custom virhich was not ques¬
tioned at Rome nor by Socrates, he had
found the German boy regard with horror as
a crime. Having, therefore, so far accom¬
plished the desired introduction, after a few
minutes of further conversation he suffered
Siguna and the child to go back to the house
of Germanicus, whilst he and Callias and Si-
ward pursued their way about the City.
" Now you must manage your own affairs,"
he said aside to Callias. " Only, I should re¬
commend you to say anything you want a
German to understand in plain language, and
to remember that l!ie Northern people have
peculiar notions of sell respect. The best
way to the mother's heart, if you really wish
the girl for a bride, is to do something for the
freedom of her children On thai point the
family are fanatical."
Very different images imprinted them¬
selves on the minds of the two Greeks and
tne young German, as they walked together
over the same hills and valleys and looked at
the same Acropolis.
The colors of the frescoes were effaced in
the moonlight, and the cluster of glorious
7*
154 yiOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
temples, the many crowns wherewith the
city had been crowned in the days of her
youth, rose white as alabaster against the
depths of the clear sky.
Siward looked at the fair columns and per
feet outlines, and up to the bronze statue of
the Virgin goddess shining in the moon¬
beams, her spear and shield outstretched in
ceaseless guardianship over the sleeping city:
He looked, and thought of Clœlia the Ves¬
tal in the silent Temple near the Roman Fo¬
rum, feeding the sacred fire, and keeping, he
thought, just such a guard for Rome.
He thought of Clœlia the Vestal, and of
the Altar to Pity, and of the streets and hill¬
sides unpolluted by the gladiatorial Games or
by the Cross.
Calilas thought of what he saw. The whole
beautiful present scene flashed back from his
mind as from a silver mirror.
T'-.e strip of level land edged b) the shin¬
ing sea, broken by the hills made to be the
pedestals they were; bounded by the dim
forms of the mountains, with groves of flow¬
ering shrubs, and silver-gray olives, and
stately planes, and the silver threads of
streams enriching it (after the recent rains) as
with delicate embroidery.
And at their feet, in the Agora, on the hill¬
sides, on the hill-tops, Athens, in his eyes
riOTORT OF THE VANQ^^SBED.
livinely peopled with the forms of god? and
god-like men, under the silent colonnades, in
the clear spaces under the clear heavens, en¬
shrined in Divine Dwellings in every grove
and on every slope ; forms of imperishable,
in^mutable beauty ; a whole Olympus, a whole
Iliad and Odyssey in marble.
Laon saw the Past, with its great deeds,
and heard its great voices. The Beauty to
iiim was merely a vesture for the Life.
The vesture remained. The life had passed
away. But in the silence of the sleeping city
all came back to him.
He saw the Persians beaten back from the
shores; he saw the Three Hundred—dead,
yet deliverers—vanquished, yet victors—in
chat dark pass of Thermopylae.
He saw in the brazen Athena the work of
Phidias and the spoils of Marathon.
From the Painted Porch in the Agora, from
the Garden in the City, from the trees by the
dry bed of the Ilissus, or from the greener
groves of the Academy, he heard great
voices,—even then voices of old, even ihen,
he felt, to almost all men around him, faint
murmurs from the world of shadows ;—the
voice of Socrates over the poison-cup, the
voices of Plato, of Aristotle, of ^schylus, of
Sophocles, and of Demosthenes.
The old man sat in a silence longer than
156 VICTOR Y OF TEE VANQUISEED.' -
usual with him. He felt his comparions
scarcely in harmony with him, and it was one
of those moments when a discord jarring on
the music within would have been not merely
an annoyance, but a pain. He wished for the
child Clcelia Diodora, his disciple, his god-
given. She would have understood. But
what was the use of saying what he felt about
Greece to a sceptical young sculptor or to a
Northern barbarian ?
The two young men roamed about the hills
together, and soon became on very good
terms with each other ; but the old man plead¬
ed his lameness, and sat on the rock-platform
whence had resounded the voice of Derhos-
thenes, meditating alone.
When they came back they found him still
seated, leaning on his staff, but with his face
to the City, instead of its being, as when they
left him, towards the Acropolis.
"The true Sanctuary of Athens is not
there," he said, rising and pointing up to the
Acropolis.
" It is below, in the prison where Socrales
took the poison-cup calmly and cheerfully as
a wine-cup at a banquet, where the officer of
the prison wept for him, deeming him the
most noble, meek, and excellent man that
ever entered into that place ; but where he
wept not for himself, for he said, * When 1
VICTORY OF THE VANqUISEED. 157
have drunk the poison I shall no longer re¬
main with you, but shall depart to some hap¬
py state of the blessed conjuring those who
loved him not to grieve when he died, as if
it was indeed he who suffered some dreadful
tning, or to say of his interment, It is Socra¬
tes who is earned out and buried. ' Of all his
time, the best, and wisest, and most just,' the
best men of his time said, yet refusing to be
called wise, but only one who loved Wisdom.
That vanquished man was the true victor
here. Why should we grieve for Athens," he
continued. " In her youth she rejected Soc¬
rates, and now in her old age she has built a
temple to the goddess Rome, and Caesar Au¬
gustus, beside her Parthenon !"
" Even Socrates refused to be called wise,"
said Callias. " Doubtless he knew how im-
possible it is to know."
"To know what?" said old Laon, reviving
and enkindling at the prospect of a debate.
" To know of what the world is made—wheth¬
er of fire, or of water, or of nothing. What
matters it not to know ? But that it is possi¬
ble to know what it does matter to know ;
what are beauty, and justice, and truth—what
we are. This, Socrates lived to make clear to
all men. This, he died because men would
not know. This, Athens has perished because
she would not know. And this, voung men,
>58 riGTOBY OF THE VANQUli^'UElt.
It matters infinitely that you and I should
know "
"Can we know?*' said Callias. ^ Did he
know? Did he not after all embark as on a
raft, risking himself on an unknown sea ? Has
the 'surer conveyance or the divine reason*
ne spoke of yet come?"
Laon did not reply.
As they spoke they had been winding slow
ly round Mars Hill the Areopagus, Laon lead¬
ing. At that moment they came out on a
wide deep ravine on the eastern side of the
hill.
" That is right !" murmured the old man at
last. " I thought I remembered. Boy," he
said, turning to Siward, " you asked me once
in what temple I worshiped. Come and see."
Further and further they penetrated into
the shadows of the ravine, until at the end of
the chasm, in a recess where not a ray of the
moon, now sinking, reached, they came to a
natural cave in the rock, faced with a few
simple columns, scarcely perceptible in the
gloom.
" This is the shrine of the Eumenides," the
%
old man said in a low voice. " Here at least
we must call them by their least-dreaded
name ! Here came of old from the Acropolis
the three avenging goddesses."
" How are these divine berngs propitiated ?"
riOTOBY OF THE YANQUISHED. 155
asked Siward, after a long silence, his voice
aláo insensibly subdued to the awed stillness
of the place.
" They are never propitiated Î Laon re¬
plied. " What they determine is just, and
cannot be changed. Ceaselessly their noise¬
less footsteps pursue the murderer, the per¬
jurer, those who disobey parents, who scorn
the suppliant or the aged, or betray the
guest.'*
" Their steps are slow," said Siward, think¬
ing of the betrayed wife of Herman, and of
the murdered babes of the house of Clœlius.
"They can afford to be slow," said Laon.
"They are older than all the gods."
" What are their forms ?"
"There are two accounts of their appear¬
ance," said Laon. "Necessarily. To those
they pursue they seem clothed in black, their
hair twined with serpents, their eyes dripping
blood. They are called the Avengers, the
Furies. To the just, and to the injured whom
they avenge, they are beautiful, grave, and
majestic virgins, clad and girt like huntresses,
as tliose who have work to do and cannot
4
linger about it—the Eumenides. For they
aie swift enough when the time comes. And
by their side is justice, the Divine ?"
" And are sacrifices offered to them ? asked
Si ward
t
l6o VIOTGRT OF THE VANQVISHED.
" Some sacrifice black sheep to them," Laon
replied, " as to the gods of the lower world.
Not, I think, to much avail. But I know
hands from which I think they wouli I accept
the white turtle-dove, and the golden narcis¬
sus, also sacred to them, gladly."
Slowly and in silence they retraced their
steps through the solemn ravine, leaving that
secret shrine of Conscience buried deep in
the rocky heart of Athens, undern .ath the
glorious temples which shone on h< r sunny
heights.
And the facts most deeply stampc d on Si-
ward's mind, as they quitted Athen í. were,
that in the meeting-place of her peoj there
stood an Altar to Pity, and deep in th " bosom
of her hills a Temple to Justice.
CHAPTER XII.
WAY from Attica sailed the ships oí
Germanicus, over the sunny Grecian
seas. Their last glimpse of the beau¬
tiful city was by ■ sunset — all her
pure and stately marbles glowing with a
tender rose, deepening into crimson on hçr
weather-beaten crags, and contrasted with
the imperial purple which draped the further
hills.
To the eye still the Athens of the glorious
old days ; perhaps even to the eyes of Caesar
Germanicus, as her multitudes poured out on
his departure to lavish on him the parting
honors, and speed his ships on their eastward
way.
His sojourn had been one festival. Perhaps
that flush of welcome seemed to all for the
moment as the flush of rekindling life. The
responsive enthusiasm which his genuine ad¬
miration for their past rang out of the Athe¬
nians, may have hidden from him the hollow
(i6i>
102 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHEU.
ness of the present. It is not from the high
places of the world that the widest or the tru¬
est prospects are seen.
From Athens he sailed to the coasts of
Troy. The grandson of Augustus had other
memories besides those of Homer to make
those shores sacred to him.
The brief blossoming-time of Latin poetry
had scarcely passed. Its fragrance lingered
on the air. Virgil had died not forty years
before ; Horace scarcely thirty. Their gar¬
dens and farms must still have retained the
traces of their planting. Ovid was dying of
sleeplessness and melancholy, an exile by the
Euxine Sea, by the mouth of the river Dan-
ube, on the borders of the Empire.
The earnest character of Germanicus—him¬
self, it was said, not without the gifts of a po-
4
et and an orator—must have given him more
sympathy with Virgil, the earnest and relig-
" ious poet of the Imperial house, than with
Horace, the fanciful singer of the light and
luxurious society of the Empire. His own
life had more of the grave epic than of the
iight and graceful lyric in it.
Around his pure and simple life, on every
side the laxity of a state slowly dissolving
through its own vices ; around his own ear¬
nest and loyal character, the entangling and
the cramping suspicions of a iealous court '
VICTORY OF THE VAEqVl8HED. 163
m no sense and for no period were the \ riei
years allotted him a voyage over a sunny sea.
Behind him on this very voyage, his ene¬
my, the friend of Tiberius, followed close—
the aristocratic Piso; as a member of the old
Calpurnian House, despising the grandson oí
the plebeian Octavius ; as the confidentiá
emissary of Tiberius, losing no opportunity
of thwarting the nephew whose popularity
the Emperor dreaded ; as a practical and ] ro-
saic Roman, priding himself on his scorn foi
the young Cassar's literary tastes.
Scarcely had Germanicus left Athens a 5 a
leverent pilgrim when Piso entered it, with
all the insolent pomp of the dominant race,
openly ridiculing the courtesy of his chief,
and calling the Athenians " an impure conflux,
the oflscouring of various nations," enemies
of Sulla and of Augustus.
In which sentence, when he heard it, old
Laon grimly acquiesced.
The Roman claims of Trojan descent were
by no means palatable to the old man, and he
grumbled at the expedition of Germanicus
to the plains of Troy. The Latin literature
he considered an upstart reproduction of fhe
Greek. Against the ^neid he cherished an
undisguised prejudice, half literary half polit¬
ical.
"The whole thing," he said to Si ward and
0
104 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHEO
«
to Callias, who accompanied them, " is noth.
ing better than an attempt to patch up the
Imperial pedigree ; an endeavor to make a
plebeian house into a patrician by giving it
ancestors in the clouds. The gods exist in it
for nothing but to be the forefatheis of Cas-
sar ; Providence exists but to ensure the su¬
premacy of Caesar. The whole of our glori¬
ous old Olympus is cut up into househola
images to carry in procession at the Imperial
funerals."
Indeed, much as he appreciated the courage
and courtesy of Germanicus, Laon had some¬
thing of an aristocratic scorn for the new Ro-
. man attempts at literature.
" Caesar Germanicus would have been bet-
ter employed subduing the Germans, and
making canals in Batavia, like his father, than
hunting out antiquities at Ilium. No doubt
he would have liked it better ; it is not his
fault that he is here. But the true type of
the Roman is Cneius Piso. The Emperor
feels it, and we Greeks feel it. It is more
tolerable for these people to profess to scorn
us, than to pretend to understand us."
"vEntas ! " he grumbled, as he was toiling
over the plains of Troy ; " who ever heard of
.íEneas? If he were a true Trojan he ought
to have died with his family at Troy, instead
of wandering over the world breaking foolish
riCrOBT OF THE VANqUISHED. 165
women's hearts ; himself, like a foolish wo¬
man, listening to every fortune-teller he came
- across."
Calilas ventured to suggest the beauty of
some of Virgil's descriptions of nature.
" Babbling," said the old man—" Babyish
babbling, as in a doting old âge, of the green
fields and flowers of childhood ! What do
the old patricians or the new rich men of
Rome care for green fields or groves, except
as places to cool wine and eat peacocks and
sucking-pigs in, purchased at the price of
plundered provinces? Nothing irritates one,"
he concluded, " like this simulated simplicity,
ihis extra-fine rusticity, except this turning
of poetry and religion into a factory of ficti¬
tious pedigrees."
The old man did not recover until they
sailed out of sight of the funeral mounds of
Troy and the heights of Ida. Then he soft¬
ened a little towards the Latin poets, and con¬
ceded that Virgil had the only religion, the
only poetry, a Roman was capable of—the
worship of the goddess Rome ; but that, blind¬
ed by the degradation of his time, he had mis¬
taken Imperialism for patriotism.
" And who are we, the Greeks of this age,
that I should scorn any ?" he concluded sadly
" The beauty of our old days was the beauty
of athletes, trained to the race and the battle-
l66 7IGT0RT OF THE rANQUIBUBD.
field — the beauty of strength. The beauty
of these days is the beauty of the barber and
the perfumer. Of old the thought expressed
the words, and no man talked of style ; now
the style but hides the crumbling dust oí
thought."
At Lesbos, Agrippina gave birth to her last
child—^the last joyful family event in the brief
life of Germanicus. Everywhere the father
and mother and the children went together,
making a home for each other on any shore
or on any sea. They had rejoiced together
over the birth of nine children, and mourned
together over the death of three.
At Colophon they landed on the Asiatic
shore. By the banks of its cool stream, and
under the fragrant shadows of its pine-cov-
sred mountain, Germanicus consulted the
Oracle of the Ciarían Apollo, where deep in a
cave on the hill-side a fountain bubbled up
'rom its rocky source. The priest drank of
the sacred waters, and gave forth the oracu-
ar answer in verse.
Dark rumors of what the significance of
".his oracular answer was were murmured
imong the household of Germanicus. Siward
was much cast down. The German villages
which Germanicus had burned, and the hosts
e hal slain in fair fight, were merely in the
riGTORT OF TUE rANqUI8BED. \Cj
«
captivé s eyes the necessary ravages of war.
If ever he reached the goal of his ambition^
and wielded hammer and sword under Her
nan, these wrongs he hoped to aid in aveng-
ng. And, meantime, the courtesy of the
voung Cassar towards those enemies with
whom he came personally into contact, and
his serene and generous temper, had wrought
its charm on the captives, and attached them
to him. Siward felt him to be an enemy it
would be an honor to fight, and a master it
was no degradation to serve.
"Are there indeed Walas—prophetic men
and women--among the Greeks?" Siward
said to Laon, as thev re-embarked at Colo-
phon ; " and can these forebodings be true ?"
" It needs no special inspiration to forebode
mischief to the man Tiberius envies," was
Laon's oracular reply—"a man whose foot¬
steps are dogged by Cneius Piso and the in¬
solent Plancina."
At Rhodes it was given to Germanicus
to do a deed worthy of Christian chivalry.
He well knew with what purpose Piso was
sent, and how malignantly he and his wife
were fulfilling it : yet, when at Rhodes a sud¬
den tempest drove the ship of Piso on the
rocks, and a little languor or delay in sending
help might have suffered his enemy to perish,
the victim of the winds or of Eumenides, he
168 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISUED
sent aid to him speedj and effective, as to his
dearest friend, and saved him from destruc¬
tion. Such triumphs are not assigned to
many. To Germánicos, the act was simple and ,
inevitable, as part of his every-day life of duty.
The rescued enemy went on his way—not
softened—and therefore necessarily hardened
to a baser bitterness—to thwart and malign
his deliverer by every means in his power ;
whilst Germánicos went quietly on his way
to fulfill his task for Rome. Well knowing
the intrigues of Piso against himself, he left
him to carry them out as he might ; whilst
he marched his troops into Armenia, reduced
Cappadocia to the condition of a province,
and, like a general of the Republic in her
noblest days, true to the Roman standard of
patriotism and duty, himself uncrowned and
a loyal citizen, placed the royal crown of Ar¬
menia on the head of another—Artaxes, the
chief recognized by Rome.
The world was not without its foreshadow,
ings, as it has not been without its reflected
lights, of those silent thirty years of subjec¬
tion to Duty, of "patient continuance in well¬
doing," then being lived at Nazareth. At
Nazareth, so near Antioch—in the very prov¬
ince Avhere the young Caesar was bearing his
burden of "stately rule—the true King was
bearing His burden of loving service.
/
YIGTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. i6g
»
%
Germanicus knew not of Him.
But we, who believe and are ^ure that He
did not begin to live at Bethlehem, nor begin
to work for men in Galilee, any more than
He ceased to live on Calvary, know that His
care for men does not begin when men begin
to kno^ it.
CHAPTER XIII.
»
HE year fatal t."» Caesar Germanicus
had opened. The restlessness of
that unhappy age was on him. Per¬
haps, also, something of the restless¬
ness of disease—the; insatiable longing which
sometimes besets those whose days are to be
few to make them full, to live long in the little
while. Early in the year he left Syria to make
a progress through Egypt.
By doing this he was, perhaps unconscious¬
ly, breaking a statute of Augustus. Egypt, the
granary of Rome, from which every spring the
Roman citizens drew their supplies of food,
was not to be trodden by Roman feet without
permission from the Emperor.
Every summer, in the harbor of Alexandria,
it was possible some daring rebel hand might
seal and dry up the fountain which fed the life
of Rome. Anchored by the white quays of
the great mart of the world, lay the fleet of
Alexandrian corn-ships. Stored in their
t«7o)
riUTORT OF THE VANQVj.3UEÜ.
nolds lay the golden fruit of Egypt and the
Egyptian river. Before them stretched the '
Mediterranean, with its sudden storms. On
the other side of the sea, on the nearest points
of the Italian shore, watchmen were stationed
to catch the first glimpse of the life-bringing
sails—^full-set to distinguish them from others,
even when close to the harbor—and to des¬
patch the glad tidings by beacons and fl)dng
posts. to the anxious City. The departure of
that fleet was a sacred event. It arrival was
a national festival.
For already the mistress of the world, look¬
ing down over a waste Campagna, and on
scattered villas, and on farms tilled by slaves,
from which the peasant-proprietors had long
since been absorbed, depended for her exis¬
tence on the work of other men and the har¬
vests of other soils.
There was a reverse to the medal of the
" goddess Rome " enthroned with her civic
crown beside Augustus. It was the mendicant
Rome kneeling to receive her dole of daily
bread at the hands of the Emperor, whilst the
Emperor anxiously watched the winds on
which his granaries depended.
Such a treasure-house needed to be well
guarded, and Germanicus received a sharp
remonstrance from Tiberius for entering it
without special sanction.
172 VICTORY OF TEE VANQUISHED.
Rie had probably regarded it rather as the
threshold of another treasure-house, the key
of the ancient granaries from which Greek
and Jew alike had tasted " the wisdom of the
Egyptians."
To him, as to us, a land of remains and
ruins, a mummy swathed in records of its
own past glory ; the intervening eighteen
centuries between us and old Rome being
but one stage in that far,-reaching past. To
him, as to us, a land strangely symbolized by
its river flowing so invariably from unexplored
sources ; its sphinx, seeming to hide beneath
her mute lips the answer to riddle never solv-
ved ; its pyramids, burying (among whatever
o'.ber secrets) under a mountain of stone the
lost history of a forgotten life.
Commercially and intellectually, indeed,
Egypt had again begun to stir with reviv¬
ed activity ; as the channel of the trade with
the East, the vast granary of the West, and
the great paper and glass factory of the em¬
pire. The furthest extremes of the empire
were continually brought before the eyes of
the travellers as they journeyed through the
Nile valley. On the river they were con¬
stantly passing boats and barges filled with
paper and glass of native manufacture and
grain of native grovtth. Along the banks,
pencilled against the glowing sky, moved
r
VICTOR r OF TUE VAUQUISHED. 173
Blow droves of camels and mules, laden with
spicts, perfumes, dyes, and gems, from the
farthest south and east, and guarded with
German horsemen brought from the Northern
forests.
In the schools of Alexandria, with their in¬
genious compounds of theosophies and philo¬
sophies, Eastern and Western, Hebrew and
Greek, Callias found much to admire, but old
Laon was far from content with them.
" Mere shreds and patchwork," he said—
" patched together, not interwoven ; mere
c^bris—crumbled together, not fused. To
make a fusion, you must have a furnace glow¬
ing with living fire ; and this is an age, not of
fire, but of the ashes of old fires. Mere dust
and ashes of thought, from Greece, Persia.
India, Syria. Not fused together," he con¬
cluded ; " crumbled together, and all dust."
More especially, however, his indignation
was excited by Philo and the philosophic
Jews of Alexandria.
" Of all false pretences in the world," he
said, "the worst is a philosophizing Jew. It
is even worse than an gesthetical Roman. If
the Jews have anything fine about them, it is
their intense unconquerable national life, their
uncompromising fidelity to their lawgiver,
and to their One Imperial Divinity. Give
me the narrowest and most exclusive Phari
174 VIOTOBY OF THE F.á 2V <2 iTZSÄSD.
see that ever glared at us Gentiles under his
pnylacteries, ratherthan the smoothest Hellen
among them."
" Yoin would prefer the Egyptian Therapeu-
tasa, or the Essenes by the Dead Sea," Callias
said, " who, regarding all matter as evil and
the body as a prison, live in seclusion from all
men, in adoration of God, until death shall
absorb them into His essence."
" They are not essentially Jews at all," Laon
replied. " Mystics are of no age or race.
They are a Vestal priesthood, guarding the
deathless fire for all humanity—an echo of the
sense of exile and home sickness which besets
the highest natures everywhere."
Yet vigorous as might be the life of the
present in Egypt, it was evident that the life
of the past had been mightier. • Even then
the cities of the dead, the " durable dwelJng-
places," dwarfed the cities of the living. Even
then, on the heart of the German captive, the
land of the mysterious River left two impres¬
sions, which effaced all the rest : that Death is
longer than life, and Nature stronger than
man.
The Temple of Apis was still standing, and
had its priesthood—a priesthood which count¬
ed its duration by millenniums. The stately
Black Bull, with the distinctive white marks
on bi >w and back, was marching about hii
VICTORY OF THE VANqUlSHED. 175
lacred courts, adored and giving oracles,
while his huge sarcophagus was awaiting
him in the solemn vaults of the. rock temple
underground.
Again, with a restless foreboding, Csesar
Germanicus consulted the oracle in the Apis
Temple; and again dark rumors circulated
among his followers as to what the enigmati¬
cal answer threatened—the shadows, doubt¬
less, of that love which cannot exist among
mortal creatures without fear. Everywhere,
he won the confidence of the people by a con¬
descension and courtesy which seem to have
been as inseparable from him as his.athletio
beauty and his temperate, pure life. It was
natural in him to wear the Gaulish bearskin
in Gaul, and the Grecian sandals in Grecian
lands. Popularity followed him ; he did not
seem to seek it. He bore about him the inde¬
finable charm which often surrounds those
who thread this earth lightly, as those who
have not to build on it, but to pass through it,
and go early to dwell elsewhere. Not being
occupied with far-reaching schemes of person¬
al ambition, he had leisure to throw himself
altogether into the life of the moment, and of
the men around him; leisure to dwell in the
past—to be kind and thoughtful to all near
him ; space in his mind for a wide lateral
horizon, and wide distances behind him -oep
ï76 victory of the vanquished.
haps, unconsciously, because the horizon bo»
fore him was so near.
He visited the mighty remains of Thebes.
One of the oldest priests interpreted to him
the hieroglyphics on its huge obelisks, telling
him of the armies and conquests and costly
tributes of empires that had preceded and
equalled Rome, and had passed away for
ever. He saw the Pyramids, "raised like
mountains amid almost impassable heaps of
sand." He heard the music " struck by the
solar rays " from the stone statue of Memnon.
For the first time, in the Temple of Apis,
Si ward came in contact with an organized
priesthood. In Rome he had seen priests, but
they were ministers of state, or diviners of
the destinies of Rome. At Delphi and at
Claros he had heard of a priest and a priest¬
ess; but each was a mere isolated organ of
divine utterances—a solitary gateway into the
unknown world.
In Egypt still existed a priestly caste, with
rites reaching back to unknown ages. The
gods were not deified men or hunjanized di¬
vinities, but mystic animals : the monotonous,
mysterious, changeless, unprogressive, animal
nature, adored in itself as a type of the mono¬
tonous changes and the changeless revolutions
oí the visible world, especially of the Egyptian
YIOTORT OF THE YANQVUSHED.
world of the Sun, the River, and the Desert,
with its infinite expanses of starry sky : Nature
and Death surrounding, outlasting, hemming
in the little life of man.
»
•' Did the}' indeed hem in this little life ? Or
was this little life but to expand through them
into something wider and more enduring—to
blend with this infinite Nature—^to endure
through this unconquerable Death ? Was this
„fe of ours indeed but as the green strip be¬
tween two deserts ? "
Questions of this kind came into Siward's
mind as he stood with Laon among the tombs
by the Nile, little able as he was to frame the
questions with his lips.
" What did they mean by all this work ? "
he asked, as they looked round on the elabor¬
ate paintings and inspriptions on the walls of
one of the sepulchral chambers. " Is it for the
dead or for the living ? "
" The living made this for themselves when
they should be dead," said Laon. 'Their
houses they regarded as only sojov-ming
places. This was to be their abode. On this
they lavished all their art. Life, they felt, is
transitory. Death endures."
" Death endures," murmured Siward. " But
the dead? Are those temples to death the
conqueror, or to the living he conquered ? "
" Rumors had come t<> ihcm of long jour¬
s'
1/8 riGTonr of the yanquished.
neys of the soul when it departs hence " said
Laon. " These were written in their Book
of the Ritual of the dead; and therein they
'swathed their mummies. A strange itineraiy
for the long journey of the soul when it leaves
the body, directions of the way it is to take,
descriptions of the enemies and the adven¬
tures it is to meet in the unknown world, and
of a solemn judgment it is to undergo beyond
the.dark waters for the deeds done in the
body."
" It ?—the soul ?—we ? " asked Siward ea¬
gerly. " Who would not hear more of this ?
But if it—if we—depart, for whom is this
abode made beautiful? The soul never en¬
tered here ; she had begun the long journey
before the mummy was laid here. What
knows she of this? What is all this tc
her?" » .
" What do we know ? " said Laon. " What
IS all this world, what are heaven and earth,
stars, deserts, and seas to us ? "
" But, Laon," said the boy, " they imtst have
thought they knew. They must have meant
to serve some one by all this."
" There were dim sayings about the soul
coming back to claim its old companion ; of a
Rising Again," said the old man musingly.
" But this I cannot think ; to come back from
the stars and the free heavens, and the accjuit
YIGTOET OF THE VANQUISHED. 175
cat of the great judgment, to this? Does the
Psyche come back into the chrysalis ? "
And silently they left the silent place.
But days afterwards, as they were sitting
one evening on the deck of the boat on the
broad Nile, Si ward said to Laon,—
" Who wrote that Book of the long journey
of the dead ? Who could write it but some
one who had gone and come back? Did this
ancient people ever know of one who had ? "
Laon shook his head.
"The Egyptians are indeed an ancient
people/' he said. " But the most ancient na.-
tions in the world have no record of any who
came back to tell of that journey "
There was a pause, and afterwards looking
up through the pure night air and through
the stars, Siward spoke again,—
" Laon," he said, " these tombs are for the
rich. The rich only who can build them¬
selves houses on earth can be embalmed, or
can build themselves enduring dwellings.
Here, also, as in our Valhalla, the dwelling-
place of our elect, our heroes, there is no
place for the poor, for the slave, for the multi¬
tude."
" Philosophy has her high things for the
slave, for the poor," said Laon.
" For the wise slave," Siward rejoined, ' the
wise poor, those who are rich in inner wealth
»
l8o riCTOBT OF THE VAHQUXSUED.
But these multitudes, everywhere, these pool
disarmed peasants who toil from morning to
night with no reward but blows, and hardly
bread enough to keep them from starvation,— ^
for these no one has any hope, nor any good
tidings ! "
" These multitudes," said old Laon careless¬
ly, "the'base, ignorant multitudes! Those
who in Rome, if free, live as beggars on the
doles of Egyptian corn ; swarming like
noisome flies about the tall houses of the
Suburra, and ñnding their highest pleasure
in seeing beasts and men torture each other
at the games ? The multitudes who, in Athens, *
suffered Socrates to be mürdered? who live
butterflies or grasshoppers, chattering and
fluttering from infancy to dotage ? What
good tidings would you have for them '
They chirp and flutter, or sting and buzz, or
croak and paddle away their little lives, and
|jerhaps even store honey and wax for the
generations of a coming summer ? What
would you have more for such ? Some other
world in which they may chirp and buzz, and
flutter and chatter on for ever, and perhaps
not croak or sting? It is to be hoped in all
courtesy that such a world exists. But who
would care to know? Not they, at least. '
" Oh, Laon," said the German captive, " /
jm not wise! I feel it but too keenly among
VICTORY OF THE VANqUlSEED. igi
alt these generations of the wise. I am not
wise, I or mit.e, as your sages. For us what
good tidings can come ? "
" If your race have not the wisdom of our
sages," interposed Callias, who had been
standing near, " you have beauty, of soul and
flesh. And for Beauty there is a place for
ever. Because Beauty, as well as Wisdom,
and Justice, and Truth, are real; at least, so
Laon's sages say."
The boy shook his head.
" That any should be beautiful seems such
an accident," he said. " These toiling, suffer¬
ing multitudes, crouching under yokes, with
the Beauty as well as the Wisdom crushed
out of them ; to such it seems strange that no
religion and no philosophy can give a helping
hand, or a pitying word. For these are in
the world everywhere. These are the multi¬
tudes."
" For those who have neither Beauty nor
Wisdom," replied Callias, with a disdainful
smile, " for those, indeed, I think the less room
the better, in any world ! "
But Siward's earnest nature was aroused,
and not easily to be lulled.
" It seems," he said to Laon, " almost as if
the whole race of men were like those doomed
races you told me of, pursued by solemn
avenging Eumenides. If one could teU for
VICTORY OF TBE VANQUISEED.
what crimes, or for whose, and fi od an expia«
tion ! or at least teach men how to avoid such
evil for the future ! "
"Philosophy does tell the wise," said old
Laon. " Are you not wise ? Then rise above
these multitudes, and become wise. I am tr3-
ing to teach you all day long."
And, with some impatience, he closed the
dialogue.
CHAPTER XIV.
r length the journey through Egypt
was over. Germanicus and his
household were all bound for Anti-
och, but by different routes.
Some had gone by sea to Seleucia.
Laon and Siward it was permitted to accom¬
pany Callias, who was to pass through Judaea
to Tiberias, the new city of Herod Antipas
which he was adorning with Greek sculpture-
It was said that in Syria some secrets were
known as to the tempering of fine sword-
blades; and old Laon hoped to gain some
knowledge which would enrich him in the
years of liberty which he was expecting. Si-
guna also and little Hilda were with them.
As they paced up and down on the long
quays of Alexandria, waiting for the ship
which was to carry them to Joppa, they fre¬
quently passed an old man who was standing
under the shadow of the angle of a wall, with
a woman seated beside him, still comparative-
(*<3)
i84 victory of tee vanquished,
ly young, the pallor and thé changed curves
of her face apparently the result rather of sor¬
row than of age.
The old man's lips were moving in an audi¬
ble murmur, and he did not seem to pay any
heed to the pássers-by. His absorption in his
occupation and indifférence to all around ex¬
ercised a kind of fascination on Siward, and
Laon's words fell on his ear uncomprehended
as he watched the strangers. The dress of the
old man was unusual ; on his brow, around
his wrists, and on the fringed-hems of his long
white robe, were bound strips of parchment
inscribed with strange large black letters, not
like either Greek or Latin ; and from time to
time he m^tde low obeisances, touching his
forehead as if in homage to some unseen
throne. The murmured words also, when
Siward came near enough to hear them, he
found were in a language utterly unintelligi¬
ble to him, nasal, guttural, with weird, sad, .
monotonous cadences in the voice.
At length he ventured to ask Laon who this
stranger could bf, and what he would be
doing.
Laon cast a careless passing glance on the
old man and the sad-looking woman, and said
lightly,—
"Jews! Jews! only some old Jewish bigol
praying."
VICTORY OF THE VANqtllSHED. 185 '
m
** Praying to what—to whom ?" Sivi ird
ventured to inquire further. " There is no
temple and no image."
" How can I tell?" said Laon hastily. •" Do
I know every superstition of every tribe in
these superstitious Oriental countries ? Pray¬
ing to the bits of his law written on his gar¬
ment, perhaps. When Fompey entered the
Sanctuary of their Temple, he is said to have
found it empty. But there were traditions of
its once having contained stone tables with
writing on them. I suppose they worship
their Book. They boast that they have a
very ancient sacred Book. But how should
1 know ? It concerns no one but themselves.
They look on themselves as the rightful mas¬
ters of the world, and on all the rest of the
world as enemies. When they could, they
massacred every one who came near them, on
the ground of their not being Jews. And
probably they would do the same now, if they
could ; they are always in insurrection, fol¬
lowing some Pretender who promises to make
I hem a nation of kings. But the Roman rule
is good at least for this. It keeps down fa¬
natics like these. And yet they creep in ev¬
erywhere. They have a genius for money-
making. Here at Alexandria they all but
outnumber the Greeks, and have two of the
best quarters of the City to themselves '
186 VIGTOBT OF THE VANqUISHED.
There was something in Laon's tone, in
speaking of this Jew, so different from his
usual light and courteous tolerance of other
religions and opinions, that Siward was per¬
plexed. And at that moment the -words Oi
Clœlia Diodora about the old Jew by the
fountain of Egeria at Rome flashed back on
his memory.
" They are always following some Pretend¬
er," he mused, repeating Laon's words to
himself; and in his calm Teutonic way he
pondered the matter over in silence, until
he came on what seemed to him a solution.
" Perhaps because of this Great One the old
prophecy told them to expect."
And this ancient adored Book, this intense
and exclusive Patriotism, this long-expected
Deliverer linked themselves together in his
mind.
He longed to ask more, but felt that in La¬
tin's present frame of mind questions were
more likely to close than to open further
sources of information, and was silent
Laon only vouchsafed one more remark on
the subject.
"What these Jews believe or worship," he
said, " is of no moment to any but themselves.
The exceptionally bad thing about them is
that they have no respect for other peoples'
religions or gods, but have the audacitj' to
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
declare that there is no God save their own
and that all other worship is not merely use¬
less but wicked. Any belief may be tolerated
la men, especially if it is hereditary and na¬
tional, if people will keep it to themselves.
But a religion which would invade and con¬
quer all other religions, is not to be tolerated,
any more than a nation which does the same.
Unless, indeed, it can succeed," he concluded,
sarcastically. " In which case the only rem¬
edy is to conquer the conqueror from within,
as we Greeks reconquer the Romans who can
think."
The voyage to Joppa lasted some days, in
consequence of contrary winds and calms.
The Jewish strangers were their fellow-
passengers.
At first they kept strictly apart ; but often
Siguna's eyes met those of the Hebrew wom¬
an sadly watching her and little Hilda, until
by degrees a friendly intercourse sprang up
between them. At first only by means of
signs, little attentions to the child, little pres¬
ents of Syrian confectionary, little nameless
kindnesses. Then a few broken Greek words,
or Latin, and such extemporized language as
hearts drawn to each other can always find ;
and now and then Siward, with his more ex¬
tended knowledge of Greek, was called on to
interpret.
i88 VICTORY OF THE YANqUISUBD,
♦
" He is your son," the Jewess said. " Ycri
are happy. You live for him."
"We are slaves; we are exiles," the Ger¬
man mother replied. "We live for our mas¬
ters' will. I may be separated from him at
any moment, at any caprice of our enemies."
" I am separated from my sons. For ever.
By the will we can none of us resist ; by the
bars we can none of us pass. God is almighty.
The sacred writers say He is merciful."
And slowly, through the quiet hours, the
story of her life crept out.
" I had two children, once, like you. He
took them both. We lived in Rome, near
the Fountain of Egeria, on the Clœlian Hill.
We were poor. The river overflowed, and
flooded the low grounds of the City. The
noisome exhalations entered our little home.
Others, who were rich, fled. We were poor,
and had nowhere to fly to. The fever seized
my boys. First the youngest, a babe, then
the eldest, a child like this. We laid them
4
underneath the rocky hills, in the Catacombs
of our people. We would not bury our dead
among the heathen. On their graves we
carved the dove with the olive branch, and
the word Peace. For my father is holy as
one of the prophets. And he said, ' The wa¬
ters will subside, the flood which sweeps all
the race of men away ; and, a.s the dove in
VICT0B7 OF THE VANq^ISHEB. iSg
ti e Deluge of old, these our sweet babes shall
be welcomed into the Ark of God—bearing
the olive branch of peace." And even now
they are at peace. But from me, from me
peace is gone for ever, until I rest where they
rest ; until the heavens are no more, and I am
welcomed where they shall be welcomed. If
ever He deems me worthy. Who has found
me so unworthy of His gifts here."
So, through the days they were together,
she spoke. To Siguna much' that she said
was dim and strange, but the mothers' hearts
interpreted each other.
Only, the wife of Olave the brave soldier
and smith wondered that the stranger spoke
so little of her husband. The sons seemed to
have been everything to her. She watched
the old Jew to see why and how this could be.
And by degrees she began to understand.
Their journeying with the Jewish strangers
did not end with the voyage. Then, as now,
in spite of the firmness of the Roman rule,
it was expedient for travelers in Judaea or
Galilee to travel in companies. Besides the
danger of the predatory wandering Arabs,
always penetrating into the heart of the coun¬
try by means of the creeks of desert which
run up into it from the east, the land was in¬
fested by the remains of various bands of fa¬
nática' insu rgents • -precursors of the " Assas-
ige VIGTORT OF TBE VÄNQVISHED.
Bins"—followers of Judas of GíUilet:, in theil
own eyes consecrating a life of lawless rapine
by a fierce fanatical patriotism, and by wild
hopes of a coming Jewish King.
The Jew Onias was glad of Gentile protec¬
tion for himself and his wife Esther, and for
the numerous gold pieces which, in spite of
his apparent poverty, he knew experienced
thieves would soon have detected under the
hems and folds of his garments. And while
sympathy had broken down the barrier of
race between the German motner and the
childless Esther, old Laon and Onias had
found a meeting-point in sundry elaborate ne¬
gotiations concerning the manufacture and
sale of arms.
Their destination also was the same. An-
tioch was the present abode of Onias and Est¬
her, as well as the native city of Laon.
It seemed to Laon that when once he should
be free, and supplied with the capital which
Onias " thought he had friends" who might
lend him, all things would be possible to him
—^for himself and those he cared to help. In¬
deed, he felt already in the position of a pa¬
tron to Siward, Siguna, and Callias; and ac¬
cordingly, armed with these benevolent inten¬
tions, he indulged himself even more than
usually by sarcasms and whimsical leverities
of language
%
riVTOMY VF TUE VANQUISHED. in
And meanwhile the lives of the sisters
Clœlia flowed on with a slow monotony at
Rome.
Services begun with enthusiasm by the
young Vestal priestess fell into a grave dull
routine.
" For Rome ! For Rome !" she repeated
to herself, as she led the sacred fire, or drew
the pure water from the spring. " I am only
doing simple woman's work—such as every
matron does for her husband's hearth — for
ihe hearth-fire of the Patria, of Rome."
But none of the sorrows and joys which
keep the even flow of daily duty musical, by
breaking it, in lives which flow in natural
channels, came to keep the music fresh in the
Vestal's heart.
More and more mechanical became the
Temple services for her.
And through the monotonous syllables,
which lost their meaning by repetition, more
and more frequently jarred sharp interjections
of doubt.
Who, what was this fire-goddess whom she
served ? One of a confused multitude of di¬
vinities on Olympus? Did she know who
served her ? Did she care ? Was she good ?
All on Olympus were not. What was Rome
to her ? Or, again, was she more ancient than
Olj'mpus ? Some hidden force of nature ?
192 ^tOTOBY OJT THE VANqUISHED.
«
Impersonal, then, and regardless of man a*
the earthquake or the lightning ?
This Palladium which she guarded in the
sealed vase. W hat was it ? Who had tl i\ ;
mysteriously biund destruction and misery
with such accidents as the breaking of an
earthen vase, or the extinction of a spark oi
fire ? The same capricious powers which sent
earthquake, and lightning, and storm ? and
suffered the .good, like her sister, to be de¬
formed and wretched, and the bad, like so
many she heard of, to be beautiful and pros¬
perous ?
What, who ruled the world? Was it ruled
by some good Beings, who could not be dis¬
turbed in the divine calm of their perpetual .
festival by the brief woes of men ? Or, rather,
by some slumbering evil Beings, whom it
must be the ceaseless solicitude of men not to
awake to malignant vengeance by treading
on some of their smallest incomprehensible
caprices ? Or, again, by some steady irresisti¬
ble Destiny, which wove in its unresting loom,
with entire indifierence, the dark and the light
threads, both inevitable, into the course of
na'-ure or the life of man ?
In any case, what was the meaning of her
ministry ? Was it really serving the gods, or
Rome, or any one ?
Then this Rome itself, the Patria Î How
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED 193
could she close her ears to all the dark ru¬
mors of the wickedness around her? The
vestals lived in no cloistral seclusion ; thej
had places of honor at the gladiatorial games,
and that spectacle of torture and death which,
it is said, no Latin author dares to defend,
must have smitten with horror, at least at
first, other hearts than that of Clœlia Pulchra.
Moreover, she could not enter nor leave the
games, nor pass through the streets, without
becoming acquainted with evil unutterable.
Was this Rome indeed worth serving by
such a sacrifice as her life ?
And even if worth serving, might she not
have served it a thousandfold better by keep¬
ing one humble home pure and warm with
love, as Agrippina kept the hearth of Ger-
manicus ?
So her days passed, till her whole life some-
times seemed like a mechanical sleep-walk-
ing, the only reality in it the love of her little
sister ; and that love, in the unavailing pity
it called forth, more than half sorrow.
With Clœlia, the deformed, th -n'e were in
deed breaks enough in the daily current, sharp
rebukes and reproaches, and contemptuous
neglect worse than either. Yet the life, being
more natural, bitter as it often was, had sw(;eb
er moments. Her love for her sister also had
in it far more of joy than of sc-row. Ferventi
9
f
¡94 VICTORY OF THE VANQUIBHED.
a(ioring, satisfied, it was at once a passio.i aivd
a religion. In Clœlia she believed, she knew
she saw that " beauty and goodness and truth
were real, and do exist."
The tender pensiveness which she often saw
on the dear beautiful face only made it more
sacred.
The doubt and darkness below, the young
priestess would not for the world have be¬
trayed.
Doubt, which is without hope of a solution
in noble natures, is silent. If it finds a voice,
it is because a faint glimmering of some sun¬
rise of Hope has touched the strong Memnon
and made it speak.
Once only, when the deformed girl spoke
of what the old Jew had said of the hope of
his people, did Clœlia the Vestal betray the
void within.
" Did the old Jew say his nation had cher
ished the hope for thousands of years, and
that he believes it near now ? Has any peo¬
ple in the world kept hope alive so long ?
Has any heart in the world a hope which
grows brighter as the days wear on ? and we
have to see things as they are. What has fed
this hope ? Such a hope seems in itself a
miracle. It is like a sunrise living on through
the dulness of the common working day."
Clœlia Diodora remembered the d'seour
riCTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 15,5
aging words of Laon, his scornful warning
against the Jews, and trembled at this cagei
reception of her words, lest by any unguarded
declaration she shouid bring the sister she
adored into contact with any evil chance.
And she replied,—
" Laon said the Jews are a people of misan¬
thropes, and probably of atheists. That is
they hate the men of all other races, and blas¬
pheme the gods of all other men. He said
they were a set of runaway slaves, who, be¬
cause they had had no golden age in the past,
threw it into the future. The old Je>» I saw
did not indeed seem to hate me. But Laon
bid me beware of them and thei r superstition
the last morning before he left. And I have
not spoken to the old Jew since."
The Vestal turned sadly awa) .
" A hope which makes men b 4te othex men
instead of loving them cannot be worth mv'cfa,"
she said.
CHAPTER XV
O Si ward, the words of the Jewess
Esther, as far as he heard them, from
herself or from his mother, were like
mystic oracles spoken dimly in some
echoing cavern, beside the bubbling of a liv¬
ing fountain. They opened, as through a veil
lifted for an instant and then dropped again,
glimpses into unknown worlds.
Chiefly because there was a certainty in
them which, amid all the confused and uncer¬
tain sounds around him, smote on his mind
and conscience, as the call of a trumpet to
battle amidst the vague rushing of winds, like
a voice through the rolling of thunders.
This strange people, scattered everywhere,
yet possessed by a patriotism intense as his
own, with the Sacred Book, with the Hope
of a Deliverer, attracted him irresistibly.
And now pervading all these came another
thought, which seemed to inspire all.
There was something in the tone and way
(196)
nCTOBY OF THE VANQUISHED. 197
in which this Jewess uttered the name of God,
entirely different trom anything he had ever
heard befo -e.
It was. not only that she spxike of only one
God. She spoke of that One with a quiet
certainty which made all the gods he had
heard of before retire as into a world of shades.
He could not have defined how, but it made
him think of a mock sun he had once seen it
a misty morning on the Northern mountains
coldly shining until the real sun rose and the
mists cleared and warmed the world. The
mock sun was not nothing. If there had been
no real sun, it could not have been.
The shades , in the under world were not
nothing. If there had not been men, there
could not be shades. But as the warm press¬
ure to a beating human heart to the empty
meeting of arms folded in a vain embrace
around those dim forms—^as the ringing tones
of a living human voice to the attempted
sounds dying on those gasping lips—so seemed
to him the God of this Esther the Jewess to
any god he had ever known of before.
It was not often she uttered the name. It
was scarcely with love, only always with a
quiet certainty of His living as really as any
she spoke to were living ; a sense of an inevit¬
able, unchangeable relationship to Him, and
a onviction that He had spoken to men.
198 VIÖTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED
Other gods might be spoken about, perhapa
spoken to. This God had spoken. And with
irresistible longing Siward wanted to learn
what, and to whom.
Esther, and e^en Onias, seemed to walk
with a freer step and a higher bearing from
the moment they 5rst trod the soil of Judaea.
"We are going to the City and the House of
our God," Esther said, and her eyes kindled.
And all day, as they rode among the corn¬
fields and the orange-gardens of the maritime
plain, or among the vineyards and olive-groves
of the terraced hill-sides, her lips were mur¬
muring fragments of the ancient songs of her
people. Strangely different from the songs
and legends of all other people, in this,—^that
through all the battle-songs and the strains
of mournful or exulting patriotism, through
all the stories of tender domestic love or of
heroic sacrifice, penetrates one living Name,
pervading, deepening, inspiring all. Jerusalem
is not the Sacred City only—it is the " City
of our God Zion is the perfection of beau¬
ty, for out of Zion God hath shined ; it is not
the Temple and its services chiefly for which
the singer's heart sighs : " As the hart pant-
eth for the water brooks, my heart panteth
for Thee, O God. My SDul thirsteth for God,
for the living God. W len shall I come and
appear before Thee ?"
riCTom VF TEE VANqUISHED. 195
Ai i the day, as they slowly descended into
i'e. ralleys or climbed the rocky hills, a
soU-i inity seemed to deepen over the Jewish
woman. She scarcely spoke to any one, and
a length, when the last separating range was
crossed, and the towers and palaces and mas¬
sive bulwarks, and above all the lofty façade
of the Temple, came in sight, she alighted
from the ass she was riding, stretched out her
arms, then clasped her hands together as in
prayer, and wept.
She was a daughter of Jerusalem ; but sht
had not seen the city since her childhood.
Her father, now an aged man in Rome, and
her mother, long since dead, had led her
childish feet along those streets, and taught
her to bend in prayer within those sacred
courts. Her parents were among the few not
spoken of in any histories, Latin or Greek or
Jewish, save in the one history which is occu¬
pied not with princes and states, but with
God and man. They were of those who had
waited in Jerusalem for God, and One whom
He would send.
Onias also dismounted and walked beside
her. He also had been saying long prayers
through the day. But his mind was too full
of the results of his negotiations with Laon
not to confide them to her.
"Esther," he said, "it is written, the Gen
20O VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED
tiles shall be our ploughmen and our bonds
men. It is fulfilled this day, in a figure. This
old Greek is an armourer of the first quality.
I le is to establish an armoury at Antioch, his
native city, where for the present we are to
abide. I shall take his wares on the most ad¬
vantageous terms. At length I have arranged
all. I can have sale to any extent for such
weapons among our own people."
" Is there not risk in such trade ?" she said,
trying to bring back her thoughts to meet
his. " Will not the Roman soldiers hinder
it ?"
" Risk there may be," he said, loftily, but
lowering his voice. " What great good is to
be gained without risk ? But our people may
have use for arms the Gentiles will neither
like nor hinder. For Israel is it not worth
while to run some risk? Was there no risk
to Gideon or to David the king ? Besides,"
he added, as if to himself, " the profits are
something out of the common way. I am
afraid to tell thee what they may be. This
Greek cannot get on without my help, and
naturally he must pay for it. Thou mayest
live like a princess."
" I am no princess, Onias," she said ; " not
even the humblest mother in Israel," she ad¬
ded, with a sudden burst of pain. " W hat are
gold and silver to me ?"
V
VICTORr OF THE VANQUISHED. 20I
" Have I ever murn.ured at that ?" he said
with an altered tone. " He gave, and He hath
taken away."
" No, no," she said ; " thou hast not mur¬
mured. It is I who have murmured and sin¬
ned, and brought the curse on thee. If only
He had taken the silver and the gold, and left
the babes."
" Silver and gold had we none the less
needed, had the babes been left," he said, in a
tone of rebuke, half dreading what judgment
might follow a wish, in his eyes so profane.
" Gold is good, come when it may. Let us
not forget to praise God, therefore. He is
the giver of all. And praise is acceptable to
Him."
Accustomed as she was, in her husband, to
the inextricable confusion of love of country
with a half-bargaining, half-ti embling religion,
his words did not surprise her. She attempt¬
ed no reply, and they entered the gates of
Jerusalem in silence.
The city was màgnificent with the buildings
of the great builder, Herod the Great. He
had died only twenty years before, and the
freshness of tint and of cutting had not passed
from the stone walls of the great amphitheatre,
which he had excavated and built outside the
%
walls.
Onias, from his Pharisaic adherence to the
9*
202 VICTORY OF THÉ VANQUISHED
ancient law, and Esther, with her worship ol
the living Lawgiver, looked with equal horroi
on these signs of Gentile dominion. Gentile
cuitare that could scarcely be called, which
was to be promoted by the sanguinary con«
flicts of the amphitheatre outside the walls, or
the unhallowed exhibitions of the theatre
within.
"Your people," said Laon to Onias, "rose
in insurrection, it is said, in the days of Herod
the Great, because he set up empty suits of
armour around the theatre. Is this true ?"
" It is true," replied Onias, his eyes kind¬
ling ; " and they did well. Our law forbids
such idolatrous usages. They also did well
and died well,—the young men who were
burned alive for tearing down the image of
an eagle which the king had dared set up
over the Temple gate. The men were burned
alive. But the eagle has never been replaced.
The Holy City is desecrated by no idols.
The Roman governors themselves venture
not to profane it by bringing their idolatrous
standards within its gates. The troops are
quartered at the new city of Caesar, not in the
City of David."
" A golden eagle might have attractions to
the most pious crowds," suggested Laon, sar¬
castically. " The gold, if not the image. It
could doubtless be melted down, as your an-
TICTORT OF THE VANQUISEED. 203
fcstoi s, I think, did with the gold ornair.ents
of the Egyptians. Only, if I mistake not, thej
did not use them in a way your Lawgiver ap¬
proved. There is a story of a golden calf,
made long before the days of these Romans."
" Our people sinned and suffered," said
Onias, gravely. " For this they were led into
captivity in Babylon. But since the restora¬
tion they have never sinned thus again."
"Never sinned thus, indeed?" remarked
Laon. " I see ; your people are wiser. It
displeases their Lawgiver to have the gold
molten into a calf or an eagle. Therefore
they melt it into gold pieces. They are wise.
Gold pieces buy Gentile wares, and can be
worshiped without transgressing the law."
Onias turned aside to the minor accusation.
%
"We do not worship the gold pieces.' In
Judaea, we suffer not even the image of the
Emperor to be stamped on our Jewish coins.
The Roman governors respect our belief.
We would die rather than consent to have
idolatrous symbols set up within the walls of
Jerusalem."
It was true. The Roman governors knew
it. AndX)ld Laon knew it.
"You are a wonderful people," he said,
more respectfully ; " loving money as you do,
to love something you call your Divine law
better. And yet it is said your law is as
«
204 yiGTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
strong in insisting on mercy and in forbidding
unfair dealing as in denouncing images. Are
there no oppressed poor and no hard bargains
within the walls of your Sacred City ?"
"We are not what we should be in the eyes
of our God," said Onias, gravely. " If we
were," he added, bitterly, " we should not be
what we are in the eyes of man. Not the
Temple only should be undefiled by Gentile
feet. Not Jerusalem only should be untrod¬
den by Roman legions. Not a foot of the
uncircumcised should enter within our bor¬
ders, except to serve our people, and to adore
our God."
Laon did not pursue the subject. He turned
away and left the Jews together. But after a
long silence, he said to Callias and Siward, as
they rode together, by Herod's amphithea¬
tre,—
" When will some one rise against these
Romans, not for setting up images of the
gods, but for mangling the divinest images we
have of the gods between the teeth and claws
of beasts?" These Jews make insurrections
against what they call idolatry,—when will
there be an insurrection against cruelty ? So
many altars to Power and only one m the
world to Pity 1"
CHAPTER XVI.
NIAS and Esther found a lodging in
one of the garden-towers on the
Mount of Olives, the City being
crowded with worshipers who had
conie up to the Feast of the Passover. Fairer
to the eye than ever before or since was
Jerusalem then, enthroned on the edge of the
hills, guarded by deep ravines. Some said
that the architectural magnificence of the city
exceeded that of Rome.
The lines of the flat roofs were broken by
the towers of Herod's palaces and fortresses,
and by the lofty richly decorated Front of the
Temple itself.
From the window of their garden-tower on
Olivet, Esther and Onias looked down one
spring evening on groves of ancient olives,
their silvery gray interspersed with the fresh
green of fig-trees, on glossy shrubberies of
myrtle broken by the lofty tops of tl 5 sweep-
(205)
106 VICTORY OF TUE VANQCISHEO.
mg cedars and by the feathery crowns ol
palms.
The footpath and the hisrh road to Bethanv
wound along among the gardens into the hoi-
low of the Kedron, dark then with the purple
shadows of evening. From these shadows
rose the beautiful mountain-city, dazzling
with all her stately new buildings, sacred with
all her ancient associations ; as yet desecrated,
and hallowed, by no Dolorous Way.
To the eyes of Onias and Esther, all these
princely castle-towers, all the columned clois¬
ters, snow-white with fresh marble, or touch¬
ed to a golden glow by the sun, all the gilded
roofs, were merely so many appendages or
testimonies of homage to the Sanctuary on
the edge of the ravine—^still retaining, in spite
of Herod's towering Front and golden roofs,
the likeness of the old Sacred Tent of the
Wilderness, around which their forefathers
had gathered.
The materials, and the art with which it
was built, were of little moment to the Jewish
pilgrims. To Onias it was the Sanctuary of his
race. To Esther it was the House of her God.
As they looked they could almost discern
the white-robed companies of priests moving
about the cloistered courts, in preparation for
the Feast.
But Esther said sorrowfully, " My fathei
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED,
used to say this Temple, with its golden roofs
and precious marbles, was poor and bare in¬
deed, compared, not with the Temple of Sol¬
omon, but with the ancient Tent in the Wil¬
derness, covered with badger skins. For on
I hat the Cloud of Glory rested, and in its
Eloly of Holies abode the Ark, the cherubims
shadowing the mercy-seat. When will the
Shechinah return !"
" It is ours to slay the sacrifice and purify
the sacred vessels," Onias replied. " God
only can fill the vessels, or send down the
Cloud."
" But oh, what sacrifices, Onias !" she said.
"Old words, which my father used to read,
keep ringing through my heart. 'To what
purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices ?'
' Bring no more vain oblations ; incense is an
abomination unto Me.* ' Your appointed
feasts My soul hateth ; I am weary to bear
them.* Weary to bear them, Onias, so manj^ .
ages ago ! What then now ? Are we indeed
bringing Him what He asks for, what he cares
to have? The cry of violence and strife is in
the City. Marble palaces, gilded roofs, feast¬
ing and splendor ;—and amidst it all the cry
of the poor and the wronged ! There is an
oppression on my heart. It seems as if the
prayers reached no further than the golden
ri3ofs; but the cries to the Throne in heaven."
2ü8 victory of the vanquisned
" How can I help it ?" Onias replied impa»
tiintly ; " I at least have spared no cost. 1
have given alms enough into the Temple
treasury to provide a Passover Feast for a
score of poor, families. I would have given
more, but that I feared to make people sus¬
pect that poor old Onias was after ail richer
than he seemed. We have a journey to make
after the Feast; and not all that come up
to the Passover come to sacrifice or to
pray."
For the next week the City was full of feast¬
ing. It was the great national festival. Of
old their ancestors had partaken of the lamb
and the bitter herbs, standing, with girded
I
loins, like slaves not yet liberated. Now the
poorest Jew reclined at the board "like a
king and a freeman." The streets were full
of pilgrims, chieflj'^ men. It was a festival
which the Romans watched with anxiety, and
with which they did not attempt to interfere.
We know that they even professed to honor
it, by pardoning a criminal " whomsoever the
people would." Among all the festive crowds
not a Roman soldier was to be found.
Old Laon watched the motley company
which thronged the narrow streets and clus¬
tered in the porticoes and open courts with
curious interest. For the time all intercourse
had been suspended between him and the
VICTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 20^
Cîenuan captives and their new Jewish ac¬
quaintances.
Oiiias dreaded ceremonial pollution, with
its attendant inconveniences and expenses;
and Esther was absorbed in the devotions and
the sacred memories of the Festival, and m
making it as much as she could a festival to
some of the poor families who had come up
from the country districts, from the forests of
Galilee and the hill-country of the South.
Morning after morning, Laon used to walk
up and down the Royal Porch of the Temple,
among the three magnificent aisles of Corin¬
thian columns, the stately cloister large and
lofty as our noblest cathedrals.
" It might be a Temple!" he said. "And
it is only a Porch for us who dare not enter
the Temple."
For beyond this magnificent entrance no
heathen feet might venture. Just within it
rose the richly ornamented stone barrier, with
its inscription warning off profane feet. Onias
and Esther passed them often at a distance,
aud entered from the shadows into the light
of the sacred courts—he into the Court of the
Men, she into the Court of the Women, sep¬
arated by the lorg flights of marble steps and
•.he Beautiful Gate from the inner courts.
" A strange people," Laon said to Siward
and Callias "See how they despise us, and
210 VIGTOBr OF THE VASqUlSHED
see how these Romans cringe to them. Not
a temple in the world but would be hon ^red
b)' the homage of one of Caesar's legates. In
this Temple the presence of Caesar himself
would be regarded as an intolerable desecra¬
tion. The poorest of these beggarly Jews
may enter, and the Emperor must keep at a
lowly distance outside. And the Romans
submit."
"Yet they scarcely seem one people,"-Cal¬
ilas said. " See how different their costume
is, and even their speech and th.eir complex
ions. Polished Alexandrians, talking Greek
as fluently as any Athenian—strangers, burn¬
ed nearly black, from Africa—Oriental mer¬
chants from Babylon or Persia; and among
them these half-starved wild men in white
clothing, ascetics from their villages by the
Dead Sea—these Pharisees with their sancti¬
monious looks, dreading to touch us with the
hem of their garments—these poor peasants,
ill-clad, with hands hard with toil—fishermen
from Galilee—husbandmen from the South—
shepherds from the Eastern hills. All these
sweep past us through the gate we dare not
enter, into their own Sanctuary. Surely this
is a score of nations, not one nation. What
have they in common ?"
"They have this in common," said Laon,
" that scattered as they are voluntarily through
VICTOET OF THE VANQUiSUED. 21I
every city in the world where there is trade
to be done, every one of them is bound to
every other by a tie such as binds together
n.3 nation on earth, not even some remote
mountain tribe which has never seen an in¬
vader. Elastic to stretch to the ends of the
earth, it binds every one of them to this City,
this Sanctuary, and to each other."
" What is the tie ?" asked Callias.
"A common contempt of other races; a
common enthusiasm for their own ; a com
mon history contained in a Book which they
look upon as Divine ; a common Hope, which
they also look upon as Divine ; common fes¬
tivals, which commemorate national deliver-
anees, drawing them to the Common Temple.
Their lawgiver must have been a great pa-
triot and statesman, this Moses in whom they
trust. I always thought them a wonderful
and inexplicable people. But now, first,
at Jerusalem, I begin to understand the
Jews."
Yet Siward, walking in silence beside Laon
and Callias, had gained tnrough the faith of
Esther, a glimpse into the true nature of the
bond which united the Jewish nation, deeper
than Laon's.
He had seen afar off a dim vision or the
Fountain of Living Waters, whence flowed
the Book with its History, the Hope with its
212 VICTOR Y OF TEE VAEQUIBHED.
inspiration, the intense, unconquerable
triotism.
For he had found a Jewish leart which be¬
lieved in the Living God.
CHAPTER XVII
Passover Festival was over. The
aO tens of thousands of pilgrims who
^ fey' crowded within the walls of
^ Jerusalem, or found a resting-place,
like Onias and Esther', in the garden-lodges
or vineyard-towers on the hills around, were
slowly dispersing, streaming out of every gate,
and along every road and footpath, to their
homes in distant lands or among the cities and
villages of Judaea and Galilee.
Onias lingered later than the majority of the
pilgrims in Jerusalem, until Ladn became ea¬
ger to depart, and Callias, especially, grew
impatient to escape from a city in which a
statue was regarded as a profanation.
Once more, at last, the little company was
gathered. Laon and Onias, and the women,
Siguna and Esther with little Hilda, on asses,
Siward and Callias on foot.
Across the brook Kedron, then full, and
(113)
214 riOTOBT OF THE YANQUI SHED.
murmu/ing over its stony bed—up the steeo
path to Bethany, bordered with spring flow,
ers, and shaded with leafy fig-trees—among
the olive-groves, through^fragrant thickets of
flowering myrtle, while from time to time
across the way fell the delicate feathered
shadow of a cluster of palms.
Pathetic memories of David the king, with
covered head, fleeing from Absalom, were in
Esther's heart.
" O my son Absalom ! my son, my son Ab¬
salom ! would God I had died for thee, O Ab¬
salom, my son, my son ! "
It was no mere echo which those words
awakened in her heart. Her whole being
vibrated in response. She knew well how
much they meant; and how little; how "to
die," is reversed in meaning when the dearest
have died ; how sweet it would have been to
have followed her babes whithersoever they
had gone ; to have been laid, like them, in
the Catacombs under the hills of Rome, " in
peace ; " like them, to have taken the wings
of a dove and flown away, and remained in
the wilderness, and been at rest. For, wilder¬
ness as the world beyond still was to her, a
dark land and unknown, she knew, notwith¬
standing, that all worlds were full of God •
and what her beloved had gone to, dark oi
bright, she longed to share.
VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaUED. 215
To Onias nearer memories were more pres¬
ent. The familiar storîes of his boyhood had
been of the martyrdoms of his people by An-
tiochus ; of the heroic mother who exhorted
her sons to be tortured, and saw them suffer,
lefusing to accept deliverance at the price of
apostasy ; of the enthusiastic patriotism re¬
awakened in the wars of the Maccabean bro¬
thers. Or, nearer still, two tragedies pressed
on his memory, which had been stamped on
his boyish imagination by frequent repetition
until they were as vivid to him as anything
he had seen.
In those fair courts and terraces, now girt
with Herod's dazzling cloisters which lay
spread before him as he turned back for a
'ast look from the summit of Olivet, the pnests
of his people had calmly continued the ap¬
pointed sacrifices for the nation, while Pom-
pey^s engines were battering down the tow¬
ers. Down the precipitous sides of that ra¬
vine they had been hurled when unable fur¬
ther to defend the Temple which was at once
the citadel of the people and their sanctuary.
He remembered how in his youth his heart
had thrilled with the sense that he would have
done and suffered the same.
But now another scene came bacK t ; him
with even greater vividness.
In that city d iring the ceaseless civil wars
ei6 VICTORY OF THE VANqUISHED.
which had followed the division of Alexander'#
empire, one old man "named Onias had lived a
life so high and humble, and so apart from
strife, that his prayers were believed to have
power like Elijah's, and those who had no
ambition for his holiness coveted his interces¬
sions.
One of the contending factions—both Jew¬
ish—dragged him from his home to pray
against the other.
But the old man had not learned to turn
prayers into curses. Quietly he knelt down
among the excited mob and prayed aloud:
" O God, King of the universe, since on one
side are Thy people, and on the other Thy
priests, I beseech Thee hear not the prayers
of either to the injury of the other."
The cries of the enraged partizans drowned
his voice ; the stones fell thick around the
gray head ; the feeble life was easily bruised
out of the aged frame, and he fell, one of the
few martyrs the world has seen to mercy.
Among the dark memories of massacre and
murder which haunted those valleys and hills,
of eight hundred crucified at once outside
those walls, of assassination and fratricidal
slaughter, the memory of that old man dying,
among the stones, for peace, rose before the
Pharisee, and for a moment pierced a way
for tlie daylight through the anxious cares
nCTOBY OF THE VANQUISHED. 217
which were in a gradual manner walling in
his soul.
" If our sons had lived," he said to Esther,
•' I would have yielded them willingly to such
a death as that of this Onias."
Dusk began to fall when they had crossed
the ridge, ere they reached the village of
Bethany, in the valley below among the
palms and olives.
Laon wished to remain for the night in the
shelter of the village. But Onias refused. The
next day was the Sabbath, and he had deter¬
mined to reach the inn among the hills, half¬
way on the road to Jericho, so as to bring the
next day's traveling within the legal limit of
the Sabbath-day's journey.
Both the old men were immovable. Onias
would have yielded anything but a ritual ob¬
servance for the sake of the protection of com¬
panions. And Laon would have yielded to
anything but what he considered a Jewish su¬
perstition. S9 the Jew and the Jewess jour¬
neyed on alone, whilst Laon and the Germans
camped by the village fountain for the night.
They had not been long out of sight, when
on the silence of the evening broke faint dis¬
tant cries for help. Siward was the first to
hear them, and with Callias, and one or two
villagers, he pressed on along the wild and
lonely road.
10
2I8 VICTOR F OF TBE VANQUISHED.
It was some time before chey reached the
place whence came the cries. The reverbera¬
tion of the rocky steep had carried the sound
Êir.
Onias and Esther had indeed fallen among
thieves on the wild mountain road to Jericho,
with its easy retreat to the desert ;—that road
which thieves have haunted persistently fo'"
thousands of years ;—^and when Siward came
to the spot, the fierce war-cry of the followers
of Judas of Galilee, "We have no Master or
Lord but God," echoed among the rocks from
a sentinel who was posted in advance to warn
the rest.
On the approach of the rescue, shouting
and clashing their arms, the robbers sprang
on their horses and fled, leaving their victims
free. But Siward found old Onias too be¬
wildered and distressed to be grateful to his
deliverers. At the first moment he did not
recognize them, but cried out the more, deem¬
ing them to be a fresh band of plunderers.
" I have no more to give," he said in Syriac,
wringing his hands. "They have taken all.
Do with me what you will. They have taken
the savings of my life. Take life too if you
will."
" I had little to lose, sirs," he resumed, re¬
covering himself as he recognized his frienda
—" little to lose ; but it was my all."
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 2\
But from a rock above came a shout of de¬
rision.
" This will teach thee not to lean on an arm
of Gentile flesh, brother ! Thanks for thy
»«nlribution to our sacred cause. Thy coat
weighs heavy, and thou wilt travel light with¬
out it. Gold thrown into the treasury is never
lost. Sow on, old man ; sow again, that the
faithful may reap."
Calilas listened, not without a little mali¬
cious amusement.
Siward was occupied in restoring Esther to
consciousness. She had fallen and been stun¬
ned. But Onias sat wringing his hands, too
dejected to care for anything.
" Esther, my beloved," were his first wordf
to her when she recovered, " would to Heaven
we had both died ! The gold is gone, all,
not a piece left. Not one piece ! And I had
thought one day to array thee like Esther the
queen, and to serve the nation therewith."
She smiled tenderly at the delusion. But
the loss seemed to have added years to his
age. And she returned to the village sup¬
porting on her arm a feeble, tottering old
man.
" Who would have thought it ! Who would
have thought it !" he kept murmuring to him¬
self. " The Lord had indeed forsaken His
people. Was I not incurring the danger in
Ä20 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
4
His service? Is Israel nothing to Him—of
His own Sabbaths? Our God has forsaken
us, Esther. What have we done ? Persecute
and take them, for God hath forsaken them.'
" It is not God who hath forsaken us," she
said, " it is only the gold."
But he shook his head, and was not to be
comforted.
Yet in her own heart his words found a
deeper echo than she would let him see.
Thenceforth throughout the journey Siguna
observed that the positions of Onias and Es¬
ther seemed reversed. Esther rose from her
dejection to comfort him. Feeble and sad as
she was, she had become the protector, watch¬
ing and cherishing him with a pitiful mother¬
ly tenderness. But to Siguna, one evening,
the anguish which lay at the root of all this
tenderness came out.
" Oh, German mother !" she said, " he was
noble once, kind and generous, when the chil¬
dren were with us. It is I who have brought
this change and curse on him. For my sins,
God took the babes. For their sakes, first the
gold grew precious to him ; they, yet a thou
sandfold more precious. But since they died
his heart has twined around the gold. He
is no base miser," she added passionately
' never believe it. He loves the gold for the
power he sees in it to help. He sees it glori.
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISEED. 221
fied with all the love and hopes which once
gathered round it. Money is not only the
idol of the mean. It is the idol of the hope¬
less. And sometimes I think if our people
lost the great Hope, it might become the idol
of our race."
Si ward was listening. She turned to him,
and said,—
" Worship any idol but that. Other idols
can be broken. This never. Its destruction
only makes it dearer. For it is always in the
distance before us ; a symbol of power, power
to do what we will for ourselves and others.
When we -reach this point, the worshipers
say, or that—or that ! But the point at which
to use it is never reached. We lie down in
the dust, and the hand which meant to have
used the gold is as powerless as the gold it
meant to use. Yet the delusion dies not.
Dust to us, it is still a symbol of irresistible
power to those who take it from our dead
hands. Alas ! this curse and this delusion are
on him. But my sins brought it on him ;
* iff
mine !
Siward looked into the pure patient face,
and exclaimed involuntarily,—
" Thy sins ! What could they have been ?"
" I coveted^ gold first for the babes," she
said; "and then the babes died, and he still
coveted the gold for itself."
2Z2 VICTOBZ of the VAKQUiaHED.
" Underneath the Jewish Temple also,
then," thought Siward, " as deep in the heart
of the rock beneath the temples of Athens,
yawns the cave of the Eumenides, of the
avenging goddesses who cannot be appeased
or evaded. Everywhere these are dreaded ;
—are these then the strongest ?"
But he said,—
" Your God also, then, does not forgive !"
She was silent a moment. Then a faint
light broke over her countenance.
" It is written, ' There is forgiveness with
Thee !' " she said. " It is possible that He
may be punishing, and yet forgiving ; punish¬
ing, that He may be able to forgive. In this
hope I live."
By degrees Onias rallied, and began to fol¬
low the advice of the robber, " Sow on, sow
on again." His mind had run so long in the
grooves of commercial calculation, that when
left to itself it seemed to calculate mechanic¬
ally. Before they had left Jericho, with its
rose and balsam gardens, shaded on its burn¬
ing plain by the groves of young palm-trees
¡/anted by Archelaus, the son of Herod the
Great, he had recommenced negotiations with
Laon; and when they reached _ the shores of
the Lake of Galilee he had contrived a scheme
for the sale of arms, which would, he trusted,
e
VICTORY OF THE VANqUISHED
in no distant future restore the losses of the
«
past.
The villages which bordered the fertile
shores of the inland sea seemed to him store-
hoases of future profit.
" These Galileans are always turbulent," he
said to Esther one evening, as they walked
along the shingly shore ; " before long some
new Judas of Gamala is sure to arise. The
sight of this new Tiberias of the Idumaean,
desecrated with Gentile images and a Roman
name, its golden roofs and white porticoes
shining over the waters,—is it not enough to
excite them ? Arms are sure to be welcome ;
and prohibited wares can only be safely pur¬
chased of a fellow-countryman, himself a Jew¬
ish patriot. These hardy fishermen, more-
aver, not a few of them are small capitalists.
They possess more than one boat. And the
lake is a storehouse of wealth inexhaustible.
Fish without end ; corn-fields which yield
crop after crop ; vineyards and olive-groves
on every hill, date-palms on the plain ; orch¬
ards of citrons and pomegranates bathed by
the lake ;—a market at hand in this new city,
profane as it is. This land is as the Garden
of Eden, Esther. Let us never despond.
Some day, who can say what Deliverer may
arise for this Paradise? Judas of Gamala all
but succeeded His followers survive The
224 VICTORY OF TUE yANqmSRED.
Maccabees came from the north. No one
knew of them till they arose. Who knows
what may be preparing among these hills
even now. This is just the country for a
man to arise from. A Paradise to save. The
Edomite to dispossess, the traitor flaunting
his new Gentile city in the very face of Israel.
Wild solitary wildernesses at hand across the
water, such as Elijah was trained in. Who
Knows how near the deliverance may be ! Let
us do our part. Let us purchase and sell
them the best arms these Gentiles can make,
and leave the issue to the Lord of Sabaoth."
That evening they watched the three stais
unveil themselves from the daylight, marking
that the Sabbath had begun.
They rested that Sabbath-day in one of the
villages on the shores of the lake, ünias hav¬
ing refused to lodge within the " Gentile and
polluted city of Tiberias."
They entered a synagogue with a li-brin-
"thian portico, built, it was said, by a Roman
soldier, a proselyte.
Esther sat among the women. Onias was
offered the scroll of the law, and asked to read.
Eagerly she leant forward and listened, a*
the words came,—
" Surely He hath borne our griefs, and car
ried our sorrows."
Like the words o' a song in a foreign Ian
riGTOIÎY OF THE VANQUISEEl). 225
guage, almost sweeter for being half under¬
stood, the wonderful portrait penetrated her
heart.
A Sufferer so beloved of God, what a con¬
secration for all suffering !
And further on, the tender words of the
prophet stole in like balm.
" The Lord has called thee as a woman for¬
saken and grieved in spirit.
" For a small moment have I forsaken thee,
but with great mercies will I gather thee.
" O thou afflicted, tossed with tempest, and
not comforted, behold I will lay thy stones
with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with
sapphires."
She heard no more.
Her heart seemed to rise beyoud its own
sorrows and hopelessness to the sorrow and
undying Hope of her people. *
" It must come !" she sang in her heart.
" He must come ; the Anointed, the King !
Who knows how near His footsteps may be?
Did Israel know Saul till he wai anointed ?
Did his brethren known David even after he
was anointed ? Who knows but, if our ears
were opened, we might hear those footsteps
even now—even here ?"
«
About a day's journey from them, among
the western hills, lay the village of Nazareth
10*
226 YICTOBT OF THE VAStililSUBD.
But who thought of turning aside to see ao
obscure mountain village, not of the best rep¬
utation ?
No highway of commerce led through it
No patriotic memories, gathered round it.
Even if they had passed through its upland
streets, they might have seen nothing remark¬
able in the carpenter's workshop there.
That night Esther could not sleep. A sud
den storm burst on the lake through the ra-
rines of the mountains. The white surge
gleamed through the night as the waves
broke on the shingly beaches or dashed on
the cliflFs. She sat crouching on the flat house¬
top under the shelter of a little booth which
had been erected for them, and looked out on
the storm, until the day began to break ; and
then leaning over the low parapet, she watch¬
ed one solitary flshing-boat struggling with
the storm ; now all but hidden under the
waves, then emerging, tossed on the white
crests, until at last it reached the shore, dash¬
ed high on a sandy creek, and left there ha.f
a wreck, sails torn, masts broken, but safe.
Slowly the wind lulled, the clouds vanish¬
ed, and the sun rose behind the long ridge of
the eastern table-land ; the sky was " set with
fair colors," and the .sea shone like a translu¬
cent sapphire
riOTORT OF 1MB VANqUISHEl). 227
«
The tangle of images, clustered and inter¬
twined like the rich vegetation below her on
the plain of Gennesaret, in the prophecies she
had heard yesterday in the synagogue, came
back to her mind, unfolded by the scene be
fore her.
The Ship tossed in the tempests of the
stormy world, dissolving into the city set
with sapphires and fair colors ; when and
where would the transformation be? Were
the tempests for earth, and the fair colors all
for heaven? Or was the dawn even now
ready to break on the earth ?
So she mused watching by the sea of Gali¬
lee.
And that same night, in the Temple by
the Roman Forum, Clcelia the Vestal was
keeping the sacred fire for her people, her
heart also faintly stirred by the tremulous
murmurs of the morning of which that age
was full.
For the burden of the wickedness of the
City on the Seven Hills weighed more and
more heavily on her as she understood it
more.
And around the few who watched and
prayed lay the great multitudes of the slum
t
228 VIOTORT OF THE VARQUISHED.
bering, revelling, suffering world, on whom
no hope had yet dawned.
The Hope of the few who looked upward,
the hopelessness of the rtiany whom no one
had taught to look upward, the universal
night of corruption, the uncertain broken
murmurs of aspiration from earnest hearts
below, the limited but surely growing light
of the earlier Revelation from above, all were
betokening the breaking of the Day.
To us who have seen it break !
«
But not yet to those who were still in the
twilight.
The morning and the evening twilight are
always hard to be distinguished, by creatrres
of an hour, whose life is not long enough to
see it either begin or end.
CHAPTER XVIIL
NTIOCH, the third City in the World,
the beautiful city, the joyous city,
was full of the stir of festivity from
end to end. Csesar Germanicus had
been laid low by dangerous sickness. He was
believed to have recovered, and Antioch, the
metropolis of the East, and the residence of
the Roman Legate, was pouring out her hun¬
dreds of thousands to sacrifice at the altars on
the hill-sides for the health of the young Csesar,
In that delicious climate, living in the open
air, under the shadow of the countless porti¬
coes, or in the race-course and theatres, the
idle crowds which thronged the long, broad
streets at all times, had only to be stirred by
a common impulse in one direction, and the
beautiful city became at once the stage of a
brilliant and picturesque procession.
Graceful Greeks, lithe Syrians, stately Per
sians, in all the rich coloring of Oriental cos¬
tume, glanced in and out of the shadow
(^^9)
230 VIGTOBT OF THE VANqWlBBBD.
ôf the long colonnades. Among them priests
mrith victims, white oxen garlanded, groups
of dancers led by cymbals, trumpets, and
flutes, choruses of triumphal or comic sing¬
ers, trooped joyously along the long street
towards Epidaphne. Along the league-long
sweet, bordered by a marble colonnade with
three aisles, they went; flowers from the
the luxuriant gardens showered around their
steps, jests flying on all sides among that
quick-witted populace (remarkable for its fac¬
ulty of bestowing characteristic soubriquet¿)\
by the swift Orontes to the fragrant gardens
on the hills, musical with streams, and popu¬
lous with temples and statues of gods and
nymphs ; many of the mortal men and wo¬
men in the procession, themselves, with their
white flowing robes and athletic supple forms
trained in the race-course and the circus, as
beautiful and graceful as any statue of their
gods.
A miracle of beauty the city was that sum¬
mer day, with the river girdling it like a sil¬
ver girdle, the white arches of acqueducts
and bridges, and the porticoes of paláces and
Basilicas, reflected in the waters, or shining
among the dark foliage ; and all guarded by
the walls and towers which scaled the steeps
and crowned the heights. Beyond, the rich
plain, the blue mountains, sources of cool
VPJTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
streams ; over all the glorious sui. shine, bring¬
ing out every detail of architecture and sculp¬
ture like delicate ivory carving, and steeping
ever)' color in a golden glow ; and through
all, the stir of a multitude united for the mo¬
ment into the true life of a city by a common
deliverance and a common joy.
Sudden^" the festivities were checked.
The priests had reached the altars at Epi-
daphne with the victims, and were commenc¬
ing the sacrificial rites, when the lictors of
Piso, the envious colleague of Germanicus,
burst on them, chased away the priests and
the garlanded sacrificial oxen with blows and
menaces, and dispersed the procession, leav¬
ing the astonished people to discuss in broken
groups what this division among their Roman
rulers might mean or portend.
The festivities which had united the mob
into a multitude, thus broken, Antioch re¬
solved itself again int*^) its elements; elements
probably as base and corrupt as have ever
been gathered together in any one place.
Romans delivered from the restraints of
Roman duty, Greek mythology transplanted
without any of its higher associations, degrad¬
ed into a mere light tissue of legend, or asso¬
ciated with the fierce and licentious Syrian
nature-worship, native to the place. The de¬
caying religions of all nations mouldering to^
s
232 VICTOR! OF THE VANqüISHED.
gether in a common corruption, a luxuiioul
soil for the vices of all nations to flourish in.
Art sunk into a mere appendage )f luxury.
Nothing serious, but a dark Oriental magic,
supposed to be mighty in love-potions or
murderous spells ; and the sordid pursuit of
wealth. Riches enough to purchase anything ;
and nothing too sacred to be sold. An aris¬
tocracy of mere riches, without patriotism or
faith or family honor; a populace such as
such an aristocracy creates.
Old Laon was disturbed at having recom¬
mended the place to the German captives.
" There is no quarter of the city fit for a
good woman like your mother or a young
maiden like your sister to live in," he said to
Siward, "except among these hateful Jews,
who swarm here, as everywhere else where
their honey is to be gathered. Thejr are a
set of bigots and misers. But it must be con¬
fessed they have retained some relics of fam-
*
ily purity. And they alone."
A stronger reprobation could not pass
Laon's lips. " For myself," he added, " I find
here a few who love wisdom, and a great
many who can talk fine rhetoric about philos¬
ophy. But women want their philosophy on
fire with religion of some kind. And here
the fire of religion and the fire of iniqviity are
the same."
I
CHAPTER XIX.
IHK brief gleam of delusive hope* as
I to the restoration of Germánicas
I had faded away ; and in his home
I near Antioch, among the gardens
of Epidaphne, the young Caesar lay dying.
The pure home of Agrippina and Germáni¬
cas was strangely set ; an island of purity, in
that enchanted forest of license and revelry.
It was October. But the seasons made
little difference in the paradise in the midst
of which he was sojourning.
Summer could not silence the music of the
hundred fountains welling up from their deep
rocky sources beneath the hills. Autumn
laid a scarcely perceptible touch on the glos¬
sy foliage of its forests, miles in depth, of
ilexes, laurels, and bays, or on the dark mas¬
ses of its cypresses and cedars. The white
marble Temple, in whose jewelled sanctuary
the statue of Apollo stretched out arms of
(^'33)
234 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
perpetual longing for a human love, was sup
rounded by depths of evergreen shade, the
perpetually renewed freshness of grass and
flowers, and the music of ceaseless revelries.
But for Germánicos this world had no light
or music any more.
Dark suspicions haunted his sick-bed. The
beautiful temples shining amidst the dark
foliage, the dances, the processions, the lux¬
urious festivities among the fragrant gardens,
all vanished before the terrors of the great
Shadow. The dark chasm of superstitious
fear which lay beneath all the brilliant gossa¬
mers, beneath all the song and dance and fes¬
tival of that old Pagan faith, yawned before
Germánicos in all its blackness.
To him the flowery Epidaphne was no par¬
adise of joyous worship, but a sunny portal
to the world of shadows. The true shrines ■
of Antioch were to the powers of the under¬
world ; her true worship was a mighty malig¬
nant magic ; the white porticoes of her temples
were the threshold of a cave darker far than
that of the Eumenides beneath the rocky hills
of Athens ; for the powers ruling there were
no avengers of wrong, steadfast and stern, but
abettors of wrong, capricious and unstable at
the beck and call of any malignant heart which
was sufficiently like them to propitiate them
with the cruel rites they loved.
VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED 23$
To Caesar Germanicus, as he watched his
own life slowly and inevitably ebbing away,
the world of life and of death must have
seemed given over to beings whose nearesi
types were beasts of prey, ready to fawn on
any who would indulge them with enougn
blood and cruel sport.
That age, with its light scepticism on the
surface, and its despairing unbelief below, was
an age of faith in magic, and of feverish curi¬
osity to obtain glimpses into the future and
the unseen; and the pure life of Germanicus
was not f'^ee from these superstitious terrors,
His own persuasion that poison was given
him by Piso, is said to have heightened the
relentless violence of the disease. But the
poison which he most dreaded was not any
mere drug which might work by ordinary
means on the body. It was an age in which
wives were brought before grave tribunals for
administering potions to their husbands which
subtly dethroned reason. "And on the floors
and walls of Piso's chambers," it was related,
" were found the exhumed remains of human
bodies, with charms and spells, and the name
ef Germanicus engraven on sheets of lead ;
carcases half burnt, besmeared with g3re, and
other instruments of sorceries wherewith souls
were thought to be doomed to the gods ol the
under-world/'
236 VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
Germanicus had written a letter from hi»
sick-room solemnly '• renouncing , the friend¬
ship of Piso," and, it was said, commanding
him to depart the province ; in spite of which
Piso was hovering near, like a bird of prey,
watching the dying agonies of his victim.
But the most earnest thoughts of Germani¬
cus were for his wife and her six children.
The world above, on which his eyes were
closing, was, he knew too well, the empire oí
Tiberius Caesar, ever envious and suspicious
of him, whose chief ministers were informers,
#
living on the blood of those whom they be¬
trayed. »P
What reason was there to hope that the un¬
seen world below, to which he was going,
would be more justly and evenly ruled than
the seen? It seemed to be the empire of
Powers envious and capricious, whose favor¬
ite rites were magic and murder. The Powers
who suffered Tiberius to reign, and Piso and
Plancina to prosper on earth, would scarcely
be more tolerable in their own immediate do¬
minions. Soon he would be wandering aim¬
lessly among the dark gods of that lower
world. Of that it was useless to think. No
wisdom or goodness availed there, or, at all
events, no rules which human creatures could
comprehend as wise and good.
But Agrippina and their children wou'd bo
VICTORY OF THE YAFqUlSnEB. 237
«
Still on earth. There, even under the domin¬
ion of Tiberius, justice might at intervals
make her voice heard ; or, at the worst, pru¬
dence and patience might be of some avail.
To the few friends who were gatherea
around him he committed, is his dying in¬
junction, the sacred duty of avenging his
death.
And touching the hand of the dying prince,
they swore they would forego their lives
sooner than their revenge.
For Agrippina he had other counsels. The
lofty courage, the imperial stateliness, the
severe purity of life, the chaste fervour of
affection, which had become her as the wife
of the Conqueror, the mother of Caesars, the
grand-daughter of Augustus, would avail her
nothing now. He conjured her, " by her
remen>brance of him, by the children who be¬
longed to them both, to lay aside ber indig¬
nant passion, and bow her spirit to fortune,
now enraged against him ; and on her return
to Rome, not to irritate those who were
stronger than herself, by striving for the mas¬
tery."
" So much* openly. And more in secret."
It was believed that above all other enemies
he warned her to dread Tiberius, under
whose suspicious eyes henceforth she and her
children would have to live, with no medial
I
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
between ; with no Refuge, that Germanic ua
knew, above.
And soon afterwards—the last effort of his
expiring strength spent in caring for her and
his children—he died.
With Tiberius Caesar reigning on eárth,
where he was leaving all he loved, and the
Powers Piso had propitiated by magic reign--
ing in that dark lower -world he saw before
him, it could have been no easy thing for Gei-
manicus to die.
As hard almost for him to die, as for Agrip-
pina to live !
Once more the people of Antioch were p-ath-
ered together for a solemn rite.
It was night.
The princely form of the young Caesar was
borne, on the imperial couch of ivory draped
with purple, from the gardens of Epidaphne
through the streets to the Forum of Antioch,
There, on the square pile of wood, as on an
altar, the funeral couch was laid.
The pyre was lit, as usual, by the nearest id
blood, with face, averted ; the perfumes were
sprinkled ; the flames leapt up around the
dead prince, and lit up with their capricious
flickering glow the faces of the multitude, for
the moment stricken into silence. In a few
minutes no visible sign of Germanicus was
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
.eft, save a few ashes mingled with perfumes
and moistened with a libation of wine.
There was little pomp in the ceremony.
The images of his long line of ancestry were
fai away in Rome ; and there was no funeral
procession, no solemn marching of the troops
around the pyre, no emancipation of slaves.
All his children except two—one of them
the infant born a few months since at Lesbos—
«
were then at Rome. And in Syria, it was
possible the imperial authority might devolve
on the mortal enemy, appointed by Tiberius,
who had so relentlessly pursued his steps, and
contravened his orders.
Piso and Plancina, still lingering among the
Grecian seas at the Isle of Cos, were over¬
joyed at the tidings of his death ; made public
sacrifices in the temples ; threw off the mourn¬
ing which they had been wearing for a family
bereavement ; accused Germanicus, in a letter
to Tiberius, of luxury and insolence; and
hastily collecting an army of deserters and
malcontents, returned to the coasts of Syria.
The public mourning for Germanicus came
later.
Meantime, among the numbers who recalled
the dignity and courtesy of his bearing, the
princely generosity which delighted in giving
to the needy, the nobler generosity which had
been so prompt in rescuing his worst enemy
240 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED
from shipwreck, the courteous regard for the
customs and beliefs of other races,, so graceful in
one whose station raised him above criticism,
and so rare in a Roman, his courage in the
field, his care for his soldiers, his gentleness
to the foes whom severity had subdued, his
steadfast loyalty to the Emperor, repaid with
such ungenerous suspicions, his pure and tem¬
perate life, his eloquent words, his enthusiasm
for the eloquent and beautiful words of other
men, his home, worthy of the ideal days of
Rome—the darkness around him, the bright
hopes for the world which had centred in
him -among all who recalled these things the
sorrow was deep and true.
There were no processions at his funeral,
no images of ancestors, no sons with veiled
heads or daughters with uncovered faces and
dishevelled hair. But the hopes of the whole
Roman Empire were veiled at his death. The
whole future grew black ; and little as it could
lessen her loneliness, Agrippina had a world
to mourn with her.
The German captives, slaves in the young
Caesar's household, had also cause to mourn
the death of the noblest enemy Rome had sent
them.
They would have mourned more if the}' had
known that, by one of the strange melodra¬
matic coinc.dences of history, on the very day
VICTOBT OF THE VAEqUIüHED. 241
on which Germanicus had died, his brave foe
Herman, once hailed enthusiastically by his
race as their Deliverer, had fallen by the
swords of his own people.
The Deliverer and the Conqueror of the
Germans died on the same day ; the Roman
Conqueror (it was believed) by the poison of
Romans,—the German Liberator by the sword
of Germans.
The world, Roman and German, had yet to
find her true Conqueror and Deliverer.
II
CHAPTER XX.
N a lowly dwelling in the quarter of
Antioch where the numerous Jewish
colony lived, as usual congregating
as closely as possible, and having their
synagogue for the centre of attraction, were
gathered together, one evening late in Octo¬
ber, the German captives Siguna and Siward,
with little Hilda, old Laon, Callias, the
sculptor, and Onias and Esther, the master
and mistress of the house.
The great sorrow (as usual) had brought
other sorrows and separations in its train, and
the little company who had grown so familiar
with each other, had met for a last interview
on the eve of a long parting.
Siguna alone was to return in the household
of Agrippina tc Rome.
Dreading moie than separation or death for
her daughter the pollution of one of the great
Roman slave-households, the German mother
VICTORY OF THE VANqUlBBED.
had gladly consented to the purchase of the
child by the childless Esther.
A strong afTection had grown up between
the two women. Siguna felt that to be a bond-
maiden in the charge of the Jewess would be
a lot nobler than freedom in many a home.
And the heart of Esther yearned towards the
child who might be to her as her own,—^in all
but the great national Hope, which was
centred in the mothers of her race, and in
them alone.
Laon's contract was fulfilled, and he was
free. In a short time he hoped, by the aid of
Onias' skill in bargaining, and his opportuni¬
ties for the sale of arms among his turbulenf
compatriots, to make capital sufficient to pro¬
vide a refuge for his foster-child, Clœlia Dio-
dora, if fortune should enable him to rescue .
her. Siward was to use his strong arm for
them, and Callias his skill in ornament and
design.
Onias had paid the purchase-money for both
Hilda and Siward, from mysterious sources,
to which he gave no clue In a few years it
was hoped the brother would work out the
ransom of both his sister and himself.
In the meantime the three were linked to-
çether by a common interest, and inspir-ed
each by his own individual hope.
Laon sighed for his foster-child ; Siward for
244 y'ICTORT OF THE VANqUlSHED.
liberty for himself, his sister, and his country
(not knowing yet how the hopes of the North
German tribes had for the time been crushed
by the assassination of Herman) ; and Calhas
was inspired by a long-cherished purpose,
%
which he had only that evening confided to
Siguna.
His heart was set on making, in some future
year, little Hilda his bride. The sister of a
brave brother, and the daughter of a good
mother, with a dower of sunshine m her fair
face,—for such a bride he would be content to
work and wait his seven years.
Siguna and Esther held grave debate on the
matter. The heart of the German turned to¬
wards the race which, in the person of Laon,
had so befriended her boy ; and to Callias him¬
self for his courteous bearing to them in their
captivity ; whilst, to Esther the seven years'
service had a patriarchal sanction. That
evening, therefore, the mother's consent was
obtained and little Hilda, unconscious of her
dignity, was promised to Callias as his future
bride.
Siguna's heart was relieved for her children.
For herself, she had determined her course.
She would accompany Agrippina to Rome
there, as soon as might be, earn her freedom
and return to her children at Antioch. This
she had told them all. But only to S i ward, in
✓
YICTOBY OF THE YANQUISHED. 245
the last hour before her departure, did she
confide the immovable purpose which lay
deeper in her heart than anything. The first
moment she was free she had determined to
retrace her steps along the fatal Roman Road
to the Lippe Valley, and there to find if Olave
the Smith, her husband, still lived. All else
in her future must depend on the issue of that
search. She would trust no one but herself
to make it, not even Siward. Others might
grow too soon discouraged. In her heart only
burned that unconquerable instinct which told
her that he lived. And if he lived she would
find him.
So the German captive family was again
divided. Hilda remained in the household of
Esther the Jewess, and Siward in the work¬
shop of old Laon on the borders of the
Orontes; whilst Siguna went back over the
seas to Rome with Agrippina and her children.
Back to Rome Agrippina and her mournful
company went; to Rome, where, not two
j'ears since, the princely form of the young
Cassar in his Conqueror's chariot among his
boys had been the glory of the Triumph;
across the seas, with their clusters of thickly-
peopled isles, where a few months before
ever)' island and every city had sent forth
their festive thousands in welcome.
246 VTGTORT OF THE VANQÜIBHKD
On their way, by the Asiatic shore, they er»,
countered the ships of Piso. There was ap¬
prehension of a battle. But the fleets passed
each other with no further collision than bitter
words shouted from crew to crew.
^ s
Little indeed could the dread of such hos¬
tilities have moved Agrippina. In her youth
she had stood alone on the side of the Rhine
nearest the enemy, to keep the bridge for her
husband's legions. And now, although the
love which had kindled the courage was with
ner no more, the fears of love had perished
with it. Henceforth this world had little
terrible to threaten her with, unless it were
4
through the children left to her vain and feeble
guardianship.
Slowly she sailed across those peopled seas.
A storm had gathered around them, and
scattered the ships, when they had left the
coast of Italy together. Now no storm hin¬
dered her. The powers of the under-world ^
had accomplished their worst ; and no " envy
of the gods " need lower now, with sudden
menaces of tempest, around the widowed
princess ; her course was too certainly towards
shipwreck, returning to a court which hated
her, with the ashes of her husband. Across
calm seas and under the pitiless smile of sunny
skies, day aft "^r day she advanced to Rome.
YIVTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 24/
We do not hear that she stopped at one oí
the places where so short a time ago she had
been welcomed with Germanicüs. No festive
gathering now at Athens ; no fond lingering
at Actium over the places sacred to the
memory of their common ancestors.
Only at Corey ra she rested a few^ays, to
calm her spirit, " passionate in sorrow, unused
to endure," to restore her e.aeebled health,
and gather strength to encounter the tide of
sympathy and of recollections which awaited
her on the Italian shores.
Tidings must have reached her there how
deeply her sorrow was felt at Rome ; how, on
a false, report of the death of Germanicus, the
courts of justice had been dissolved, and pri- ■
vate houses shut up ; how again, on a delusive
report of his having recovered, the doors of
the temples had been burst open by the
throngs of rejoicing worshipers; and after¬
wards, in December, the Festival of the
Saturnalia had been no festival, for the mourn¬
ing throughout the city.
The friends of the family of the Caesar did
not wait for her disembarkation, but hastened
to Brundusium, and crowded in ships around
her.
She landed at Brundusium, bearing in her
arnfïs the Funeral Urn, the two children who
were vriti her (one an infant in arms) at hex
248 VIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
I
side. Her other children met her on the
shore.
I
Before she came in sight, it had been de¬
bated whether it would be best to receive her
in silence, or with any voice of sorrow. But
when she stepped on shore, bearing the sacred
iTrn, her eyes cast down, one groan burst from
all; the weeping of men could not be dis-
ting uished from that of the women ; only (it
was said) the fresh grief of those who came to
meet her was louder than that of those who
had been with her, wearied and worn with
long mourning.
The quays, the walls, the roofs of the houses
were thronged with a silent multitude, griev¬
ing with her, " the only true child of Augus¬
tus, the only relic of ancient virtue left."
Never, perhaps, was there a more passionate
and genuine popular mourning. For those
tears and lamentations were well known to
find no favor with the Emperor, or the Em¬
peror's aged mother. All formal honors had
indeed been decreed by Tiberius. The ofiicers
of two Praetorian cohorts met her at Brun-
dusium ; tribunes, and centurions, were ap-'
pointed to bear the Urn on their shoulders;
propitiatory sacrifices were offered on the
altars of the Dii Manes. But it was observed
that neither Tiberius nor Li via, nor (it was
believed in consequence of the Emperor's pro-
TICTOBT OF THE YANqUISHED. 245
hibition) even Antonia, the mother of Ger-
manicus, came forth to meet the dead, or to
receive Agrippina. The people in every city
were impelled by a generous impulse to com¬
pensate for the coldness of the Emperor. As
they passed through town after town, the poor
citizens in black, the knights in purple robes,
came to meet tßem ; precious raiment and
perfumes were burned in honor of the beloved
dead ; whilst from the country districts and
the more distant towns the people gatheied
in throngs.
So they reached the neighborhood of Rome.
Through the many miles of tombs bordering
the Appian Way, the procession passed.
Siguna thought of her own first approach
to the city by the Flaminian Way, along the
great road from the North. Then all around
had been full of triumphal festivity ; Germáni¬
cas and his family themselves the centre of all
the life and joy. By the Campus Martius, by
amphitheatres and temples, they had ap.
proached the Imperial Citj crowned by the
Capitol, and along the Sacred Way had been
drawn, to be themselves laid as another tri¬
bute at her feet.
Now trumpets, flutes, garlanded oxen,
festive multitude, all had vanished. And
slowly the family, of Germanicus passed on
through the tombs, themselves the saddest
II*
250 riGTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
spectacle of all, no more to lay the wreath of
victory on the Capitol, but to lay the Urn
with its few light ashes in the Mausoleum of
the Caesars by the Tiber.
Henceforth to Agrippina, from a Triumphal
Way, all the way through life had become a
Way of Tombs; shadow after shadow would
cross her path, yet scarcely darken it more.
From the City, the Senate and a great part
of the Roman people came forth to meet her
Not in a stately, formal procession, but in
broken groups—lamenting in low voices to
each other, as men for whom in this death much
was lost for ever—they entered together the
City gates.
One heart remained little changed. One
cold and bitter heart—which had been wrap¬
ped in envious gloom when all Rome was re¬
joicing with Germanicus the Conqueror—
was chilled to a deeper darkness by the
passionate lamentation over his death. Life
has no fields so barren that Envy cannot
gather her poisons there. If every shout of ex¬
ultation in the Triumph of Germanicus had
been like a sting to Tiberius, this silence and
this passionate mourning pierced him with a
deeper wound.
The day on which the sacred relics were
borne to the mausoleum of Augustus was no
day of even-voiced, melodious larnentatioa
VICT0R7 OF THE VANQUISHED. 251
\
At me time the crowded streets were "a
waste of desolate silences;" at another, rest¬
less with bitter wailing. The Campus Martins
(near which, on the banks of the Tiber, the
mausoleum stood) was one blaze of light with
funeral torches: armed troops, magistrates
without their insignia, the people in their
tribes, crying that the Commonwealth had
fallen, and no hope was left: all hearts burn¬
ing with love and sorrow for the pure, brave
lives so few cared to follow ; for the lost Cae¬
sar and the mourning Agrippina—-calling on
her as the "glory of the cotintry, the only
blood of Augustus," the only type of ancient
ideal times left; calling on the gods, with
faces turned heavenward, " to preserve her
offspring, that they might survive the wicked."
A genuine burst of sorrow, regardless of pru¬
dence, braving the anger of the Emperor;
revealing for a moment to that fallen people
the ideal they had lost ; revealing in them for
a moment, as true sorrow does, the ideal for
which they were created.
It was not Germanicus only the Roman
people mourned that day. It was Rome—^it
was Roman honor and purity. It was more :
it was a sorrow they had not learned to name ;
the source of all darkness worth the name of
darkness. It was a lost paradise, lost human
happiness, a fallen human race, for which they
252 VlOTORï OF TUE VANQUISHEb.
wept. It was Sin. It was the "lost ideal
humanity then (unknown to them) being lived
into reality again at Nazareth. It was the
.DSt Shepherd, the lost King and Saviour of
men.
But on his icy height Tiberius kept still
apart, un warmed by the sunshine of common
men, untouched by their storms of purifying
sorrow. And soon from that summit iell from
afar on the ears of mortals a hard voice,
audible as a trumpet, and inhuman, with no
uncertain sound—sarcastic, sententious, epi¬
grammatic, full of unanswerable common¬
places and unmitigated commonsense.
" Princes were mortal," it said ; " the State
was eternal. It was not unseemly to lament
jn the first transport of sorrow ; nay, tears
were even a relief. But now it was time to
compose their minds ; as formerly the divine
Julius losing his only daughter, and the divine
Augustas deprived of his grandsons, had re¬
pressed their grief. Often before," it sarca.«.ti-
cahy suggested, " the Roman people had
borne calmly the death of generals The
April spectacles of the great goddess wei e at
hand. Let them resume their amusements !'*
A little later he might have pointed the les.
son with his own example, when he replied to ^
a letter of condolence from the Grecians for
the death of his own son Drusus, by express*
/
VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaHEL. 253
4
é
ïng to them in return his sympathy with them
for the death of Hector of Troy.
Such was the heart to which Agrippina—
proud, courageous, pure, truthful—had to look
for protection for herself and her children.
Such was the heart of him to whom the Ro¬
man world entreated to be suffered to erect
temples, believing that all power was given to
him in heaven and on earth.
This passionate mourning for Germanicus
(in itself, by its implied comparison with him¬
self, almost a revolt) was scarcely over when
an entreaty came from this same Roman
people to the Emperor which must have
moved him to a cynical smile. The pauper
citizens had murmured at the price of corn.
Tiberius settled the price of it to the buyer
by himself paying the extra price to the corn-
dealer. Thereupon the Roman people spoke
of his " care of the State " as " divine," invoked ,
himself as " Lord," and once more supplicated
permission to call him " Father of the Coun¬
try."
I'iberius refused the titles, and sharply re¬
buked the suppliants. " Speech was difficult,"
it was said, " under a ruler who dreaded
liberty and hated flattery."
A strange horror mixed with pity almost
fascinates the gaze on this cold, calm man, in¬
capable, it would seem, >f joy or of sympathy
254 VWTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
but not incapable, as it seemed afterwards, ol
anguish. Himself compelled to act the pun
cipal part in a world of shows, he hated all
shows of grief or joy ; and from his cold
height, and with his passionless eyes, gazed
through them, or brushed them away like
cobwebs.
Exaggeration was in his eyes a crime, and
he lived the centre of a world of the wildest
exaggerations. He suffered the senators to
talk poetically of " the priests of Mars singing
the name of Germanicus among the names of
the gods, with dance and striking of shields in
the processional Salia/i hymn ; of placing à
cur ule chair for him at the circus, surmounted
with oaken crowns; or carrying his ivory
statue in the Circensian games." He suffered
arches to be erected to his memory at Rome,
on the Rhine, on Amanus in Syria, a cenotaph
at Antioch, a tribunal at Epidaphne. Bui
when they would have oecreed Germanicus a
golden shield, of an extra size, as the meed of
eloquence, the critical Emperor interfered.
" Not larger," he said, " than the shields of
others ; for eloquence was not measured by
fortune."
Tiberius even disapproved of exaggeration
in plundering the provinces. By his appoint,
ment the changes among the governors of
Syria weie less frequent than usual, on the
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 255
«
pimcipîe, he said, "that one swartn of flies
might be satiated with the blood of the victim,
and it was an unnecessary cruelty to drive it
away to be replaced by another."
Of the frightful crimes which are said to*
have ended his career, there were as yet few
symptoms.
Strong, able, clear-sighted, far-sighted, re¬
jecting sympathy, indignant with infirmity—
the contrast between Tiberius and Him whose
true universal empire was growing irresistibly
under his rule, was, perhaps, even stronger
then, than in those later days of orgy and vio¬
lence.
ê
For the character of the Emperor stood
bare in its essence, unconcealed, if unpolluted,
by the rank death-growth of after years.
It was not to one untouched with the feel¬
ing of our infirmities, tearlessly diverting the
mourner from the grave to the "games," in
his own sorrow sarcastically rejecting sym¬
pathy, that all power was given.
But to One who, when He said, "Weep
not," made death give back its prey ; and
who, with the sorrow He so soon turned into
joy, " wept."
To One who, indeed, with insight clearer
than that of Tiberius, knew what was in man ;
knew how the three would slumber, and one
betray, and all forsake, yet sought their feeble
J56 riüTOBT OF THE YANQUIBHED
symp athy, and hoped for them through aL
their fearfulness; and before the Father in
the calm intensity of His last prayer, said h >w
He prized their faltering love.
To Him whose compassion was infinitely
tender, because His sight was infinitely clear ;
because, through all the deadly intertwining
of sin around the inmost heart, He saw that
the deadly clasp could be unlocked, and un¬
locked by love alone ; and loved on, and died
for love, and by loving and dying has un¬
locked that mortal embrace of sin from hearts
innumerable, age after age, and has redeemed
and liberated them for ever and for ever.
%
CHAPTER XXI.
IGUNA had been entrusted by the
Jewess Esther with a packet and a
message for her father in Rome. One
evening she consulted Cloelia Dio- ^
dorà as to the best method of finding the old
man, and they came to the conclusion that
the venerable Jew who had spoken to Cloelia
on the Cœlian Hill might be Esther's father.
" He used often on summer evenings to sit
on a stone outside our garden," Diodora said.
" I used to take him a cup of cold water from
our well sometimes, and grapes from our
vines ; and he used to tell me lovely stories
from the history of his people : of good wo¬
men and their joys and sorrows ; of women
brave and heroic as the men, who delivered
the land from tyrants ; of a king wha had
been a shepherd, and was a poet always, by
the sheepfold oi on the throne, who sang
songs to his harp. Strange songs they were,
full of longing and love, and overwhelming
(»S7)
s
258 VIGT0B7 OF TEE VANqUISUED.
' sorrow breaking into rapturous joy. But ah
the love and longing joy and sorrow were
not for earthly love, but for his God. And
o,nce tne old man told n\e of a great Hope of
their nation, of a Deliverer whom he thought
must be close at hand, who might indeed be
in the world somewhere even now. I liked
to listen.' But then Laon told me these Jews
have a dark misanthropic superstition, and I
might be brought under the spell of it before
I was aware. So, since Laon left, I have lis¬
tened to the old man no more about his re-
ligion. Moreover, lately there have been
dark rumors about the wicked rites of certain
Egyptians, who they say are like these Jews.
But now and then I have brought the old
man water, or figs and grapes, and sometimes
let him talk to me about his family, as he sat
outside the garden on the slopes of the Cœlian.
He has a daughter in Syria ; and he has spok¬
en to me of two little grandsons who rest, he
says, in the Jewish Catacombs beyond the
Tiber. It must be the same of whom your
Jewess Esther spoke. This evening, we will
creep through the garden door and see if he
is there."
Tliat evening the German mother and the
. Oman girl, looking out through the garden
door, saw a feeble, bent, white-haired old man
Stan ling outside. His arms were outstretch-
nOTORT OF THE \AN(^ÙI8HED. 259
ed, his face was turned to the south-east, to¬
wards the Alban hills, where the sunset vas re¬
flected from the height of the old Latin sh rine
But his gaze was not resting on any Italian
hills or any pagan shrines. Beyond, beyond
them all, to the sanctuary of his race ; to the
hills which stand round about Jerusalem ; to
the city where David dwelt, the shrine to¬
wards which Daniel prayed, the home of his
youth ; the centre of the great promises which
irradiated the future for him, for Israel, for
the nations.
Beyond, beyond Jerusalem, her hills and
her Temple, to Him " from whom cometh
help," to Him whom " heaven, and the heaven
of heavens cannot contain."
Clœlia paused reverently when she saw
him, and withdrew into the shadow of the
gateway.
" Those old hymns of his people are in his
heart and on his face !" she said. " See how
it glows with love, and longing, and hope,
and joy. Have you ever seen anything like
this, Siguna ? Some one that old man loves
is in heaven, and he is speaking to him I"
" Once I saw something like it," Siguni,
answered, " in Esther. She is his daughter.
I am sure of it now. That look in his face
has brought out a likeness I might not other¬
wise have seen. Once, bv the Sea of Galilee
26o VICTORt OF IHE VANQ7ISHBD.
I saw her look just so. There had been a
festival in their synagogue that morning, she
told me afterwards , and a present given of a
fair covering for their Sacred Book, on the
first birth-day of the son of a rich Galilean.
" I found her standing thus at sunset by a
little lonely village Proseucha, a Jewish place
of prayer. The waves were rippling on the
shingle, and all the sky was glowing behind
the western hills. She was looking heaven¬
ward, and the tears were streaming over her
face. But she was speaking to some one she
knew well ; as he is now. And on her face
%
were the same awe, and love, and longing.
Scarcely, I think, the same joy. Afterwards,
when she saw me, she said, ' They will not
return to me, but I shall go to them ; * and
then looking up again : 'There is forgiveness,
forgiveness with Thee !' Forgiveness ! I have
always remembered, because of her face ; and
because the word was so strange to me. Ven¬
geance, justice we hear of from the gods.
Perhaps of penalties remitted. But ' ío» give-
ness' seemed something altogether new. For¬
giveness such as this. The penalty had been
inflicted to the utmost on her. Her children"
were gone from her for ever. She had noth¬
ing to ask; she had nothing to lose. Yet
she spoke of forgiveness as of something
which filled her with unut terable longin/^ 1
■
yiCTOBT OF THE VANt¿(fl8nED. 261
wondered long, until one day I asked her,
• What is this forgiveness, this joy for w hich
you long ? * "
" ' Do you not know ? ' she said. ' Had you
never a mother that you grieved? never a
fciend or a child who grieved you ? The joy
of forgiveness? It is being forgiven. It is
being welcomed back to the heart we have
grieved. When David the king cried on God
for mercy, the child was dead. He did not
pray for the blow to be averted. It had fallen.
He prayed for the sin to be forgiven. He
prayed for the old loving-kindness to be felt
in his heart once more.'
" That was another new word to me," Si-
guna added. " Sin. Not crime and ven¬
geance. But sin and forgiveness. It was
new and strange. She talked to me often,
and sometimes I think I understand a little.
But I understand best when I think of the
look that evening on her face, as now on his."
In a few minutes the old man took his staff
and sank down on the seat, and then they saw
how feeble and tottering the thin frame was.
Gently they drew near to him.
" I think it is for thee I have a message,'
Siguna said ; " from Esther the Jewess."
The old man's dark eyes brightened and his
brow flushed as he scanned the kind, honest
face.
202 VIO TORT Gif THE VANQUISHED.
" My child !" he murmured.
" Sne is at Antioch, with Onias her hus¬
band," Siguna answered ; " and she bade me
say there is a welcome for thee under their
roof ; and to pray thee from her and Onias to
come."
The old man clasped his hands.
" Is Onias then rich again ?" he said ; " and
has he forgiven me ? I made a foolish con¬
tract once," he added humbly, " and lost
much money for him as well as for myself
and Esther. I did foolishly. And I thought
he would never have forgiven."
" Esther the Jewess bade me say Onias de¬
sires thy presence under his roof. Things
have not gone altogether well with him. He
was robbed once near Jericho. And look¬
ing round for cause why he should be thus
punished, he remembered thee, and some
ancient commandment about parents, with
a promise, and thought perhaps it might
bring down a blessing on his roof if he took
thee home and suffered thy daugh ter to
cherish thy old age. This from Onias. And
she bade me add, that the deepest desire of
her heart is to see thee and to have thy bless¬
ing again before she dies."
" His ways are above our ways," said the
old man, rising reverently. " I am driven
from Rome. Four thousand of vs forced into
71GT0BY OF THE VANqUISHED. 263
the Roman service, and exiled to Sardinia to
root out the robbers on the mountains there,
and (the Romans hope) to perish in the strife
or by the cruel climate. These are our young
and strong. The rest—we, the aged and in-
6rm—are all banished instantly from Rome.
And now once more my daughter's home is
open to me !"
" Lady," he added, turning to Clœlia, " I
came to-night to thank thee for thy kindness
to an outcast old man, and to pray thee not
to believe the evil they speak of me and of
my people. We are driven from the city be¬
cause of the iniquities of certain Egyptian idol-
ators. We Jews confounded with the Egyp¬
tians, who hate us ! we servants of our God
condemned with these worshipers of abom¬
inations ! No court to plead in, no judge to
appeal to ! We deserve it perhaps for other
sins. But thou, I pray, confound us not with
those who hate us and baspheme our God.
It is hard to be execrated for worshiping
Him only. But to be cast out with those
who hate Him, this is bitter indeed. Believe
it not."
" I believe nothing evil of thee," Clœlia said.
And Siguna added,—
" Come hither once again to-morrow, that I
may bring thee tlie money thy daughtfx sent
to help thee on the way."
264 VIGZ'ORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
But on the next evening no old man was to
be found on the stone seat, nor anywhere on
the hill-side. Nor on the next, nor even on
the next again. ^
The following day was the day for the exe¬
cution of the decree of exile. By the evening
of that day not a Jew nor a Jewess was to be
left in Rome.
Siguna resolved to lose no more time. That
very evening she searched among the Jewish
dwellings in the valley of Egeria ; but it was
not until the next day that, at last, in a poor
shed in the Jewish quarter beyond the Tiber,
she found the old man, lying, forsaken and
helpless, on.an old embroidered rug of Syrian
workmanship. Beside him were bread and a
cruse of water, and some of the grapes Clcelia
Diodora had given him on the last evening
they had seen him.
It was plain that the decree of exile would
never be enforced on him.
" I shall not see Antioch ! " he said to Sign- .
na, whose quiet motherly demeanor made it
seem quite natural she should be beside his
sick-bed. Kneeling on the ground beside
him, she folded her veil into a pillow for him,
choosing the freshest grapes to place within
his parched lips.
" Now you are come," he murmured, " I
shall die content You will take my child a
riGTORT OF THE VANQUI8HE1>. 265
message. Tell her I blessed her always, every
day, a hundred times a day ; and now at last
more than ever. Tell her God will bless her,
is blessing her always, though not in ways we
choose." (
Siguna obtained permission to stay with the
dying man. That night there were waitings
and bitter partings and an eager stir of pre¬
paration in the streets, and the ceaseless pass¬
ing of men and women laden with all they
could carry of their household furniture.
The next evening there was dead silence all
around. Empty houses and empty streets ;
and the German captive left alone with the
Jewish exile, following him as far as she might
on that bitter path of everlasting exile from
all familiar things and dear faces which was
all she knew certainly of death.
Occasionally the old Jew's heart was light¬
ed up by a hope she knew not. He spoke of
a Resurrection at a Last Day. But it did
not seem to be from this that the real light
came which sometimes kindled his failing
eyes. Between him and that Last Day lay a
long unknown sleep. Between this Egypt
and that Promised Land lay a tract of unex¬
plored wilderness no one who had traversed
it had ever returned to speak of. What
dreams might be in that sleep, what dragonS;
and deeps, and mountains burning with fire,
12
266 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISEED.
and bitter Marahs, and waste trackless soil
tudes, he knew not.
Only he knew that God was there—here,
there, everywhere. " Even there shall Thy
hand be ; " not to crush but to uphold, not to
drive but to " lead."
Sometimes indeed his faith grew dim ; and
then a shadow rested on him, darker, it seem¬
ed to Siguna, than any she had seen on dying
faces before.
He spoke of sin, of transgression, with a
horror which communicated itself to her.
#
She remembered what she had heard of the
crimes of the banished Egyptians, and at
times felt as if she must be in the presence of
some fearful criminal; until at length she
gathered courage to ask him gently if he had
any great crime on his conscience, and if any- ■
thing could be done to expiate it, or to remedy
the consequence. Had he wronged any one ?
Could she at least say he had confessed and
asked forgiveness, that at least he might rest
in the grave ? "
The old man shook his head.
" Not wrong, nor crime ! " he said. " Sin t
Against Him I have sinned, and before Him
I shall stand ! Thou requirest truth within,
within. And within me is sin."
It was the word Esther had used, the ter-
roi she had felt by the Sea of Galilee, strwig«
VICTORY OF THE VANQVIBHED. 267
to the German matron. She could only think
of some wrong done to men, or some trans¬
gression of ritual which might have offended
the gods.
"Can I tell thy child to have expiations,
libations, sacrifices made for thee ? " she said.
He shook his head.
" I know Esther would do anything for me,"
he said with moistened eyes. " But no, there
is only One. Wash me, purge me, and I shall
be whiter than snow. There is forgiveness
with Thee—forgiveness."
" Forgiveness ! " Again Esther's word, and
again on the face of the dying man something
of the awe and light on hers.
Then again dim, mournful, dying words
from the histories of his ancient people came
back on him, as his spirit shivered in that
same awful shadow within which they had
first been uttered.
" Shall the dead praise Thee," he murmured,
" or they that go down to the pit ! I said, I
shall not see the-Lord, even the Lord, in the
land of the living. I shall behold man no
more. The grave cannot praise Thee. Death
cannot celebrate Thee. They that go down
into the pit cannot hope for Thy truth. Can-
not hope for Thy truth ! " he murmured.
" WiL even that be lost there ? Shall my
neople be saved, and I not see it? Shall the
268 riOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
Redeemer come to Sion, and I not know it ?
' Alise, shine, for thy light is come ! ' So near,
so near, O my God, to the brightness of Thy
coming. And yet must the shadow come first,
and no light ever pierce it for me ! "
Then he would add,—
" Perchance she will see it—my Esther, my
child ! "
And then,—
" If it tarry, wait for it. It will surely come.
It will not tarry. A thousand years in Thy
sight are but as yesterday. Couldst Thou not
have spared me one of Thy moments, to see
the morning break?—the morning without
clouds ! I had thought He would not let me
die until it broke."
Then turning once more to the great Hope
of his people,—
" This is our God—we have waited for Him.
And He will save us. Yet, yet shall this song
be sung in Zion."
And with the hope which led him from self
to God, once more the light broke in on his
own heart,—
"Shall not the Judge of all the earth do
right, with me, even with me ! "
And again,—
" I will love Thee, O Lord, my strength. I
shall yet praise Him who is the health of my
countenance and my God."
VICTOEY OF TEE YAEqUIBRED. 269
Patiently the German captive watched be¬
side him, wondering at this conflict and com¬
munion with One unseen, vet so trusted and
loved.
Death was evidently dying to him. No
divine word from human lips had yet dissolv¬
ed its terror.
The future was evidently dim to him. But
an inextinguishable light burned on through
all the darkness.
God, trusted, feared, known, loved, was
with this departing one. Not so much a hope
of immediate immortality sustained him, nor
visions of a bright world beyond this ; but one
eternal, glorious, sustaining Presence, shining
through all worlds, shining through all bar¬
riers between,—and, when he could look at it,
not so much promising immortality as obliter¬
ating death with the deathless light of the
Divine countenance.
He made her promise to have his body laid
among his people in the Jewish Catacomb.
He showed her the little bundle of spices his
people had left beside him to embalm him as
the manner of the Jews is to bury.
And, mingled with strange words in a
foreign tongue, which sounded to her like
deep murmurs of some subterranean river
she heard him say among his last audible
speeches,—
270 VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaHED
" I will lay me down in peace and sleep."
And again,—
"Oh, had I the wings of a dove! Then
would I flee away and be at rest." " I shall
be satisfied when I awake in Thy likeness.
Satisfied."
And last of all,—
" Lay me down and sleep, in peace, in
peace."
When, in faithful fulfilment of his last re¬
quest, she went to see him laid in the Jewish
Catacomb,—^among the symbols on the tombs
there she saw many times on the walls the
picture of a dove about to take flight, with an
olive branch in its mouth. And among the
inscriptions she saw again and again,—
" Peace." " In peace."
She came away, pondering many things in
her heart; thinking of the old man's weary
spirit, and wondering whether it had indeed
found the wings it longed for, and was at rest.
Often she and Clœlia Diodora spoke to¬
gether of those things, and wondered what
they meant.
And often the deformed girl longed to speak
of them to her sister the Vestal ; but she
thought of Laou and did not dare.
CHAPTER XXII
LOWLY the coils twined closer and
closer around Agrippina and her
children, slowly, but never relaxing.
It does not seem to have been so
much a deliberate purpose of destroying her,
on the part of Tiberius, as a sleepless, pas¬
sionate fear which possessed him ; a weak
will in the place of power perpetually chafing
against a strong will in the place of depend¬
ence. The repulsion of a suspicious, timid,
subservient nature, with an instinctive prefer¬
ence for subte»anean and crooked ways, from
a nature courageous, frank, straightforward,
and little able to stoop.
It was no strong paternal affection for his
son Drusus which made him thus jealous of
the representatives of Germanicus. He chose
at last Caligula, one of Agrippina's children,
as his successor, in preference to his own
grandson.
Nor were thisdistrus' and jealousy only fed
(271)
272 VIGTORT OF TUE VANI^GISHED.
by the intrigues of rivals. However dil.-
gently fanned by his minister Sejanus, and by
others who had a strong personal interest in
Agrippina's ruin, the flame burned on when
Sejanus and those who had nourished it were
gone.
It was harder for Agrippina to fulfil the
dying commands of Germanicus than for his
friends. On them he had enjoined vengeance ;
on her submission. They had well-nigh the
whole Roman people on their side in calling
for vengeance on his murderers. But for
Agrippina to lay aside her proud, unyielding
character was not so easy, when the affection
to which her pride had delighted to bend, and
the serene, even temper, the kindly, genial
character which had softened hers, were taken
from her.
Nor was it easy for her to live m depend¬
ence on the Empress-mother, who had many
a womanish grudge against h^r from of old,
and who persisted in shielding Plancina, the
proud wife of Piso, from the sentence of the
law and the vengeance of the people, under
. her own personal friendship.
Yet Agrippina lived to prove that even the
guardianship of the Empress Livia, cold and
comfortless as it was, had sheltered her from
that fiercer passion of jealousy and fear which
•>urned against her in the Emperor's heart
I
VliJTORT OF THE VANqUlSBED. 273
«
Few things are more tragical than the his- •
tury of the fourteen years of Agrippina's
widowhood.
To be her friend was to be a mark for the
♦
Emperor's ravens—the informers who lived
on the destruction of their victims ; a mark,
as it must have seemed, for fate itself.
Drusus, the son of Tiberius, had shown a
kindly interest in her. He was murdered,
through the perfidy of his wife, the sister of
Germanicus.
Silius had rendered signal service to the
State by quelling a wide-spread and perilous
revolt in Gaul. But his wife was Agrippina's
friend. The informers attacked him ; he was
condemned, and perished.
The highest station, even imperial blood,
could not protect those who were known to
be attached to her.
Yet, surrounded as she was by malignity,
treachery, and vice, it is a strange testimony
to the power of conscience enforcing homage
to virtuous life, that calumny never dared
assail her purity.
Once we hear that, ever vehement, and then
in a flame on account of the peril of her kins¬
woman Claudia Pulchra, she rushed unbidden
into the Emperor's presence when he hap¬
pened to be sácrificing to the deified Augr.v
tus
12*
274 VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUIBHBD
é
%
%
" Vain it is,'.' she said, " to offer victims to
the divine Augustus, and to ill-treat his chil-
dren. Not into those dumb effigies is the
divine spirit transfused. See before you his
true image, sprung from his celestial blood,
living to understand and to suffer, a suppliant
low at your feet." For her sake, she said,
Pulchra was attacked ; for loving her almost
to adoration, forgetful of what others had suf¬
fered for the same crime.
The sudden outburst for once startled the
bitter dread and jealousy of the cautious
Emperor from its hiding-place into voice and
daylight.
" It was no wrong to her," he said, quoting
a Greek verse, " that she did not reign."
And from that time, it is said, he never
risked another conversation with her.
So she lived on through weary year after
year, under the roof of a man who seems to
have looked on her as a kind of embodiment
of the hatred of the Roman people for him¬
self, of that wolf which, all his life through,
he held with trembling hands by the ears.
The traitors who embittered the Emperor's
suspicions against her, at the same time in¬
stilled into her open and unsuspicious nature
dark fears of him.
Not in Antioch or Epidaphne only, it was
suggested, could the Emperor find poisonei:!
TICTORT OF THE VANQV^ISHER. 275
Hnd poisjns to deliver him from too popular
guests and kinsfolk?
The last glimpse we have of her in the pres-
rnce of Tiberius, is sitting at his table speech¬
less and motionless, refusing to touch any of
the viands there ; until at length the Emperor
nimself presented some apples to her with his
own hand, when (acting, according to her
wont, on the impulse of the moment) she
handed the fruit untasted to her servants.
The large keen eyes of the Emperor coolly
observed the action, so significant to all pres¬
ent. He made no open comment, but turning
to the Empress-mother, who reclined at the
table near him, he said, " It could be no won¬
der if he dealt more severely with one who
pretended to believe him a poisoner."
Whereupon throughout the city the rumor
spread that " her departure from the world
was fixed ; it would not be dared publicly, but
some secret method would be found."
«
It seems, nevertheless, as if she honestly
tried to fulfil the command of her husband.
She made no melodramatic display of her
wrongs : all the ingenious endeavors of pre¬
tended friends to induce her to make a public
appeal to the people, to embrace the statue of
her forefather, the deified Augustus, before
the multitudes in the Forum, and so claim the
protection of the Senate and the people, failed
2y6 VICTOBT OF TSF VAFQUJDMHJf.
%
Perhaps, with her true and intense charaoter
she knew too well what a!»shadow the Roman
Senate and people had become.
Nor would she fly, as she was falsely coun< j
selled, to the armies in Germany, the scene of
her heroic actions in her happy days, and cast
hersçlf and her children on the generosity
of the army her husband had commanded.
Probably she had also learned how a few
years, in the ceaseless flowing away of life,
suffice to change a body of men bearing the
same name ; how " we step into the same
rivers, and do not step into them." The vet¬
erans who had pressed the hands of her hus¬
band on their toothless gums, and opened the
scars of unjust wounds to his eyes, to show
how long and hard had been their service, had
passed beyond earthly reward. The legions
whom she had rescued on that further bank
of the Rhine, standing on the post of danger
by the bridge she had saved to welcome
theni, were no longer there except in name.
The men who had composed them, who had
gloried in her husband's courage and majestic
bearing, whose wounds she had cared for, to
whom with her own hands she had given food
and clothing, were scattered throughout the
empire, in Egypt, Syria, Gaul, or Mauritania.
There was no refuge for her on earth.
The god of the Roman earth, in whose
YICTOllT OF TEE VANQUIBHED. 277
August presence she lived, who had at length
permitted a temple to be erected to him at
Smyrna (reluctantly according this grace to
Smyrna in preference to twelve Asiatic cities
who supplicated for the honor), was no " un¬
known god " to her.
Living under the shadow of his angry and
averted countenance so many solitary years,
she found that his departure to Capreae brought
no lessening of the shadow to her.
Seven years after the death of Germani-
cus (a. d. 25), Tiberius left his palace on the
Palatine, and Rome itself, never to enter it
again.
Three years after this the Empress-mother
died. With her fell the last shelter of Agrip-
pina and her children. The habitual deference
to his mother's wishes buried with her, the
Emperor was left without human relationship
to restrain him, as he had long been without
one human aifection to ennoble him.
In a brief time after the Empress' funeral,
which her son did not attend, the servile Sen¬
ate was thrown into perplexity by a letter
from the Emperor, accusing Agrippina and
9
her favorite son Nero as persons dangerous
to the State.
Still, "a haughty countenance and an un¬
conquerable spirit" were all the accusations
he dared bring against the widowed princesi
2/8 VICTOEJ OF THE VANQUISHED.
Worse than this, while she lived, he neve*
dare say of her.
«
Once more the p>eople, moved with a
generous impulse, besieged the Senate with
appeals for the wife and children of the young
prince they had loved and mourned. They
bore the images of Agrippina and her son to
the Senate. " The letters from Tiberius were
forged !" they cried. " The prince would never
thus plot the ruin of his house !"
But from the twelve villas on the island of
Caprese, from that infamous seclusion to which
the god of Rome had withdrawn himself, came
a repetition of the accusations, and a rebuke
to the people and the Senate.
Such a voice from amidst the thunders,
neither people nor Senate dared resist.
The young princes were imprisoned. And
the mother was banished to the island of Pan-,
dataria, the convict settlement of the empire
for dangerous and illustrious criminals.
This was in the year of our Lord 30.
The slow years were wearing on. Eleven
Had separated Agrippina from Germanicus.
Three more, and the " haughty countenance
and unconquerable spirit " would affront the
Emperor no more.
Wearily meanwhile had these years passed
foi Sfguna the German captive, seeing around
VIUTOSl OF THE VANQUISREV. 27Ç
ner so much wrong that she could not redress
so much sorrow that she could not comfort,
with the longing of her heart—to return to
her country and search for Olave—unfulñlled.
Vainly had she sought tidings from band
after band of Northern captives brought to
Rome after the suppression by Silius of the
revolt in Gaul. Her very fidelity had delayed
her liberation, by making her services indis¬
pensable. Still that purpose was before her,
to be accomplished with the first breath of
freedom.
In her appearance those ten years had
wrought little change. The golden threads
of the hair had turned to silver. The wistful
sadness had deepened in the soft blue eyes,
and tears had dimmed them. But she was
still the same fair, tall, erect, matronly woman,
with the welcoming motherly look in her eyes
which drew the little children to her, as if they
felt near her the soft brooding of enfolding
wings.
On Clœlia Diodora also years had made
little outward alteration.
The old anxious look, which had been so
painful on the childish face, no longer seemed
so unnatural. The depth of the large thought- •
lui eyes had lost something of that weird, be¬
wildered, preternatural wonder, as of an ex¬
iled spirit, never to be naturalized on earth ;
ago VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
partly because the anxiety had been tum(;d
into a natural channel through her love and
solicitude for her sister.
For on Clœlia Pulchra these years had
wrought a marked and mournful change. She
had passed from the second decade of her
Vestal life to the third, from the years of more
»ctive service to those of instruction. The
iged " Occia, who had for seven-and-fifty
years presided over the Vestals with the
greatest sanctity," had passed from among
them. Those who had welcomed Clœlia
Pulchra as a little child, and called her "Fair,"
and cherished and taught her, were fast glid¬
ing into decline. She had come to the prosaic
levels of middle-age—into the disenchantment
of its colorless daylight, while still a long pos¬
sible tract of weary years lay before her. At
seven-and-twenty Clœlia the Vestal felt as if
a whole life lay behind her, and before her
another life as long, with no change to break
and no interests to fill it.
Patiently she still went about her daily
ministries in the temple. But the roof of the
world had become lower and narrower to her .
year by year. The Rome where Tiberius
. reigned, and the Senate and people which
could rise with womanish shrieks of entreaty
for Agrippina's rescue, and yet let her perish,
and abjectly supplicate her oppressor to be
VICTORY OF THE VANqUiaHED. 281
permitted to w jrship him, the people one of
whose chief reproaches against the Emperor
was that he was too " morose " to delight
sufficiently in the slaughter and torture of the
gladiatorial games, was scarcely a satisfactory
Patria fo'- which to sacrifice youth and beauty
an<l lile.
Was it for this the waters had been kept
fresh and pure beneath the rock-arches of the
Alban hills ?—^to be poured on such a barren
waste of irremediable corruption as this ?
And, more terrible still, with the continued
disenchantment of earth came deeper doubts
as to heaven.
What was to assure her that those stars she
had once fondly thought of as dim hearth-fires,
heavenly Vestai shrines, were not fed by hands
as weary, for ends as vain, as this altar she
tended on earth? What was to assure her
that they were hearth-fires at all ; that there
was any focus, any living hearth, any loving
heart at the core of the world ; that the uni¬
verse was not as Rome, governed by a Power
which scorned love, and cared not for homage,
and knew not pity—a clear, passionless brain,
which subdued mutinies, and saw through all
shows,, itself included, and doled out daily
doles of corn to a pauper world, and was
moved by nothing, unless by envy of anything
too high, and fear of anything too strong ? 1^
282 VICTORY OF THE YANqUISHED.
indeed, these darker tales of foul deeds, on
O'ympus and on Capreae, were the inventions
of a depraved age !
What was to assure her that even a brain,
even clear, passionless intelligence, was at the
core of the world, and not merely clear, im¬
passive Fire, mighty to warm and to quicken,
or to scorch and consume, entirely indifferent
and unconscious which it accomplished ? As
the fire she tended was unconscious whethei
it cooked a beggar's onions, or glowed on the
sacred shrine of Vesta, or burned down, as it
had lately done, a hundred houses on the
Cœlian Hill.
Thus the hopeful, upward look passed from
Clœlia Pulchra's eyes, and the calm, joyous
light from her brow, and the buoyancy from
her step.
The faultless beauty of her features re¬
mained, and the dignity of her bearing, but
there was nothing to indicate the enthusiasm
of her early days, when patriotism had been
to her a passion, and religion a fervent flaming
up of her whole being. Illusions had van¬
ished ; and no sweet glow of human affection,
no high realities of divine love, replaced them.
The glow, the warmth were gone; and, in
consequence, the purity seemed the mere in¬
evitable whiteness and changelessness of a
marb'e statue.
VICTORY OF THE VANQÜÍ8HED. 283
Except to Clœlia Diodora, her sister. With
her the old life of tender protecting affection
flowed on, so that the deformed girl still saw
In her the beautiful fervent being who had
oeen the adoration of her childhood, only
dearer by a deepened pity for the sorrows of
the world, and by the deepening shadow of
the years which the poor girl felt too plainly
were bearing them on to separation and
death.
The old home of her house had been destroy¬
ed in the great fire which laid the Cœlian waste.
Her parents had died, and the orphan girl
now lived in a room near the temple, on a
pension given to her, among other noble
maidens, by the bounty of the Empress-
mother.
From time to time tidings and fatherly
messages had come from Laon, with gifts.
But he knew the sisters would never endure
to be separated, and as yet his workshop had
not so prospered as to permit his returning to
live at Rome, near his foster-child.
With Sigunathe sisters kept up an affection¬
ate intercourse.
And it was a further narrowing and chilling
of their small world of affection, when at last
the breaking up of the persecuted Princess
Agiippina's household set the German captive
free to go on that quest in the far North which
284 VICTOBT OF TEE VANqÜISHED.
seemed to the Roman sisters wild and ad-
venturous and shadowy as the descent of the
pious ^neas among the unsubstantial shades
of the und er-world
CHAPTER XXIIL
«
T Antioch, with Siward and Hilda,
these ten years had been years not
of fading but of unfolding: with Si-
ward from youth to manhood, from
visions into steady work of preparation ; with
Hilda from the child's dream of the world
within the folded blossom, to the flower open¬
ing in a world of sunshine.
At flrst, when the tidings of the death of
Herman reached Siward, it was to him as if
the whole world had shrunk and shrivelled
together, so hopeless seemed the liberation
without the Liberator, — the freedom of a
people who had assassinated him who would
have set them free.
Unconsciously to himself, the Law and
Order of the Roman world had become part
of his being, and he felt freedom without obe¬
dience to be as impossible as a building with¬
out architectural lines,—^that is, all liberty
worth the name ; living freedom, freedom for
<^2s)
286 VIGIOBT OF THE VANqUlSHEJt.
«
men freedom for a nation, freedom to build
and grow • any" freedom but a wild beast's
freedom, to roam where it liked, and destroy
what it pleased ; any freedom but that of death,
free to dissolve into its component atoms.
By degrees, however, other purposes for
his people sprang up again, and gave interest
to his life. He thought the time might come
when he himself might go back and give to
his race something of what old Laon and the
Romans had given to him. Although he
could not have expressed it, he felt that in
every way the Romans must be conquered by
their own weapons ; not by spears and swords
only, tempered as Roman smiths could tem¬
per them, but by Roman law and endurance,
and knowledge, and union.
Meantime he was working out freedom for
himself and for Hilda. For Hilda first. He
would not have his sister married until she
was a freewoman ; nor would he have her
owe her freedom to her betrothed. And
Onias was not altogether an easy proprietor
to purchase from. Again and again his price
for freedom rose as it drew near, by his find¬
ing some entangled interpretations of the
original agreement ; until the patience of
Callias was exhausted, and he and Laon to¬
gether iníústed on definite contract being
mad"»,
YlJTùRY OF THE VANQUISHED. 287
Meantimé, under the fretting of these petty
injustices, the attractions which Siward had
at first felt to the religion of the Hebrews lost
all its power. It sank in his mind to a level
with the other religions of the world.
Afar off, on an Olympus, an Asgard, or a
Sinai, among lightnings and thunders, very
powerful in the past, powerful now also, but
apparently not discriminating, he saw a
shadowy supreme authority ; whether resid¬
ing in a Sovereign or in a Council, perhaps
mattered little ; since long ago the executive
had devolved on minor divinities, close at
hand, tangible and efficient. This supreme
authority towered in isolated pom'p, to be
done homage to on certain court days,
whether one in seven, or one in three hundred
and sixty-five, did not seem to Siward ma¬
terial ; the real worship being rendered sedu¬
lously, the real prayer and service offered
morning, noon, and night, to the power which
could procure the good desired, whether .
Tiberius Caesar or the Mint-goddess, undei
her countless forms.
The religion of Esther, on the other hand,
seemed to him like the religion of his mother,
of Clœlia the Vestal, and of othei good wo¬
men. Pure flames of aspiration ascending
from pure hearts, through pure ether —
whither, ah, whither ! who could teh !
288 VICTORY OF THE VANQUianED.
Underneath all the open-air worship, the
fair temples, and the sunny heights, moreover,
he traced everywhere that ancient worship
of the Eumenides : the d^irk cavern of consci¬
ence and the sanctuary of avenging justice.
With the Jewish religion, the great Jewish
Hope of a Deliverer, which at first had seemed
to Siward so glorious, also ceased to interest
him. What could patriotism be to such as
Onias, but selfishness expanded ? What could
such a hope be, but this selfish patriotism
projected into the future? What could a
Jewish anointed King be, but a King of Jews,
an universal Emperor enthroned beside a city
Jerusaleih, and crushing all other nations
under Jewish feet, as the deified Augustus
crushed all the world under the feet of vic¬
torious Romans !
The legend, with its golden future, was
beautiful, no doubt, transfigured through the
hearts of women like Esther, and shed a love-
- ly morning light over them, more inspiring,
perhaps, though not more beautiful and ten¬
der, than the lingering sunset tints of an ideal
Patria in the past which glowed around Cloelia
Pulchra.
On little Hilda, meantime, bond-service
weighed lightly,—mere ballast to make her
course surer and her poise steadier.
In Esther's presence there was a. stillness
riOrORT OF THE rANqUISHED. 289
and a peace in which the earnest yet joyous
nature of the German maiden grew symmetri-
cal and strong.
A gentle hand came between her and every¬
thing that could have chafed. Pride had little
place in Esther's heart, and therefore sorrow
found only her softer work to do there. Her
presence warmed and lighted a little sphere
of purity and peace around her, and in the
lieart of it the little German maiden grew up,
in the seclusion of that Oriental home, with
as little contact with the brilliant, corrupt
world of Antioch around her, as if Antioch
had been the wild Syrian hills, and she a
patriarchal maiden keeping her father's sheep
by sweet, fresh springs, among the green pas¬
tures of tender grass and the waters of rest.
The sadness of Esther's own life fell but as a
sacred, calming quiet around the child ; whilst
the seclusion of the Je^yish home was kept
from being a narrowing isolation for Hilda by
three inlets and outlets between her little
world and the great world beyond.
One was a gateway into the Past, into green
forest-paths, gladdened and hallowed by the
voice of her mother. Another into the
Future, a threshold which she was soon to
cross. And through this came shining
glimpses of sweet hope, and visions of beauty
from Callias's Greek world of art. The third
13
2gO VICTOBT OF THE rANQulSHBD.
was the. upward opening, like that in the
heart of every Roman house, unroofed, open
to the sky, through which the dews and rains
showered into the impluvium, and the tlames
went up from the hearth-altar, and the soul
went up to the stars which crossed it solemnly
at night ;—went up through that night which
Esther had taught her was no darkness to
One above; and beyond the night, through
the stars which were as the golden sands of
His heavenly shores, yet which he called by
name, to him whose name was not the Thun¬
derer, or the Sun-god, or only the Almighty
or the Beautiful, but " the Lord God, merci¬
ful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant
in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for
thousands; forgiving iniquity and transgres
sion and sin, and that will by no means clear
the guilty."
Little Hilda was ¿rinking into her inmost
spirit that glorious name of God, for the pre¬
servation of which the Jewish nation existed ;
a vine, a life-tree in the world,—until that
name should be manifested in One born of
Jewish race, the True Vine and Life-Tree for
all the world ; until the mystic bud which en¬
folded the hidden treasure should expand
into the Fruit for the healing of nations, the
Bread of Life for mankind.
in vain old Laon warned Callias against
YICTORT OF TBä VANQUIBHEL. 291
the peril of suflFering his bride to be " fettered
in the iron bondage of the Jewish super¬
stition."
To Callias it was, as received by Esther
and Hilda, only one of the countless forms of
the Beautiful.
" They have lovely legends of good wo¬
men," he said, " these Jews ; and magnificent
traditions of heroic women ; as fine as any of
old Rome — chieftainesses, princesses, Ama¬
zons who had rescued their nation ; grand,
fearless heroines, with eyes like lightning, and
brows like Hermon. But Esther and little
Hilda are not of that type. There is a story
of two women who loved each other, just as
Esther and Hilda do — a sorrowful Naomi,
and a young fair Ruth, strong and patient as
any of the Amazons, but all her strength the
strength of faithful affection and tender piety.
A Gentile too she was, this sweet Ruth, like
Hilda, yet enshrined in the heart of their old
national books. Then there is a Hannah, a
mother ; and a Queen Esther saving her peo¬
ple by her beauty, her loyalty and her prayers.
Beautiful, chaste old legends. I wish nothing
better for my Hilda than to grow up steeped
in their fresh air and pure, soft light."
" Boy ! boy !—dreamer !" Laon would reply,
" you talk as if everything were a dream to
svery one. I tell thee, these soft Jewish wo-
292 TICTORY OF THE VANqVISHED.
men have a religion against which yon may
break your will and break their hearts, but
you will never uproot it. Wife, children,
husband,—they will sacrifice all for this super¬
stition of their God, and of their people." ^
" But Hilda is not of their race," Callias
replied. " She takes all the beauty, and leaves
out the severity. To her this faith is no rigid
armour. It is a lovely vesture of fine linen,
white and glistering. The Jews may be
bigots, and eaten up with national pride, but
their proselytes take their good doctrine, and
happily can have no share in the national
pnde. If it were not for their uncivilized ob¬
jection to human statues," he added, fervently,
" I should have a great inclination to claim
instruction and be a proselyte myself."
So Hilda continued to attend the synagogue
with Esther. She learned to watch until the
three stars which marked the Sabbath de¬
tached themselves from the fading daylight,
and the sacred day of rest had begun, and to
welcome them with delight, like lamps lighted
for a festival. The mere sound of many
voices in the synagogue, the mere presence
of numbers, made a holiday in her secluded
life Then there was the reading of sacred
words, which Esther explained to her : and
tJie chanting of the ancient liturgy ; and then
the long leisure in the quiet house or under
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 293
the shadow of figs and trellised vines in the
court, which left room for so much sweet talk
with Esther, and so many happy visions of her
own ;—she as a Gentile being, moreover, per¬
mitted a freer use of her busy, serviceable
hands than was considered lawful for a Jewess
in the various loving ministries to the many
•' hungry," to whom Esther made the Sabbath
a delight, by dealing out bread and raiment,
and gathering them to her home.
To this bounty Onias did not object. Giv¬
ing alms was a part of his religion. On this
point the letter of the law was plain, and ihe
meaning of the law and the prophets legible •
as plain and as legible as the rules and threats
concerning the keeping of the Sabbath.
There were threats, and there were robbers
capable of being mysteriously commissioned
to execute these threats, between Jerusalem
and Jericho.
Moreover there were promises. The Hand
which made Araham " very rich" in servants
and in cattle, could in these latter days make
Abraham's faithful children rich in Roman
coin.
To'set a portion oí property rigidly ai)art
for the Unnameable was as much a part ot the
contract between Him and Israel, as to set
apart a portion of time. The quantity of both
which He demanded was quite definitely fix
294 yiOTORT OF THE VANqUISHED.
ed ; and it was dangerous to' trifle with those
celestial accounts. The tithe of mint and
anise, and the seventh of the measured min¬
utes of life, must by no means fail. It was
probable that the tenth would be made up in
good Gentile coin, and the seventh in length
of days. It was possible even that it might
be paid in good measure, one of the contract¬
ing parties being in some sublime and relig¬
ious sense possessor of heaven and earth.
"Job had twice as much" given back. Heze-
jciah's days were stretched out fifteen years..
Therefore Onias, with that true self-interest
and far-seeing prudence which are the change¬
less principles of Pharisaical religion, encour¬
aged Esther in her benefaction to the mem¬
bers of the synagogue ; being only perplexed
as to the amount, by the conflict between the
pleasures of popularity and the perils of being
thought rich.
The day of Hilda's marriage came. Along
the streets and through the gardens of Anti-
och the young bride was led to her new home
with the lamps of the Virgins, the bridal songs,
anc all the festive procession which have be¬
come to us familiar and sacred parables from
childhood.
Onias stroked his beard at the close oí the
day in a comfortable little glow of benevsdent
riGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHEl). 295
4
complacency. He had suffered Esther lo be-
stow suitable raiment on the portionless maid¬
en, and had even with some little reluctance
seen certain gold and silver coins transferred
from Esther's own dark tresses to the fair hair
of the German bride. •
Moreover, was not his taking a ransom at
all an act of grace ? There was no command
that he knew in Leviticus about a jubilee, or
a sabbatical year of liberation for Gentile
slaves. Or, at all events, no stipulation as to
price. And Hilda's services were becoming
more valuable every year.
He felt be had really gone beyond the letter
of the law, and done an action worthy of be¬
ing recorded by the prophets.
In this sense of virtue his heart felt alto¬
gether so expansive, that he said in the even¬
ing to Siward,—
" One day, my son, I shall perhaps be able
to grant you also your emancipation !"
" Fix the price now, then," said Siward, ab¬
ruptly and concisely.
"Now, my son! — now! Scarcely a day
this for bargains. We have given it to festiv¬
ity. I have the kindliest feelings towards you
and your sister. Did you see the gold brace¬
let on her wrist ? I gave it myself to Esther
long ago. This is a day for gifts, not for busi¬
ness. '
296 riOTOBY OF TUE VANQUISHED.
Siward s spirit rose. He had purchased bis
sister's freedom at the hard price of years of
his own ; literally with a large piece of his
own life. To her, by patient, generous toil,
he had opened home, love, and liberty. Be¬
fore him lay years of bondage, petty injustice,
and all the terrible possibilities which were
included in the slavery of those days ; the
yoke, the scourge, the cross.
He could not brook that what he had pur¬
chased literally by giving himself, should be
spoken of as a gift from another.
" I do not ask you to give me alms. I ask
you to do justly," he said. " Call in fair
judges, fix the price of my freedom, and t'xke
back your wedding gifts without counting
them as part of it."
But to the Pharisee to give alms as far
easier than to do justly. Alms were a definite
quantity which could be set apart out of the
interest of money and the profits of business,
and leave the whole untouched. Justice was
a large word—a text capable of many perplex¬
ing intèrpretations. In the highest sense it
might involve sacrifices which would even in¬
terfere with capital, the sacred treasure of the
Mint-goddess itself.
" Do justly !" he said angrily ; " do justly !
That is a fitting Gentile return tor generosity
jke mine. I give freely like a prince, and
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 297
fou call on me to do justly, as if I were a
thief."
" My sister shall never be fettered by your
gifts," said Si ward hotly. "To-morrow you
may count your bracelet again among your
treasures."
But Esther had crept beside them while
they were speaking, and now shè laid one
hand gently on her husband's arm, and one
on Siward's hand.
" It was my bracelet, Siward," she said,
«
deprecatingly, " and my gift to the child I
love. Let her keep it. It is hard enough to
part from her. Do not rob me of the delight
of serving her. And, believe me, Onias will
, do justly by thee," she added to Siward. " He
means it. It is written in our law. To-mor¬
row the contract shall be made for your ran¬
som. And, believe me, he will never wish to
break it. For whom should we spare and
toil and hoard ? What has this life to offer us
that we should dare to offend against our
God ?"
Her eyes shone with a deep glow which
would have made Callias think rather of the
inspired prophetesses than of the meek Han¬
nahs or Ruths of her race.
But she had touched a chord which, while
it vibrated in agony through her own heart,
smote on the conscience of her husband with
13*
298 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
a power he dared not resist. She had associ.
ated herself with him in the responsibility ana
the -peril.
And with treinbling hands the next day he
signed a contract, binding himself irrevocably
to accept a certain ransom for Siward, when¬
ever paid.
It was not an easy sum for Siward to earn,
the greater portion of his toil having mean¬
time to be exclusively for Oniás. Yet from
that day the weight of bondage passed from ■
Siward's heart.
He saw before him freedom, with its noble,
liberating work for his people ; and between *
him and it nothing but the endurance of his
own brave heart, and the toil of his own
strong arm.
Once more he felt a man, not a chattel. In
this new hope of freedom, it became once
more almost credible to him that there might
be a free, living God, such as Esther believed
in, and a Hope for Israel and for man, such as
she had taught Hilda to cherish.
CHAPTER XXIV.
GRIPPINA had entered (a.D. 30) on
the last fatal period of her years of
bereavement, the three years of her
banishment in the island of Panda-
taria. Those three years were spent by Tibe¬
rius in voluntary exile from the Rome he
ruled and dreaded, among the twelve villas
of the island of Capreae ; in such a paradise
as men have constructed for themselves when
they have determined to set at nought all the
flaming swords of Divine law, to evade all the
toil and travail and " sweat of the brow," and
make an enchanted garden, full of all hings
pleasant to the eye and good for food, in the
land of thorns and thistles, with themselves
in the midst ;hereof, as gods, " knowing good
and evil."
Those three years which, in Syria, in the
wilderness of Temptation, on the Mount of
(»99) '
300 VICTORT OF TEE VANQUISHED.
Transfiguration, among the streets and áiill-
si les of Galilee and J udaea, \rere spent in re¬
gaining Paradise for man, by restoring man
to God.
* * * * * »
At last the three years of Agripplna's exile
were drawing near their close (a. d. 33).
The sisters Clœlia Pulchra and Diodora
were tog'^ther in a little chamber assigned to
the Vestal, near the temple. They did not
leave each other now.
Day or night the priestess would watch no
more by the shrine, to guard the Sacred Fire
for Rome.
The watching had fallen now to Clœlia
• Diodora. Day and night she guarded and
cherished that precious Sacred Fire of life,
which, guard and cherish as she would, she
knew too well was slowly dying in the heart
of her sister.
She was just entering the door with a
pitcher of fresh water from the old spring on
the Cœlian Hill. Her sister had longed for.
it ; and every morning now, along the paths
where in former happy years the young
priestess had borne the water for the shrine,
the early light flaming through the bays or
the vine-leaves on her buoyant form and joy¬
ous face, the same early sunbeams fell on the
shrunken form and sad worn features of th«'
VICTOIÎT OF THE YANQUISHED. 30^
deformed girl. But the ministry was certain
ly as high, and the heart as pure.
" It is almost a comfort, my Beautiful,' Dio.
dora said as she held the cool draught to the
sufferer's parched lips, "that the old places
we Ipved are so changed since you used to
meet me among the vines and myrtles in the
old garden. The garden is gone, and the old
■ Home swept away in the great fire. New
trees and shrubs are there, that throw no
changing shadows yet on the dusty paths be¬
tween the new walls. Even the Jews are
gone from their dwellings by the Fountain of
Egeria in the valley below. It is a comfort
that things are changed and spoiled a little,
now you cannot be there."
"Little sister," said the Vestal, rising on
her pillows and fixing her large wistful eyes
on the face which ceaselessly watched her, " I
have been thinking so long, and at last I must
speak. Laon spoke to me once, long ago, of
an old Jew who told you of a Hope his na¬
tion had cherished for thousands of years—a
Hope he believed to be now near at hand. I
have never spoken to you again of this ; but
I have never forgotten it. Year after year 1
have watched for some sign of this Deliverer,
East and west, and north and souti, I have
looked for tidings. Chiefly from the east
AJl in vain. Once I thought some hope
«
302 VIGTOBT of the VANqUIBHED.
might lie for Rome and the world in Ger
manicus. He seemed like one of our old
heroes with a new Greek grace on hitn ; his
home pure as an old home of the republic.
"And again, I heard the young German
captive who rescued you on the day of the
Triumph speak of a hero of his race to whom
the Germans looked as a Liberator. And I
thought, 'Perhaps Rome has sunk too.low
for any deliverance to come from her. From
a young nation pure and strong, with men
like that young German, frank and generous, *
and brave and true, and women like Siguna,
a new life might spring for the world."
" But Germanicus was poisoned at Antioch ;
Herman was" assassinated by his own people
among their own forests.
" North and soath, and west and east, there
comes no sign or sound ; and the world grows
ever worse. Did you ever see that Jew again ?
Tell me all you know. There can be no peril
in any belief for me now. Even old Laon
would not dread anything for me now."
" I saw the old Jew again," Diodora replied.
" I never spoke to him of that Hope. But
Siguna was with him when he died."
" He died without seeing any token of ful-
ñlment ? "
" She said he seemed to die reluctantly
chiefly because of that. He thought to hav«
riGTOBT OF THE VANq,U18HED 303
lived till the light dawned. But she said he
evidently held the Hope as. firmly as ever.
* And he said his daughter would see it."
. ■ " I would I could have seen him once," the
« •
Vestal said. " I feel as if he might have told
me something I long to know. But now/' she
added despondingly, " all the Jews are banish¬
ed from Rome. I shall die without seeing
any good come to Rome and to the world.
But I think I could die not reluctantly, if I
had such a sure hope that it must come."
" He seemed to hold strange converse,
Siguna said, before he died, with One unseen,
whom he feared and loved. He spoke as to
some One who heard. Sometimes his terror
and shrinking were great—greater, Siguna
said, than she has seen among her people or
ours. It was as if his soul was awake in some
wonderful way—as if he looked on dying, not
as a dim slumber or a shadowy repetition of
this life, but an awaking to intenser life.
Sometimes he shrank with unutterable horror,
as if from some great chasm that he saw
clearly. And sometimes he seemed to see no
chasm at all, but only God. And then he said
and looked * Peace.' And on his tomb, Siguna
said—on the stone which covers the ledge
where he was laid in the Jewish Catacomb-
he desired to have the v^orá Peace engrzyeu
in Greek. She saw it on many stones theio
3C4 riGTORr OF THE YANQUI SEED.
as well as on his. I never saw such words on
any urn or sarcophagus of ours."
-• God !" said the Vestal. " God, and Peace !' '
" I remember," Diodora resumed, after a
long pause, half reluctantly, " one of the songs
of his people, which the old man said to me.
It was'full of an exulting passion of expecta¬
tion and joy. Even in his feeble voice the
words made me feel as if some great festive
chorus was around me. Like all the songs he
knew, it was sung to God. The fear and
tremulous expectation, and joy, and triumph¬
ant hope in those strange songs, all were
hanging on God. This one was called a New
Song. A thousand years old now, he said,
but it sounded fresh as the lark's this nr.orning.
It spoke of strength and beauty above all in
God. There was the dashing of wa^ es in it,
the deep voice of forests, but all were full of
rapturous gladness: the heavens, the rivers,
the sea, the hills, the fields, the flood^i, rejoic¬
ing, clapping hands, like children, singing,
shouting aloud for joy—^all because Me cora-
eth ; He combth to judge the earth, to judge
the world righteously."
The Vestal raised herself on her arm, and
her eyes grew deeper than ever, and shone
with something of their old radiance.
" Clœlia, little sister, is not that reason
enough? To judge the world righteously'
VWrORY OF THE VANQUiaHED. 305
Il I were sure of that, I could die gladly—or
i think, I could scarcely die, for joy ! Think
of all the wrong ! Think of that German cap.
tive boy, so noble, and not yet safe even from
the cröss ; of the millions of slaves ; of the cries
from the provinces ; of the wickedness in the
city; of Tiberius at Capreae. 'He cometh ;
lie cometh,' to judge the world righteously."
She sank back on her cushions.
Diodora did not answer.
✓
She wias watching the weary face, again
sunk into quiet ; the long lashes oí the closed
eyelids shading the worn face.
She was thinking, not of the suffering
world, but of the love that had been all in the
world she cared for.
Clœlia Pulchra looked up again, and smiled
into the tearful eyes.
" Would it not be good to know surely,"
she said, taking her sister's hand—to know
the world would be dealt fairly with at last?"
Then for once Diodora's self-restraint gave
way. She threw herself on her knees by the
side of the couch, and leaned her face on the
thin hand she held.
" What do I care for the world, my Beauti-
^1 ! " she said. " It is wicked, cruel, selfish.
What would being judged do for it, except to
sweep it awa\ once for all ! If some One
would come and make it good, that would
3O6
riGTOBT OF TEE VANQUISHED.
oe something. Only too late, too late foi
thee and me! What should I care for the
world if you were to leave it ! It is of you I
want to know. If some one would come and
tell me where you are going, and how to get
to you. Anywhere, anywhere—only to be
sure we would find each other. If we were
only together, I would not mind being a
voiceless shade, or anything. We should never
be voiceless shades to each other. We should
make the world real for each other wherevei
we were. Just by living together, and by.
loving. But all the people in the world
would be voiceless shades to me without thee.
With thee the fire-rivers would be Olympian
sunshine. But to be a bit of some great soul
of the world ! it were as well to be a bit of the
dust of the world. This is the great terror.
Oh, my sister, if some god would only tell me
of thee, I would let the world be."
There was a long silence. Slowly Diodora
regained her self-control ; her sobs ceased, and
she knelt silently, still clasping the thin hand.
Not in prayer. The grief was suppressed,
not soothed. She rose with lips firmly set to
endure, but with no peace on her face.
The wistful eyes followed her as she moved
quietly about the room, preparing some food.
At last, when she brought it, Clœlia Pulchra,
fixing her eyes on her, calmly said—
riOrORT OF THE VAN(¿U18HEH. 307
i
" Little sister, I have tried to serve my
Rome -, I fear not to much avail. I have tried
to make thy burden lighter, and that, I tnink,
1 did. By all our love, promise me one thing
before I go. Promise me you will not rush
after me out of the world ! "
Clœlia Diodora stood still, and turned pale,
as if surprised and arrested in a hidden pur
pose.
" I do not think it wrong ! " she said in a
low voice. " It might be cowardly. But the
bravest of our Rome have not thought so.
Laon says his wise men thought it would be
like a soldier deserting his post. But I know
not what post has been given me in the world
to keep, that any should be wronged by my
deserting it. Nor know I who gave me such
a post ; or had a right to command me to stay.'
The dying priestess held the reluctant hand,
and gazed on the half-averted eyes, until they
turned to her.
" I have a strange unconquerable Hope that
One is coming," she said. " I want you to
stay and see. And I have a strange dim fear,
lest, rushing after me unbidden, there should
be none at hand to lead you, and we should
lose each other in the dark, and search for
each other for ever (if we live at all) ; and
have no voice to call each other, and no hand
to guide us to each other, and never find each
r
3O8 VIOTORT OF THE VANqUISHED.
other, more. Promise me, by our love, you
will wait."
The poor face so lately convulsed with
weeping quivered again.
" Do not ask it, my beautiful ! Anything
but that ! It was the only hope I had."
" Old Laon was good to you !" the priest¬
ess said, after a pause. " He saved you. He
loves you. He looks to your kindness for his
old age. He may grow blind and helpless,
and want you to care for him as he cared for
you."
" He would scarcely ask it. He would
know what the world would be to me with¬
out you."
" He would not ask it. But he would want
it, little sister !" she added, very tenderly. " \
have tried to be a loyal Roman maiden and
keep my charge. I entreat you, do not aban¬
don yours."
" Until Laon dies, then !" Diodora replied,
hesitating.
"After that it cannot be long," the Vestal
. said. " For the sake of me—for the fear of
missing each other in the dark—for the sake
of quieting this fear of mine, if it be a childish
fear—as you would go through any mockery
or pain to bring me the smallest thing I wished
for^ go through that pain to save me this fear
now."
VICTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 30J -
A long silence. Then the compressed lipá
parted in the old radiant smile which made
the worn face beautiful.
" For thy sake, yes ! What are fears of
pain hereafter, to give thee a day's ease while
I have thee? Would I not pour out my life
in one drop to cool thy thirst ? Shall I vow
it to thee at any shrine ?"
" Take my hands and kiss me and promise.
That will be the surest vow."
" By our love, I promise," the younger sis¬
ter said.
Clœlia Pulchra was satisfied. They knew
nothing more sacred with which to seal the
vow.
And soon afterwards the sufferer fell into a
quiet sleep. When she awoke, she said,—
" When great people die, there is generally
an emancipation of slaves. A Vestal Virgin
has some claims on Rome. I have never
made any. That German captive who saved
thee is no longer a slave of the Imperial house,
but of some subject. I have been thinking I
will ask it as my last request of Rome, that
his ransom be paid. I should like to think he
would be freed, when I am. Darling, say
those dying words of the wise Athenian
again."
Diodora repeated, as well as she could, the
familiar words she had read so often to Laon.
JIÓ riCTOñt OF THE VANQUIBHED.
" ' But those who are found to have lived
an eminently holy life, these are they who,
being freed or set at large from these regions
on the earth as from a prison, arrive at the
pure abodes above ; since our soul is certainly
immortal.'
" And again : ' He thinks that I am he
whom he shall shortly behold dead ! But do
you be sureties that when I die I shall not re¬
main, but shall depart to some happy state of
the blessed, that when ye see my body either
burned or buried, ye may not be afflicted for
me, as though I suffered some dreadful thing,
nor sa y at my interment that Socrates is laid
out, O'* is carried out, or is buried.
" ' The soul is most certainly immortal and
impel ishable, and will really exist in the un¬
seen irorld, taking nothing with it but the disci'
pline it has gained here.'
" A id then he spoke of our dwelling on this
çmall earth, as ants or frogs about a marsh,
ind \ hen we die getting wings, and rising to
'he h rge, pure, beautiful world on high."
"ilh, little sister," the Vestal said, " if we
4
were sure of those wings ! sure we have them
grow ng in our souls ! and that we (if we in¬
deed live on) shall be indeed among those
pure spirits who will soar, not sink ! But this
at least you will do for me ; this, of which we
can be sure. You will see that the German
VICTORY OF THB VANqXTlSHED.
captive is set free. It will feel like dying for
some good, like a soldier of our old Rome, to
knovr that.*
That night, when the lamp burned low to¬
wards morning, the Vestal seemed to think
she was alone, as in the old Vigils in the tem¬
ple at night, for she said,—
" See, beautiful, pure, vestal stars, one by
one, as you pass across my little space of sky 1
See, I, even I, have kept the fire and the sa¬
cred charge for Rome. Oh, boundless Heav¬
ens, I have kept my Hearth-fire for you ! Are
ye keeping a hearth-fire for me ? This fire 1
have kept is not me ; I have but kept it burn
ing. And these starry fires are not you. Be
*
yond, within, beyond are ye ! I am coming )
Give me some little fire still to keep brighi
for the world ! Give me some great heaii
%
where T may rest !"
And then, when the flickering lamp died out
and the calm morning broke, her spirit seemed
to come into daylight, and she said, going
back with the clear gaze of those who are de¬
parting,—
" The German captive will be free. It may
seem, after all, like my old dream, when the
Clœlia, who swam the river and saved the
;hildren, appeared to me and told me my life
vould be like the stream our forefathei
#
312 VICTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
brought from the Alban hills to Rome 1
thought it might then. But perhaps all it has
really done is to fill two cups of cold water ;
living to fill one fresh for thee morning by
morning, and dying to purchase one for him
who saved thee. Yet even that is something. '
And after a pause she went on in a low
voice,—
" He will be free. And perhaps, perhaps, I
shall be free too ;—out of prison and free and
winged, and know about you, and wait for
you. If there were only some One there be¬
fore to wait for me, to receive me ! Perhaps !
It is a dark long journey to go on a ' perhaps.*
Little sister, be near me when I go. Let me
know that brave heart will fear bondage no
more, nor the scourge nor the cross. Let me
know your hand is in mine. And let me think
that perhaps my life has been a stream of re¬
freshment to you and to him ; my life and my
death. And that perhaps, perhaps Socrates
was right about the soul and her wings, and
the oid Jew about the Hope. ' For He cora-
eth. He cometh to judge the earth, to judge
the world righteous y.' " •
CHAPTER XXV
N the Sacred Pomœrium—the space
marked out by religious rites along
the line of the ancient wall, where
divinations and augunes for the City
were taken, where no unhallowed thing must
rest—they laid the ashes of Clcelia the Vestal,
as things sacred, belonging to heaven and to
Rome.
Thither Clœlia Diodora crept morning and
evening ; and there she watched through
many a night. Free from fear of evil : free
from fear, as those are free for whom life has
no longer any hope. What could the worst
enemy do more for her than break those fet¬
ters to life, which she had vowed never to
break for herself?'
Her sorrow was at least allowed to flow in
an unbroken tide. With her sister's life, all
worth calling life in her own had ended. It
was she who had been burned in that funcrai
i4 (s'î)
314 TIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED
pyre—whose heart lay smouldering in ashes,
being burned for ever, yet unconsumed. Love
and Duty had been slain together. For her
there were no tender claims, no inevitable
small necessities and cares, plucking her back
to every-day life. No one would miss her,
and she was neglecting nothing, if, from morn¬
ing to night, from night till morning, she kept
ceaseless watch by her dead.
Her one charge in life had ended before
life. Henceforth her whole existence might
be as this Pomœrium—a sacred waste in the
midst of the Great City, once ploughed with
the sacred plough of Hope, now dedicated to
the Past, to Sacred Rites, and to the Dead.
If there were none to weep with her, and
say " Weep not," with compassionate voice,
almighty in two worlds, like Him whom yet
she knew not ; there were also none to say,
with dry eyes and dry unmoved voice, like
Tiberius—"Weep not; tears in moderation
are excusable, even desirable : you have shed
enough ; now return to pleasure." There
were none to say (as if there were consolation
in a comparative anatomy of torture), "Your
cup is not bitterer than many others;" or,
with smooth self-complacency and easy senti¬
mental tears, " Ah ! I have tested it too ; " or,
with comfortable optimism of shallow relig¬
iousness," It is not really bitter—taken aright,
$
VICTORY OF TEE VANQUISHED.
it is sweet" (as if a certain sweet spiritual
flavor were what we wanted, and not love,
the old love, bitter or sweet).
Every one knew she had lost all ; and those
who cared enough to think about it felt that
the only refuge for her would be to die also,
and thought, if she had courage enough, that
was in her own power.
Neither had she any inward conflicts be¬
tween weak, would-be faith and mighty ex¬
isting misery. Strong, in a deep, unbroken
tide, the great sorrow swept over her ; con
sciously stifled and drowning in it, blinded
and stunned with it, yet unable to faint or
sink.
She believed the gods (if there were gods)
—those sunny, smiling Olympians—had been
unjust, merciless, cruel to her : to her, and the
pure, beautiful Being who had been ready to
give her life to them. She believed it with¬
out reserve, and said it to herself without
self-reproach. She dashed bitter words of
accusation up against that sky of brass ; faint-
ly comforting herself sometimes with the
thought that there were some behind it who
could hear and might be stung amidst their
bliss,—if only stung to a little scornful smile
on the smooth lips amidst their feasting.
%
The darkest times of all were when she felt
that no cries of her anguish could reach any
3i6 VIGTOBY of tee VANQUiaSED.
one, either, to awaken pity or scorn ; that she
was, after all, but as a puling child striking
its helpless wounded hands against the stone
that had wounded it.
She felt, not stricken only, but wronged ;
wronged as she (embittered though her heart
was) would, she knew, have wronged no one..
Her whole life had been one wrong. Why
had she been imprisoned without crime in the
joyless dungeon of this misshapen flesh ? Why
had drops, not of bitterness only, but of
venom, been distilling all these years into her
heart? Why, now, had the only hand that
warded them from her heart been smitten and
made powerless ? Her whole being was in a
tumult of revolt, and she did not attempt to
still it. In the loneliness of the Pomœrium, by
that sacred urn, the tempest within made the
silence tumultuous. The noise of the City,
the perilous thronging of the crowd in the
narrow streets, the eager cries and voices Of
the multitude in the Forum, seemed stiller
■
than this solitude. With the silencing of that -
one voice, all human creatures had become
voiceless shades to her.
"You are all nothing but masks," she
thought. " Some of you seem to be cherished
children, beloved brides, happy mothers,
strong men But it is all seeming. You only
seem to be children, brides, mothers. But
i
VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 31;
you are mere perishing, mortal creatures.
Soon you will all have to lay aside your
masks, and become like my Beautiful."
With a kind of bitter triumph, she saw an-
other King enthroned above all the tumult of
the City and the pomp of the Palatine.
" Not Tiberius," she said. " Death, and
only Death, is the Universal Lord."
There were times when she felt the exist¬
ence of the meanest living creature a cruel
wrong to her Dead. She grudged to all the
life her Beloved had lost, and which she could
not lose. There were times, again, when she
had a fierce joy in the thought how brief the
seeming advantage of the living was.
"Soon, soon," she said, "you will all be
crumbled into just such a little urn as this.
The majority are there already—the best, the
bravest."
She felt her heart slowly turning into ice.
And this was the only terror left. She dread¬
ed .lest she should grow bitter and malignant,
lil.2 other distorted and baffled creatures from
V
whom hope had died, and so grow unlike and
estranged from her Beloved.
Yet one day, when she sat weighed down
Dy this fear, crouched on the ground, and
near her a poor bird was helplessly struggling
in a snare, beating its wings, and piteously
chirping, with tender, ieft fingers she un-
318 VIGTORT OF THE rANqmSHET}.
twisted the snare, and set the trembling cap
tive free.
" It is worth while setting you free," she
said, as if apologizing to herself, as it flew up-
wardfe, knowing nothing of its liberator ; " you
have wings !"
That little act of kindness reacted, stirred
the dying embers, brought a little warmth
about her heart ; and with that the thought
of Siward. She wondered if freedom would,
after all, be any boon to hitn. She felt it was
sweet he should owe it to her Beloved.
She had written a letter to old Laon about
Siward's ransom ; and wondered, with a
dreamy, languid wonder, what he would
write or do in consequence—if he would care
enough to come to her in her misery. And
with the thought of Laon came visions of the
little dark room behind the workshop.
" 1 could be a hand again for him, perhaps,"
sne thought ; " and perhaps one day a voice
(she wished me to serve him) ; never more a
heart or a soul for any one."
Then her mind reverted to the wise words
Laon ha,d taught her.
" I used to think I could launch fearless
hence into the unknown, like Socrates, on
that hope, and risk all on that hazard," she
thought ; " and I still could. But to trust her to
it is another thing. To trust her to a Perhaps J
VKTOJiT OF THE rAFQUlSRED. 31g
" How do I know that the other world, if
there be one, is not another Capreae, with an¬
other Tiberius holding all the worlds bound
and trembling in the capricious cruelty of
fear as he holds Rome ?
" If not, how comes there to be a Capreae
here ?"
And in the confusion and dimness of that
. land of the terrible shadow, with the rush of
its advancing, devouring tides ever in her
ears, a wild longing to see the unseen took
possession of her ; to see, at any price, any-
thing of the future world, which had become
the present world to her Beloved.
Before the Olympians, old legends said, had
reigned the Titans.
It was said there were regions where the
Titans still reigned. If this dim, transitory
world of ours was a world of shadows to the
gods, below this world was a yet dimmer un¬
der-world, which seemed a world of shadows
to us.
There, still reigned in awful solemnity the
ancient gods, all that was left of the dethroned
dynasty, with a mystic majesty about them,
their grand forms gigantic and dim in the
Statiorary twilight, which never faded and
never dawned, the gray fathers and mothers
of the gods—blind, some of them, some of
them in torments yet royal, and reigning on
320 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHER.
%
through all the defeat and pain, in a dim, lurid
land of fire and night.
How far had their dethronement been the
consequence of the necessary growth of
tnings, and how far a wrong? Was there a
faint pulse of hope throbbing through that
under-world, as now in some hearts in the
dark world of Tiberius Caesar?—a faint hope
of some far-off dim rescue by a Deliverer in
strange sympathy with man, and with those
ancient dethroned powers?
Long she mused on the old legends as she
kept those long, lowly vigils by the tomb.
For in some dim way that under-world was
bound up with men. This Hades, the exile
and abode of dethroned gods, was also the
place of exile, and yet the longest abode ol
men. The Empire of the Titans was the em¬
pire of the dead.
If her sister Clœlia the Vestal had been
banished, like the Princess Agrippina, to the
island of Pandataria, what interest would the
fairest cities and paradises of the world have
• had for her compared with the seas a(>d shores
around that lonely, barren isle !
How she would have haunted the nearest
shores, and treasured the faintest »umors
brought by the fishermen who had -î^asted
near those inhospitable shores, and travels«
ed sea and land to have a few minutes' in-
riGTORT OF THE VANQUiaHED. 321
4
tercourse with any who had returned thence ?
For even that imperial prison, with its moat of
seas, did indeed sometimes yield up its exiles
Could it be possible that there might be
some rumors to be gathered even of that land
of shadows, the Pandataria of the gods ? In
her childhood dark, wild terrors had haunted
I
certain places, and times, and people. She
had neard of incantations and fearful half-
barbarous rites powerful to evoke the dead,
of divinations into the future.
There were caverns among the hills, one it
was said even on the Roman Aventine, which
led no one had fathomed whither, haunted by
strange voices. There were legends of moun¬
tains having throbbed and quivered, as if
some gigantic heart beat beneath them. There
were fountains which bubbled up hot and tur¬
bid, as if -they were escaping from some fiery
world below.
Could these be gateways into that under¬
world ?
For her all their terror was gone.
What were eartf quakes, and thunders, and
sulphurous flames, and angry infernal voices
as of monsters disturbed in uneasy sleep, and
all the vulgar terrors which guarded those
approaches to the unknown, to her ?
For her, all visionary terrors had vanished
before the memory of that one beautiful,
14*
323 riGTOBF OF THE VANqUlSHED.
%
peaceful, irresponsive face, and those still cold
hands. If this under-world were indeed the
• dwelling-place of her sister, the darkest witch-
cavern that led to it would to her be brighter
than the sunniest porch of the brightest home
on earth, more home-like than its inmost
hearth.
1
The more she mused on it, the more fasci¬
nation that dim under-world had for her.
Olympus, with its golden thrones, its sunny
heights, its easy, feasting, joyous revellers,
faded into a childish poesy, a nursery ballad;
Apollo, Aurora, Diana, and even Jove, seemed
mere children, mere transitory beings, beside
those solemn, gray old gods of the older sway.
The real world was not an Olympus, whose
gods and goddesses might dissolve into morn-
ing clouds, into sunbeams and moonbeams ;
it was not here, in this world of stage-players,
of dust and delusion ; but below, where the
ancient gods reigned, and men had to abide
for ever; that awful permanent world with
its rivers of fire and of forgetfulness, its dim,
fair fields lighted not by sun or moon.
The mystic name of Hecate came to her
again and again, as if muttered in hollow cav¬
erns of the past. She remembered how Da-
maris, the Athenian slave, used to mutter it in
Ic w tones, to the terror of her childhood.
Hecate, older than all the gods adored in
VlOrORT OF THE VA.NquiaEED. 323
fair marble temples ; though worshipec only
in caves and dark places of the earth. Having
had a right to reign as much prior to that of
Jove, as that of Jove to Tiberius Caesar. And,
according to general belief, reigning still.
Reigning in the under-world. And, it was
rumored, not only there. Honored even by
the immortal gods. Worshiped with secret
mystic rites, dimly looming on the eyes 01
men in monstrous symbolical forms—three-
headed, with the face of a horse, of a dog, of
a lion. Reigning over the spirits of the dead,
but also over the chase, and the sea ; able to
bestow good on the young, to whom this sun¬
lit world was still the reality ; herself the god¬
dess of the moon, of night, of the unseen.
Recollections came on her, too, of ancient
mysteries of Eleusis, giving hope, it was said,
of the future life ; and of Oriental mystics—
Essenes, Therapeutae—mystics who held the
body to be a prison, and death a liberation.
She determined to travel anywhere, and go
through anything, to be initiated.
And meantime there were still necroman*
cers and magicians at Rome.
Banished by edict after edict, the anxious
hearts of men called them back again and
igain Emperors condemned and consulted
them. When, on the height of prosperity,
the sense oí the hidden precipices around
324 ViOTOBT OJf THE VANQUISHED.
made the brain dizzy, and the very brightness
of the present made the future a dread, the
strongest and most matter-of-fact intellects
yielded to the fascination of a promised
glimpse into the darkness before them.
Through the stars, through the throbbing
hearts of slain beasts, through voices in oracu¬
lar caverns, through magic rings and mirrors—
any outlet was sought from the uncertainty
which shrouds the next step of the securest
and sunniest life.
Or, again, when all the best light and
warmth had passed from the present, and the
personal future, as with Clœlia Diodora, had
ceased to interest because it could not restore
the past, then a deeper and mightier fascina¬
tion drew the heart to those who professed to
be able to pierce not merely the mists of the
uture, but the deeper darkness of present
death—to tell not what we shall be, but what
and where our beloved are.
With passionate longing the deformed girl^
sought to wrest the dark secret from one
magician after another, spending her little
patnmony on one gloomy rite after another,
lavishing any money they asked her on the'
sacrifices, which the witches said were re¬
quired to open the lips of the silent gods.
But none of these rites brought her the
slightest comfort.
riCTÖBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 325
Darkness, and sudden bursts of lurid light,
and sanguinary rites, and hollow voices in the
depths of caverns, and dim apparitions, and
all the paraphernalia of vulgar horrors, had
no terrors for her. The) did not thrill her
with any tremor, or quicken the beating of
her heart, Hope might indeed have dazzled
ber perception, but not fear. And such hope
as would have stirred her, they never suc¬
ceeded in awakening.
She believed it possible that those old un¬
known gods might be moved by such myste¬
rious rites. But when the' magicians professed
to evoke the dead, and give her messages
from her sister, she only smiled.
" Lethe and Styx and Elysium, rivers of
fire or of forgetfulness, could not change her
thus !" she said. " If she is there, she is
self there. And this is not herself."
The daylight and reality of that pure love
was still too strong around her heart for
shadows of the twilight to deceive her.
Yet she went from one vain promise to
another. Each time to return more hopeless
to her watch by the urn in the Pomcerium,
and there to keep lonely watch again, until the
loneliness weighed on her like a roof of solid
darkness,—the old longing came back on her
to lift it or pierce it by any means,—and once
more she w ould roam restlessly about to seek
326 VHTORT OF THE Ç'ANqUISHEE.
soaie new entrance into that solemn under
world.
At last one name was mentioned to her, aa
that of no vulgar witch, but of a mighty for
eign sorceress, who had learned in Thessaly
spells of irresistible potency, which would
compel the infernal powers, and even Hecate
herself, to surrender the secrets of the under¬
world.
One still gray night she met this woman
alone by appointment in a clearing of a wood
near the Tiber, a place avoided by day and
never approached at night by the people
around on account of dark memories of treach¬
erous murder which haunted it.
On one side lay a pool, left by the river
when at high flood, deep and sullen, with un¬
wholesome stagnant growths, only swept at
rare intervals by the tide of fresh waters.
Around was a marsh, treacherous with mud
and black pools, where frogs croaked, and
slimy creatures crept and plashed. Through
the shades of the neighboring bushes rose a
cross with a blackened horror still hanging on
U. Underneath was a mound of dank suspi¬
cious greenness ; murderer and murdered, it
was believed, compelled thus perpetually to
haunt each other.
The sorceress did not heed Diodora on her
first approach. She seemed to be gathering
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 327
poisonous herbs. When she perceived the
deformed girl, she rose to the fuh height of
heb majestic stature. Her black unkempt
hair fell in masses on her shoulders, making a
not altogether unintentional resemblance to
the snakes of the Furies. Her dark keen eyes
gleamed with a penetrating flash, like those
of a beast of prey, more phosphorescent than
human, as they rested on the misshapen figure.
" Such as thou," she said, in a hollow voice,
grasping Diodora's arm with a muscular grasp
in her one hand, whilst a knife gleamed in her
other hand — "such as thou find such as I
ought to suit. Of such are the sacrifices
whose blood delights" those we seek."
Diodora's arm was bruised in her twist, but
she. did not shrink. Her frank deep eyes met
those of the sorceress with a courage as de¬
termined as her own.
" What dost thou want of me ?" she re¬
sumed. " Love potions are scarcely for thee.
It can scarcely be a question of a rival ! Hast
thou an enemy thou wouldst be avenged
upon ?"
" I have no one wrong to avenge," said Di-
odora. " The world has not been my friend.
But there is vengeance and misery enough in
it to satisfy the most malignant. To watch
the end that must come to all the Joy would
be enough. One nned not act."
328 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHEII.
" What wouldst thou have, then ?" the sor
ceress said. " Such payment as thou wouldst
offer is not likely to reward me. I might
have given thee vengeance for nothing. Such
work is its own reward. I, at all events, have
wrongs which make one drop of vengeance
sweet."
"I do not want to make any one more
wretched," Diodora said. " I do not hope to
be made happy. I only want to know^
"To know what is to happen to thee ?" ask¬
ed the sorceress scornfully. " Can that'matter
so much ? Eat and drink, for to-morrow we
die."
"To know what is happening to my sister,"
was the low-toned reply. '
%
Merely to mention that dear, name to such
ears seemed to desecrate it; yet, having come
so far, she would not give up the hope.
"They tell me you have learned potent
charms in Thessaly, strong to pierce the un¬
seen."
" Blood of innocent babes, eyelids of mur¬
derers, such as he you see rotting there in the
thicket."
And she ran through a ghastly catalogue
of horrors. Diodora shuddered ; but her lip
curled scornfully.
" I thought you knew some mighty words
of old!" she .said at last, turning away. "I
riCTORT OF THE VANQUiaHED. 32g
will ne\er pollute her memory with vulgar
witches cruelties. I will never believe she is
in the power of beings who could be propiti •
ated by such abominations."
" You will never believe !" laughed the sor
ceress scornfully. " Are things changed by
your or my believing? Will your not believ¬
ing the iniquities of Capreas make it pure ? I
•know at least some of the secrets of that under¬
world. Why should not poisons and spells be
as acceptable to the Powers of the ancient
under-world as to that ?"
Clœlia Diodora paused a moment. Then
«he said,—
" She would not have had me rescue her
even from Tiberius by such means as you
speak of. Now that I cannot rescue her,
wherever she" is, I will never dishonor her
memory by gratifying my own longing to
know, at such a cost."
And she turned away.
But again the strong grasp was on her arm,
and this time the knife flashed, and between
c'osed. teeth the sorceress hissed the words
oetore her face.
"You are an Informer. You have been
%
bribed to betray me to the Emperor. You
shall not leave this so easily. There is sorne^
thing you can give me worth mj having
And that is your misshapen self."
330 VIG80RT OF THE YaEQUISHED.
Clœlia smiled, something of the old radiant
smile, without scorn or malice.
" Thus you would fulfil my longing indeed,"
«he said. "There is one way in which you
can open to me secrets I long for. Dying, I
shall know ; for perhaps I shall meet my dead.
We shall know together, my Vestai, my Beau¬
tiful !"
The fierce grasp relaxed, and the fierce fea¬
tures relaxed also.
" Child," said the sorceress, after a pause,
"you want what I cannot give. You'have
what I cannot give—cannot give back to my¬
self." And the hard hands covered the rigid
face. " Y ou have love. Such courage comes
only from love, and from despair. When love
died to me, I found another way from despair.
But the love was different. Go, and come
not near to reproach me again."
Slowly the maiden retraced her steps
through the solitary wood, and not till late
that night did she reach the place of her vigils
m the Pomœrium. There she clasped the
marble once more, and felt almost as if she
were pressing her cheek against the dear sis¬
terly hand.
" See, my Beautiful," she said ; " I would
not purchase even tidings of thee by anything
thou wouldst not have had me do. Surely ]
cannot grc w nearer thee by growing wicked
rUTOBT CF THE VANqUISHED. 331
And ere long she fell into a heavy exhausted
sleep, with something of the ft.eling of ono
who sleeps on a battle-field after a victory,
leaning against the stone.
And there the next morning old Laon, and
Siguna, returned from her long fruitless search
in the North for Olave, found the poor crouch¬
ing form and the worn face pressed against
the Vestal's tomb. They watched her long
in silence. Sleep seemed so absolutely the
only repose left her on earth, that at first they,
who loved and pitied her so truly, rather
lioped than feared that sleep might prove the
long last sleep.
Before the dawn had quite passed into day
she awoke. Half rising, but still leaning against
the marble, she stretched out a hand to each.
"You have not found anything!" she said,
meeting Siguna's wistful gaze. " I have lost
everything. Taon, Laon !" she exclaimed,
passionately, rising and throwing herself at
his feet, " take me to Athens. Socrates was
content with guessing, thinking. But that
was only for himself. I must know ! know !
Somewhere, somewhere the^secret must have
pierced through, if there is any secret to
know. Let me be initiated in the mysteries.
Men say they speak tidings thei e of the dead.
Take me to Athens, to the ancient mysteries,
that I ma} know."
332 ViOTOBY OF I HE YAm^I^BED.
"Child," he said, mournfully, "'was n3i
Socrates at Athens ? What could the myste-
ries there tell thee but that thousands of years
since men hoped, as thou and I must hope
now ? There is but one way by which men
enter in and know."
She fixed her eyes with a deprecatory look
on his, almost as if defending herself against
an accusation of cowardice. " I think you are
right," she said. " But that way I promised
her never to open to myself. She made me
promise, for her sake and for yours, Laon."
The old man's eyes moistened.
" She thought of old Laon then at the last,"
he said.
" And of Siward," she replied. " Is her
wish fulfilled ?"
" At first the proud boy had a struggle with
himself," Laon said, with a choked voice ; " he
had all but earned his own emancipation.
And he remembered words she spoke to him
years since in my old workshop. Freedom,
she said, was better earned than given. But
at last he consented to accept the boon. From
her dying hands, he told me to tell you, he
deemed his freedom a more sacred treasure
than if he had won it with his own. There
was a strange bond between those two," he
added. "The boy has moved about gently
and gravely as a woman since he heard sha
riCTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
was gone. He said the sweetest light the
world had held, or would ever hold, for him.
had died out of it for ever."
And Sig^na the mother did not resent the
words.
CHAPTER XXVI.
NCE more Siguna was sailing east¬
ward over the Mediterranean Sea.
Her last voyage had been as a slave
in the household of Germánicas the
Conqueror, with Siward and little Hilda, all
in bondage.
Thirteen years had passed, and now the
three were free.
Siward was keeping .the armourer's work¬
shop at Antioch, which was to be the support
of his mother, of old LaOn, and of Clœlia Dio-
dora. But it was to Hilda's little household
the mother's heart most yearned, to the three
fair children growing up around her child and
Callias.
Siguna had grown graver and more ab¬
stracted since her fruitless search for Olave in
the North. Not that the hope of yet seeing
him again in life had died from her heart. It
had only been driven deeper in. Some day
she still believed she should hear the familial
(334)
nCTORT OF THE VANQÜÍBHED. 335
roicc again. And it was her fixed intention
(though she communicated it to no one), when
she had seen her children at Antioch, to re¬
turn and dwell at Rome, that not one con>
pany of captives might arrive from the North
which she might not see and question.
The sight of the Grecian cities and islands
recalled to her many things in the past. She
thought of the brilliant life cut short, and the
noble manly form laid low at Epidaphne. She
thought of the lofty spirit, then so full of song
and love, that could not be broken by years
of peril and suspicion and petty household
tyranny, now hopelessly wearing itself out in
the solitary exile of Pandataria. She hoped
with trembling that the little share of pros¬
perity and happiness which had come to her
Hilda was not bright enough to arouse the
" envy of the gods."
Many consultations, meanwhile, did she and
Laon hold how it would be possible to awaken,
not to pleasure (that mattered little), but to
something of living interest, the poor bereaved
girl.
Laon's heart was very heavy on her ac
count. He was conscious of having felt a
little thrill of satisfaction at the thought of
having his child entirely to himself.
For some time he would not confess it ; but
at last, as they left Athens, he said to Sigiina,
336 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
»
%
into whose quiet heart every one naturally
poured their troubles,—
" I had thought, foolish old man that I was,
that I could yet give her bright days. I had
furnished the little home at AntiocKas daintily
for her as I knew how, and had reserved a
little stock of coin wherewith she might pur¬
chase those fancies and finishes that women
love, that she might think she had made it
^ '^^bright for me herself, as women like to do. I
had visions of her rich soft voice ringing
through the rooms in her old Latin lays and
Greek songs, making it more musical to me
than all the groves of Epidaphne. And I
thought Siward would listen as we worked.
And now she is not here at all. Far nearer
me when I was at Antioch toiling for her, and
she at Rome with the Vestal. See how her
spirit is looking far, far away! Seeing, she
sees not ; and hearing, she hears not ; living,
she lives not. The whole world has become
ghostly to her,"
" She is very gentle and kind," said Siguna,
apologetically. " She tries hard to be with
us, and do what she can for you."
" The more sf e tries to hide it from me, the
more I feel it," he replied. " She will work
for me, read to me, listen, talk for me ; any¬
thing but /tve. The little fragment of her life
and love I had while her sister lived, w as
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 337
worth more than the whole of her thoughts
and time now. For it was a living portion of
her living self. And now she is but as a ghost
unnaturally compelled by some witch's art to
animate again a wounded body it was panting
to leave, to erect itself, and move and speak
in a ghastly semblance of life far more terrible
than death."
" Even here, in this Athens," he continued,
" that we loved to speak about together in
the old days at Rome, as if to see it together
would be a joy too great for her to hope for,
she cared for none of the glorious temples,
the hills, the battle-fields, the statues, the
groves I had told her of until she knew them
familiarly as the way from the Cœlian to her
sister in the Temple of Vesta, or to my work¬
shop. Only once she awoke from that cour¬
teous attention in which she sits as a guest
perpetually entertained at some stranger's
board, to something of her old eager intensity.
It was in the cave of the Eumenides. ' Men
believed this was a portal to the under-world,'
she said. ' Here I should like to stay and
die.' And she knelt down and embraced the
stones. That gloomy cave was fairer to her
than the Parthenon. It was more homelike
than that little home at Antioch will ever be,
the home I have been preparing her with such
love and hope fo" years."
15
338 VIOTOBT OF THE VANqUlSEED.
Thus these three wrecks, tossed together
by winds and waves from shores so far apart,
drifted on to the shores of Syria, knowing
nothing of what awaited them there
CHAPTER XXVIL
HE autumn sun was shining tranquil¬
ly on Judaea; in the valleys, on
silent fields, lately laughing and
singing with the songs of harvest,
now gray with stubble ; on the hill-sides, on
^.onely vineyards, with their gathered grapes
and their deserted lodges and towers, lately
echoing with the shouts of the vintage ; or on
olive-groves lightened of their fruit. The
corn, the wine, and the oil, had been gathered
m. And the blank and stillness of the old age
of autumn had succeeded the festivities of its
youth.
Yet there seemed to the three travellers
something more than the usual autumnal
quiet over the land. In the villages the clat¬
ter of their asses' hoofs on the Roman roads
brought out only a few women and little
children, and occasionally an infirm old man,
to gaze on them.
(339)
340 7igt0b7 of tjib vamuished.
Now and then an eager group passed, them
laden with bunches of citrv n, with palm
branches, or boughs of the gray willows from
• the brooks.
4
" It is some feast of the Jews," Laon said;
"some of the patriotic g?.therings.by which
their wise old Lawgiver bound them to¬
gether."
When they reached the Gity they found it
transformed into a garden, into a semblance
of that golden Jerusalem where the Paradise
and the City are blended ; with the fountains
clear as crystal, the leaves of the trees with
twelve manner of fruit in .the midst of the
street, and the light of the perpetual festival
making night as bright as day.
The flat roofs were embowered in thick
foliage. The courts of the houses and of the
Temple, and even, of the streets, were green
with branches entwined into temporary dwel¬
lings. The whole city had become a forest,
the inhabitants children of the forest. The
imagination of Siguna, the child of the North-
tm forest, went back to her old woodland
home in the Lippe valley.
" Were those Jews also," she asked of I«aon,
"once foresters, as we Germans are? Do
they keep this feast in remembrance of their
early home ?"
But Laon was never communicative con
riGTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 341
earning the Jews;-and Siguna was left to her
own conjectures for an explanation.
Few of the branches were Such as her own
forests could have furnished. Glossy myrtle
boughs were entwined with gray olive
branches ; some of the huts were roofed alto¬
gether with palms ; some leafy bowers there
were of sycamore and pine. There was a
variety in the size as in the foliage. The Feast
being a family festival, as those of the Hebrew
nation were, these bowers were little tempor¬
ary homes, adapted to the numbers ^r the
wealth of the family : some, humble little
dwarf huts ; some, vaults of greenery twenty
feet high.
Evening and morning joyous bands made
processions through the streets, carrying
large bunches of fruit ; fathers, mothers,
youths, and maidens, and little children.
In the morning vessels of water were car¬
ried from a foun+ain of Siloam, and poured,
with wine, in libations on the altar.
At night the city was lighted up with count¬
less lamps and torches gleaming among the
green bowers, or borne with song and dance
through the streets, as they went in festive
procession by the Beautiful Gate to the Court
of the Women. Then all the light of the city
seemed concentrated around the Four Great
Lamps which illuminated the Temple, and
342 VIOTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
cast their radiance far and wide from the
Temple heights over cloister, courts, and em.
bowéred roofs.
There, around the Great Light of the Tem¬
ple of the City, while the priests played on
instruments and chanted sacred songs on the
steps leading to the inner courts, the nation
_ •
gathered together in families. When the
music of the priests ceased, the people waved
their boughs of golden fruit, the citrons shin¬
ing among the glossy leaves ; and the sacred
courts echoed with family and national rejoic¬
ing, with the dance and song of the people,
who were taught (had they only understood
it) to connect all their rejoicings with home
and with God.
The joy of harvest, the joy of rest after toil,
of a home after long wanderings, in memory
of that first feast of tabernacles, w)ien their
fathers at Succoth left the brown tents of the
wilderness for the leafy bowers of their own
p. omised land,—all this was flowing in symbol
beneath the hilarity of that most poetical fes-
lival. And to many a thoughtful eye, no
loubt, which had " kept watch o'er man's
mortality," it brought thoughts of the tran¬
sitory nature of all earthly homes (all indeed
tabernacles, so soon to be taken down, and
fading before the) fall) : vibrations of the
deep music of the ancient singers trembling
VICTOR F OF TEE VAEQUISHED. 343
through all the mirth,—" A stranger and so¬
journer with thee, as all thy fathers were ; "
perhaps also dim visions of a rest yet to
come.
Even Clœlia Diodora (by a perversity in¬
herent in woman, Laon thought) woke up to
something like interest in this strange trans¬
formation of the City into the Forest.
" Legends, mere legends of an obscure,
boastful tribe," Laon would say in answer to
her inquiries. " Why should you wish to
know ? They have a tradition of years of
wandering through a great wilderness, of
bread rained on them from heaven, of desert
rocks made to burst forth in living springs for
their thirst. The histories oí all people have
their birth-place in some far-off land of mist
and marvel. All people have their festivities,
more or less mystical and rapturous, at the
ingathering of the harvest, in spring, and in
autumn. Only this people has interwoven its
history more skilfully than most with this
woi'ship of Nature, and has the advantage of
purifying its festivities by coming to them in
families."
But the whole jo)'Ous scene made a deep
impression on the Roman maiden. Unlike
most joy, it did not jar upon her. There ran
through it a tone of patriotic fervor and of
religious solemnity which touched her.
344 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISUED.
Moreover, she could not get out of her
mind the sacred songs of the old Jew by the
Fountain of Egeria.
She interpreted this national rejoicing
through ihe look of love and joy she had
seen on his face.
And again and again she entreated Siguna
to tell her every detail of that stranger's dy¬
ing hours ; again and again, as a child listens
unwearied to a favorite story.
The story of that spirit meeting death so
solemnly awake, fearing as Siguna had never
seen any of her people fear, hoping as none
they knew had ever hoped, fearing and loving
some One he was going to meet in that un¬
seen world, was more to Diodora than any¬
thing.
And here in this festive City, by that Temple
towards which the old man used to turn, the
tones of his thin feeble voice came back to
her, as if echoed by the voice of a great mul¬
titude ; until one night she said to Siguna, as
to Laon at the cave of Eumenides,—
«
" Here I should like to stay and live or
die. It seems tq^me as if the entrance to that
unseen world might after all be here, even
here."
Neither of them knew anything of the sacri¬
ficial rites OP which these festivities were
based ; how, ^'r<îning and morning the slain
VICTORY OF TBE VANQUISHED.
Iamb yielded up its meek life on the altar;
and not wine only and pure water, but the
blood of a spotless victim had to flow there.
Not sheaves of ripe com only and buftches
of golden fruit, not joy only and thanksgiving
and the voice of melody waved and echoed
»
through those cloistered courts. Life was
sacrificed there daily, not with ease and joy,
but in pain and death.
The worship of that Temple was no glitter¬
ing garlanded ice-palace, built over the un¬
recognized abyss.
It dared to recognize the chasms which rend
humanity without and within. It dared to
look in the face the terrible mystery which
characterizes our race from all creatures in
the universe, separating it from the instinctive
innocent life below, and from the holy love of
the life above. It dared to look this terrible
distinction m the face, and to name it ;—to call
it sin, a " treading over " holy barriers of
Divine law, a " falling short " of a holy ideal
of goodness, a " going astray " from the hving
God.
It dared to call this world not a Paradise,
but a wilderness ; and our race a race of exiles
and pilgrims ; and to appeal -to generation
after generation as wandering and fiillen from
something they should and might have been.
It dared perpetually to bea~ witness to this
IS*
346 VIOTORT OF THE VANqUlSEED.
mystery of sin and need of reconciliation, by
the perpetual sacrifices offered in its Temple.
And at the same time it dared to bear per.
petual witness by its prophets to the worth-
lessness of these sacrifices, in themselves, to
please Him who could only be pleased by the
sacrifice of self, by the death of sin and the
life of righteousness, by ceasing to do evil and
learning to do well.
Of this the Roman maiden and the German
mother as yet knew little.
But Laon, going in and out among the
crowd, impatient to pursue his journey, yet
Unable in the excitement of the national fes¬
tival to find any means of doing so, began to
be aware of a tremor of unusual expectation
agitating the multitudes to and fro, as if
something were wanting to complete the
feast.
Not loud, eager discussion as of some
political event, acknowledged and expected
by all ; not dark, fierce words, as in one of
the countless national conspiracies against the
Roman rule, which kept the vacillating gov¬
ernor in such ceaseless anxiety between his
desire to please the Emperor and the Jews.
The province for the time was tranquil, what¬
ever volcanic fires might be slumbering be¬
neath. The considerate policy of Tiberius
C-esar in keeping the same governor longei
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED, 347
than usual in office, that the publicans who
lived on the provinces, "as flies on a wounded
man," being left in peace, might be satiated,
had in its measure succeeded. The images
of Caesar and his Eagle standards weie still
kept far from Jerusalem. Pilate having irri¬
tated the Jews by transferring his army into
Jerusalem, and venturing to insult their relig¬
ion as no previous governor had done, by in¬
troducing the " idolatrous " standards into the
Holy City, had taught them the lesson by
which they afterwards so fatally profited, that
to a sufficiently determined resistance he
would yield any conviction of his own.
It was no ordinary political excitement
which stirred the crowd at that feast. Yet
Laon became more and more aware of an un¬
easy movement of expectation beneath all the
tumult of feasting. " Much murmuring among
the peoplelike the rustle of leaves before a
tempest—like the stir of birds and breezes be¬
fore a dawn—like the low murmur of a crowd
waiting for some expected procession of a
prince or a conqueror, of whose approach
there have been long rumors.
" Much murmuring among the people concern^
ing Himl* Those in high places " seeking
tjim at the feast," with no friendly purpose.
The people divided, some saying, " He is a
good man " others, " Nay ; but He deceiveth
348 VWTOBT OF THE VANQVmHEB.
the people." Yet no man speaking openly,
because of the ill-will of those in high places,
not among the Roman rulers, but among theit
own.
" They seem expecting some great One ij
the City," he said one evening to the Roman
girl. In a moment the listless look passed
from Clcelia Diodora's face.
" Now ? " she asked eagerly. " Here ? "
Laon half wished to withdraw his words, so
intense was the earnestness of her questioning
eyes. And yet he could not but rejoice to
see her awakened to hope once more by any¬
thing.
" Can it be the King the old man was look¬
ing for ? " she asked, after a pause.
" The Jews are always looking for a King—
a Deliverer ; always thinking they have found
one ; and always finding their mistake. Noth¬
ing like the Roman lictor's rods for crushing
fanaticism ! But just now it scarcely seems a
King they are looking for. The people speak
of a " good man ; " of words unlike any man
ever spake before ; of a life of ceaseless acts
of kindness, of cures of the sick and maimed, '
and distributions of food—miraculous, some
say, as if the old childlike days of legend and '
marvel were coming back ; which is certainly
not likely in this old, hard, incredulous world
of ours."
rJGTORT OF THE rAEQUJBHED 345
Cloelia drank in eyery word. But she said
na more.
.
The next day, the old man came back more
silent than usual. During the evening meal
he said nothing, or only some light words
about their journey.
Afterwards he paced up and down the
chamber restlessly. He felt Clœlia's ques¬
tioning eyes on him, and she felt the uneasi¬
ness he would not confess, but knew of old
how inconvenient questions were apt to seal,
instead of opening her old friend's lips. At
last he asked her to recite him something from
one of Plato's Dialogues.
She began, but could not proceed. The
familiar words recalled too much. She sat
mute and tearless, with that look into the dis¬
tance which he dreaded.
»
Then he forgot all but the desire to soothe
her and recall her to the present.
" The multitudes are more restless than ever
to-day," he said. "^They say He for whom
they were looking has come, and has been
teaching openly in the midst of the Temple.
That He has accused the Jewish Council of
seeking to kill Him. Some of the people deny
this, and say it is a delusion. But some mur¬
mur that it is true."
And again, afterwards, when he came >q
finally at night, the old man said,—
35o ri stört of the vanquished.
'•He seems to have been right in his appre¬
hensions. Some strange spell seems to lie on
rulers and people. The Council has sought
to take Him. He has no followers to defend
Him ; no friends, that I can hear of, but a few
unarmed Galileans. He does not seem even
to seek to reign, or to displace any one who
is reigning. Why, then, should the rulers
of His people dread and hate Him? Or
why, if they hate Him, can they not silence
Him?"
" Laon," said the Roman girl, " can not we
hear Him ? I would give worlds to listen to
Him."
"He speaks in the Temple," Laon said.
"No Gentile may enter there. To-day some
of the people are enraged against Him, be¬
cause He said He would be with them but for
a little while longer, and would go, whither
they could not come. They think He meant
he would go and teach the Gentiles."
" The Gentiles ? Ourselves !" Clœlia ex-
claimed, starting up, her whole face brighten¬
ing. " Can this be possible ? "
"I know not. What can it matter?" said
Laon, scornfully. " Would you leave Socrates
and Plato for this Galilean ? "
" I never heard Socrates or Plato, ' she said,
sadly. " If they were living, and I could ask
them anything, it might be different. But
riCTOnT OF THE VANQUISHED. 3^;,
ihey alwa3i s seem to stop just when 1 most
want to know more."
" Impatient heart of woman !" Laon ex¬
claimed. " I thought my Diodora had been
wiser and would be content to poise herself
patiently on probabilities and wait. I thought
there was one woman above the vulgar crav-.
ings of religion, able to live on truth ! "
The next evening Laon came home appar¬
ently relieved.
" At last we may escape from this fanatical
c.'ty ! " he said. " The Feast is over, and my
mind at last is at rest about this Galilean. No
calm patience of waiting there, no wise con¬
tentment with probabilities. No second So¬
crates is here. No patient seeker after truth,
refusing to be called wise, declaring himself
only a lover of wisdom, turning his followers
from himself to truth.
" Every day of this feast the festivities have
concentrated around two symbols. Every
morning, before breaking fast, they have
drawn fresh water from the rocky well in the
valley below the Temple, and poured it with
a tumult of joy on the altar ; in memory, some
say, of the thirst of their forefathers having
been quenched by water miraculously smitten
from a rock in the desert.
" Everj' evening there has been music and
J52 riCTOJlY OF THE YANQUiaHBD.
4
I
dancing around the Four Great Lamps in the
Women's Court of the Temple.
" And to-day they say this Galilean cried
aloud in that court of the Temple, ' If any man
thirst, let him come unto Me and drink pr»-
claiming openly that He Himself is able to
satisfy the thirst of every man ; and that He
Himself is the Light of the world. No resem
blance to Socrates there ! "
" It was much to promise ! " said Clœlia.
" For there is much darkness in the world, and
much thirst in the hearts of men. Have they
silenced Him?"
" Silenced Him ! No !" said the old man '
impatiently. " The people are infatuated. The
debates and divisions among them run higher
than ever. At last their rulers sent armed
officers into the Temple to take Him as He
taught. It does not seem that either He or
any one offered any resistance. But the armed -
men stood paralyzed, they say, before Him,
listening—listening like all the rest. I did not
hear that He professed to startle them by any
wonder-working. There is a great rumor of
His miracles. But just then there was noth¬
ing of the kind. Nothing but words. They
say He speaks with authority, and not as their
scribes. The armed men went back to the
magistrates without their prisoner. And all
they could say in their defence was, that
VIGTOBT OF THB'VANQV^mBD. 355
'never man spake like this man.' A fanalical
people ! A people of dangerous enthusiasms !
And fanaticism is infectious," said Laon im¬
patiently. " I will not stay another day in the
place. The feast is over. People can attend
to ordinary affairs again. To-morrow we start
for Tiberias and Antioch."
" Laon ! " Clœlia exclaimed, " let me stay
her'' I would give the world to hear that
voice. I am only a poor impatient woman,
and long for one word—only one word—from
some one who could speak with authority."
But Laon was immovable.
" If there were any truth in this," he said at
last, "they would hear more of it, and she
might come again. And, meantime, nothing
should induce him to expose her to any of
these detestable Oriental superstitions. Had
not the Jews and Egyptians been long since
banished from Rome for the best reasons?
Moreover, this Galilean, it was said, only
taught Jews, only healed Jews. What was
the use of lingering outside the walls of that
Temple, just to hear Jewish rumors of what
was said and done inside ? Perhaps it might
prove true that He intended to go to the
Gentiles to teach the Gentiles. In that case,
she was more likely to hear him at Antioch
than at Jerusalem."
Still she pleaded tc be suffered to stay, till
354 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
at last Laon had recourse to an argumen.
strong from his lips, because he was too
generous to use it without reluctance. He
reminded her of the life he had rescued, of
the long toil he had gone through for her;
and, lastly, how her dying sister had given her
as a last charge to do what she could for him.
Duty, as she interpreted it, prevailed with
the Roman maiden ; and the next day Laon,
Cloelia, and Siguna went northward to
Antioch, hoping in their way to see Hilda and
Callias at Tiberias.
But all the way the feeling grew stronger
and stronger in Diodora's heart that she was
flying from the only voice in the world that
could tell her of her dead, or bring one drop
of living water to her parched heart.
Up and down the rocky hills of Judaea, as
they rode in silence one after another along
the stony paths, by every village fountain,
through every starry night, those words rang
in her heart,—" If any man thirst, let him
come unto Me and drink ; " and " I am the
Light of the world."
" Of the world! " she thought ; " that is moré
than Judaea and Gv-lilee. Perhaps more than
this world, than aJ, the visible world to.
gether."
Memories of healing and of teaching
lingered around many a city and villag'
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISH ED. 355
through which they passed. Not thiough
Judaea and Galilee only, but through Samaria,
sacred footsteps had been before them.
One Samaritan at least was walking with
healthy limbs amongst those hills, who had
knelt there once a suppliant leper ; and once
again a grateful healed man at the feet of the
Healer.
One Samaritan woman, at least, could not
have forgotten the voice of Him who had
known all the sin of her life, and satisfied all
the thirst of her heart.
In one city of Samaria, at least, after two
days of those marvelous words, confirmed, as
far as we know, by no miracle, the Galilean
had been welcomed as "the Christ, the
Saviour," not of the Jews only, " but of the
world."
But Laon would not linger. He hurried on
as if he felt there were enchantment in the air,
and his child might be fascinated away from
him against her will and his.
Around the shores of Galilee they delayed
longer. Laon hoped to have found Callias the
Greek sculptor. He had been there not long
before, and was expected again. So at Ti¬
berias they stayed some days.
And there again the traces of that life could
not be aidden.
356 VIGTOBT OF THE VAN^GISHED.
Not among Rabbis or rulers, or only timong
men, had those years of teaching and healing
penetrated.
Everywhere, in village and city, might be
found traces of His presence.
Women were there who had brought their
babes to Him to be blessed ; little children
*
that had felt His arms folded around them,
and had been conscious of the love, if they
could not comprehend the blessing. In every
village were some who had felt the glow of
healthy life consciously bounding again in
their veins at His touch ; deaf ears opened to
hear the murmuring ripples of that lake, the
stir of busy life on its shores,—^thç tones of
His voice ; blind eyes unsealed to all the exu¬
berant beauty of that fertile land ; one, at least,
that had been recalled from the land that old
world deemed a land of shadows.
In the streets of Tiberias, where they so¬
journed, it was probable His feet had not
trodden. The tyrant who had murdered John
the Baptist was its founder and its prince. It
was a mere copy of Greek cities, with a ser¬
vile Latin name ; the residence of a corrupt
mongrel court, and with such a population
as a hot-bed of foreign civilization would
foster.
Brt every village on the little bays, with its
little pier or beach for fishing-boats, had iti
riOrOBY OP TUE VANQUISHED. 357
rumours of His recent words and deeds, and
of the inexplicable power of his presence.
An affectionate hope awoke in Siguna's
mind. Slow to receive new affections or new
teaching, what she had heard of those years
of healing had gradually sunk down deep into
the steadfast heart of the German mother.
%
Looking at the sorrowful deformed Roman
maiden, visions came to her of the possible
resting of those kind and mighty hands on the
shrunken form, of a transfiguring of the
shrivelled limbs into vigour and beauty, such
as might fit the brave loving heart and quick
intelligence now fettered and disguised within.
Once she spoke of this hope to Laon. The
old man solemnly forbade her ever to dart
breathe such a vain hope to Diodora. But
his own opposition grew fainter after the sug¬
gestion.
To Diodora herself no such hope came for
an instant. She had been too long used to
herself and . to suffering.
But by the waters which His quiet voice
had soothed at once from the storm to the
great calm, by the hill-sides on whose grassy
terraces He had made a feast for many thous¬
ands of men, women, and children, fragments
of those Divine and most human words could
not fail to reach a heart that thirsted for them
as hers did
358 VIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
And of all she heard, one miracle—^that ol
the raising of the young daughter of Jairus—
most possessed her. It was not so much that
He had raised that young damsel from death,
as that, looking on her dead. He had said,
** She is not dead, but sleepeth."
Nothing would have induced her to leave
the shores where those words had been
spoken by the voice which was heard through
that sleep, but the promise from Laon and
Siguna that, when once they had reached
Antioch, they should, if she wished it, return
once more to Galilee, where, except during
the Feast at Jerusalem, His dwelling-place
was said chiefly to be.
In a few weeks they could return. Apart
from the crowds of the great city, on those
beaches and on those hill-sides open to all
alike, shut in by no jealous sacred walls of
Temple or Temple court, there might .be a
hope of a poor desolate Gentile woman like
' herself getting near enough to the outskirts
of the listening crowd to catch some frag¬
ments of those words which seemed so
I
marvelously to disarm those who hated, and
to satisfy the inmost hearts of those who loved.
Three sayings lived and grew in her heart.
" If any man thirst, let him come unto Me and
drink."
" I am the Light of the world"
VIOTOBT OF THE YANqUlSHED. 359
And, dearer to her than all,—
" She is not dead, but sleepeth'
At last a voice which spoke with certainty
M One who knew; with authority, as One
who had a right to teach and to command !
That Voice she had set her heart t o hear,
or die ; or, better still, she thought, to hear
an I die.
CHAPTER XXVIII
1HE national gatherings of the Jews,
when the nation «was dispersed, as
it had been since the conquests of
1 Alexander, secured a rapid circula¬
tion of information most advantageous to
those who enjoved it, in days when posts and
letters were never dreamed of, except as the
peculiar privileges of the wealthy or of those
in office.
Anything likel.y to affect the destinies of
the people vibrated swiftly from the centre to
he remotest point on the circumference.
The Romans knew well how, crossing, and
using the great lines of ftieir roads, and sub¬
tly intertwined in the great visible system of
their Empire with its focus at Rome, was
ever living and working this'Jewish commu¬
nity—active, restless, pliant, indestructible,
with its focus at Jerusalem.
To it Rome was merely one out of many
centres of traffic ; the Empire but an incident
(360)
VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaHED. 361
in the history of the Gentiles. Jerusalem was
the City of God, the centre of the world.
Thence, according to the Roman interpreta¬
tion of the Jewish national Hope, were to
come the " mighty ones who were to be the
Sovereigns of the world."
Yet among the Jews themselves, as we
know, the differences in belief were very wide
United by a common patriotism, their belief
had a latitude wider than could be claimed
for the freest community, whose bond was
entirely spiritual, and not ancestral.
The debated questions of the Synagogue
were the immortality, or the resurrection of ,
man, future retribution in any form, the exist¬
ence of any spiritual creatures besides man,
the authenticity or Divine authority of three-
fourths of the Jewish Scriptures ; questions
Which, it would seem to us, left very little
common ground for those who differed about
them, and very little religion of any kind for
those who held the negative side.
And, besides these differences which con¬
vulsed the Jewish communities in Palestine,
there were the deep, though less obvious, dis¬
similarities between the Hellenists and the
Hebrews, coloring the whole view of life pres¬
ent and future, of the Sacred Books, and of
the Hope of the Messiah.
The Alexandrian and the Galilean beliefs
1Ó
362 VIGT02T OF TEE VANQUISHED
«
as to the promised Deliverer, the Deliverance
He was to effect, the Kingdom He was to es¬
tablish, were probably in some respects furth
er apart than Plato and Moses,
Yet the great national Bond remained, that
great national Hope which turned the gaze
of the people on the future and not only on
the past.
It seems unquestionable that, in the days
of Tiberius Caesar, the whole Jewish nation,
with all its differences of culture, of interest,
and of belief, was restlessly surging and heav¬
ing to and fro with that one passionate expec¬
tation of a Deliverer close at hand, such as
has never stirred that nation, or any other na¬
tion, before or since.
*****
When Laon, Siguna, and Clœlia Diodora
reached Antioch, they found the little group
through which alone they, as Gentiles, had
any insight into the Jewish world, already
full of agitation, in consequence of rumors
that had reached them from Palestine.
4
Here, also, as in every place where that
Name reached, " there was a division among
the people concerning Him."
Onias and Esther had heard, two or three
years before, of one like an ancient prophet,
living separate from common humanity, like
one of the former judges or seers--dwelling
flGTOUr OF THE VANQUISHED. 363
in the wilderness, yet gathering throngs from
tlie cities ; in the garb of the great mysteri¬
ous prophet who had been rapt from earth in
a chariot of fire ; with the lightnings of his
brief burning sermons kindling the consci¬
ences of the wicked and profane to repent¬
ance and reformation, yet reserving his sever¬
est denunciations for the professedly religious ;
scourging the publicans with whips and the
Pharisees with scorpions.
Such a mighty man, Onias thought, might
well be " He who was to come."
When he had purified to himself a band of
followers sufficiently devoted, he might raise
toe standard of Israel on the hills beyond Jor¬
dan, sweep a passage through the river like
Elijah, enter the land like Joshua, while the
Romans, like the Canaanites of old, would
flee before him, or remain to crouch under
his yoke.
For to Onias, as to the Roman courtier of
«
Augustus, the ideal of universal empire was
the enthronement of his own people as van¬
quishers on Olympus, whilst the rest of the
world crouched bound below.
" O Lord, thou madest the world for our
sakes," said the Book of Esdras. " As for the
other people which also come of Adam, thou
hast said that they are nothing, but be like
unto spittle."
364 YIGTOBT OF THE VANqUISHED.
But soon came the bewildering tidings that
the stern denouncer of sin absolutely dis¬
claimed all power and all leadership for him
self ; founded no school ; attempted no gath-.
ering of the nation ; replied to the authorities
sent from Jerusalem formally to investigate
his credentials, by a series of disappointing
negations ; declared he was not the Messiah,
not Elijah, not the Prophet—indeed, well-
nigh disclaimed all personality. Not as a
Prophet, a Rabbi, a Leader, not as a man at
all would he be recognized ; merely as " a
Voice!" "a Voice in the wilderness," smiting
rocks, opening fountains of tears, and then
dying away as a Voice dies, the most charac¬
teristic thing about a man, leaving the might¬
iest effects of any human thing ; but of itself
leaving nothing, not a trace, not an echo, dy¬
ing absolutely, never to be recalled,—by no
subtle chemistry, by no passionate yearning
of affection, ever to be re-awakened from the
air on which it has ceased to vibrate.
A Voice heralding the King.
And then at intervals came rumors of Him
so heralded.
Perplexing rumors again. Perplexing even
(we are told) to the Forerunner himself when,
in the darkness of his prison,^ only rumors
reached him of the oute~ world.
If " Art thou He who should come, or do
4
VIGT0E7 OF THE VAKQUiailEB, 365
vre look for Another ?" was wrung from that
»
faithful heart, what must have been the per¬
plexity of those who looked for a kingdom
that was to come with much " observation/
and a King who would compel Tiberius Cae¬
sar to lick the dust before him,—who might
make a triumphal entry into Jerusalem with
kings holding his bridle reins, and a body-
#
guard of Jews of pure Hebrew blood, whom
he might " make princes in all lands ?"
The King's herald in the dungeons of He¬
rod Antipas, and the King taking no heed :
the loyal herald murdered in the prison, to
gratify the vengeance of a wicked princess,
and still the Mightier than all, whom that
faithful Voice had so loyally proclaimed, not
even threatening vengeance on the mur¬
derer !
Content to declare the sufferer " the great¬
est born of women." Yet steadfastly pro
claiming that the kingdom was no longer
only " at hand," but already among them, that
the least " within it " were greater than this
greatest who had prepared it.
Then came fragments of parables, and of
sermons ; and benedictions on the poor, the
sorrowful, the patient, the persecuted, the
hungering and thirsty of this world ; difficult
elements out of which to found a kingdom
sucn as the Pharisees could conceive worthy
366 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
*
of the descendants of those who had fought
under the Maccabees.
To Esther, and any like her, gentle and be¬
reaved, stricken with that sense of sin which
the old law could plough so terribly deep,
brought up in the hope of a higher Deliverer
fi om a deeper ruin, those words brought some
glimpses of their true meaning. But they
came to her only in broken strains, from out¬
side. And of the inward interpretation to
who cared for them enough to become " dis- .
ciples," nothing had yet reached Antioch.
Gladly would Onias have persuaded him¬
self that the whole was a mere delusion of the
Galilean peasantry.
" Could any good thing come out of Naza¬
reth ? "
" Had any of the rulers believed on Him ? "
" Out of Galilee ariseth no prophet."
The letter of the Sacred Books then, as al¬
ways, could be forged into weapons against
the spirit by those from whom the spirit way
gone.
Esther could at any time be baffled in an
argument, by texts about Bethlehem, and the
j>rincely line of David ; yet, irrefragable as
these textual arguments might seem, Onias
could not overcome the uneasiness which the
%
repeated reports of miracles caused him.
Thousands fed in the wilderness, the sick
I
4
%
riOTORY OF THE VANQUISHED, 367
4
of whole districts healed, even (it was said)
the dead raised; it might be perilous alto¬
gether to disregard signs like these !
Yet these very miracles irritated him as
much as anything.
If such power was possessed, why not use
it to some practical purpose ?
If the towers of Herod Antipas's Golden
House in Tiberias had been levelled like the
walls of Jericho, and from the unroofed dun¬
geons the Baptist had been set free ; if the
Roman eagles at Caesarea had been smitten
with lightning ; or, better stilh the Romap-
legions laid low like Sennacherib's army; if
the Temple at Jerusalem had been illumined
with some great visible glory, or the sacrifie es
consumed with fire from heaven ;—this would,
indeed, have been something to compel atten¬
tion ; this would have been a sign from
heaven. But these quiet, unostentatious little
acts of healing and feeding,—why waste such
power as they seemed to indicate on work so
unimpressive ? At least, if multitudes could
be thus miraculously fed,—instead of feeding
a few thousand hungry Galilean men and wo-
u:en on common bread and fish, why not ha\e
entertained the whole nation gathered at one
of the national festivals at Jerusalem—wifi
something like the fare of a king's table ? Or
at the very least, why not exonerate the fish
I
368 VIGTOBT OF THE YANQXTian&D.
erman, His followers, from the necessity of
pursuing their humble craft, and prepare
them for being chiefs of the new kingdom by
releasing them from servile toil ?
If, indeed, .the sick could be healed, let
them, at all events, be sick people of distinc¬
tion. There was disease in palaces as well as
in poor men's homes. Let some great city
wailing round a dead prince, like Antioch
around the funeral pyre of Germanicus, or
Rome around the urn which bore his ashes,
be startled into joy and rapturous faith by
having its dead given back to it ; not merely
some poor, desolate Syrian home be made
glad for a few years by the restoring of a dead
son to a widowed mother.
But concerning this Esther was altogether
of another mind. She thought this pity foi
the poor and unnoticed Divine ;—Divine !
which was more than kingly ; yet most truly
kingly, because Divine. These works were
like the Scriptures of their people, she said ;
like the angel appearing to show the well to
Hagar the slave; like the widow's cruse at
sarepta, which was always only a cruse, yet
never failed.
To give splendidly to impress the people,
she said, was like the .Herods, or any tyrant.
To give to the needy because of the need,
was like God.
I TCTOn T OF THE VANQ UIEHBD. 369
She longed to go, to look and listen.
Oi. this point, however, Onias was immov¬
able. " The hearts of women were too easily
touched. There was evidently, from all ac¬
counts, an inexplicable power about the pres¬
ence of this Nazarene not rashly to be encoun¬
tered."
" He—Onias—it could no longer bè con¬
cealed was a man of substance. It was, there¬
fore, of some importance to any cause which
side he took with regard to it. Men of in¬
fluence must act with caution. So much sub¬
stance was not to be risked with levity."
" It might be of infinite importance to them¬
selves which side they took !" Esther would
suggest on the other hand. " If he risked
money by taking one side, might they not be
ñsking themselves by taking none ?"
But Onias persisted in waiting for the " sign
from heaven." When such a sign as he could
not question came from such a visible heaven
as he recognized, it would be time to think of
launching such a heavily-freighted vessel as
his. Till then he would keep safe in the harbor.
It was into debates such as these that the
tidings came which Diodora brought from
Jerusalem, increasing considerably the per¬
plexities of Onias, the double-minded, and as
greatly lelieving those of Esther the single-
hearted.
CHAPTER XXIX.
N the Roman maiden the Jewish
mother found, at last, a heart strick¬
en out of this world's hopes, like her
own, thirsting for all her religion
could give; thirsting, like herself, for all it
promised and could not give.
Little Hilda had owed all to Esther. The
deep sense of sin and want which the Jewish
rites and records could awaken, had vibrated
from her heart to the child's. But the vibra¬
tions, though genuine, were faint ; such as
one string awakens in another, rather than as
from two instruments touched by the same
mighty hand. And now in Hilda's home, full
of hope and affection, and of the prattle of
little children, with the heart of her husband
trusting securely in her, the ideal of Hebrew
family life seemed fulfilled. The sense of sin
weighed lightly where the hand of Him who
forgives the penitent, but does not clear the
guilty, seemed to be shown in such manifest
(370)
riCTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 371
tokens of His loving-kindness. And it might
be borne with, that the next life should seem
a little dim, when so wide and bright a space .
lay between.
With Siguna^ Esther well knew, that stead¬
fast hope which never died in her heart of
meeting Olave once more, was dearer to her
than even to Hilda her rich fulfilments of
hope. She did not wish to think of a life
hereafter while she believed one world, one
%
life, still held her husband and herself.
To Siward also, from other causes, the
world looked wide and solid enough. If
Hilda was absorbed in its brightness, Siward
was equally absorbed by its wrongs. To the
great national Jewish Hope of a Deliverer, as
Esther interpreted it, he was always willing
to listen. The rumors from Galilee had
awakened, at intervals, a keen interest in his
mind. Those promises to the poor and the
wronged, those miracles of healing, seemed
to him just what the world wanted. Only he
watched to see whether the benediction and
the healing would extend further than Gali¬
lee ; further than the Jewish nation, further
than the Roman Empire.
What he longed for was not so much for¬
giveness of sin, as redress oí wrongs ; not so .
much " life and immortality brought to light, '
as life made worth livin.'^ here aod now.
372 YWTOBT OF TU a yANQUlSUED.
%
%
With Clœlia Diodora it was different.
To her, as to Esther, the life beyond, or
rather the life within, had become the reality,
and all else the shadow ; too exclusively, no
doubt* a reality apart from all else, instead of
inspiring it.
What her Beloved had lost, she passionately
chose to contemn as no loss. She would not
believe that what was lavished recklessly on
the common crowds of men, or on brutes and
insects—nay, even on men worse than brutes
—and had been torn from that pure and beau¬
tiful being, was worth anything. This world
was a shadow, a chaos ; this flesh a prison, ?
tomb. At least so she said to herself. The
terrible uncertainty was whether, worthless
as it was, it might not yet be all.
For one clear, certain word from that un¬
known shore, she would have dared, she had
dared, all the terrors and pains of the world
visible and invisible.
For this she searched the Jewish Scrip¬
tures; not calmly investigating them as a
magazine of countless treasures, but passion¬
ately ransacking them as only one other heap
of crumbling dust for her unless she could
find this one lost jewel ; but if sue found that,
the casket of the pearl which was worth the
world.
"To teach Greek to your sons," said some
riOTOBY OF THE VANqUISHED. 373
of the severer Oriental rabbis, " was as pro-
fene as to keep swine. The Law should be
studied day and night. Greek should be
studied at that hour when it is neither day
nor night. Greek," they added, " was only
fit for women a mere effeminate decoration,
like the crisping-pins, the glasses, and the
ipangled ornaments.
Nevertheless half the nation probably spoke
Greek more familiarly than Hebrew, and
quoted their own Scriptures in the Alexan¬
drian translation. It happened that in the
house of Onias, among the treasures left in
pledge, were copies of the greater portion of
the Septuagint.
To Cloelia Diodora, of the three prevailing
languages of the empire, Greek, through
Laon, was as familiar as Latin ; whilst to
Esther it was, from childhood, as well-known
as Hebrew or any of the Eastern dialects, her
mother having been of an Alexandrian Hel-
lenistic family.
Laon had solemnly promised Clœlia that,
if her desire continued, some one should take
her back through Galilee to Jerusalem early
that spring, to hear, if possible, that Voice for
herself. Meantime she spent all the time that
could be spared with Esther. Together they
searched those sacred books which have been
seed to the sower and bread to the eater of
374 victory of tee yanquiseee.
countless generations,—^Esther, with the de«
vont reverence of early faith quickened by a
new hope ; Diodora, with the passionate hun¬
ger whose only plea is starvation—but both
, for bread.
Lovely touching stories of human homes—
poetical delight in the beauty and sublimity
of this visible creation—what were these then
to the Roman maiden ? The story of her life
had closed, with its one great love ; the beauty
of this visible world, now that the beautiful
eyes she loved had closed on it, jarred on her
hke an instrument that can only play one tune
when the words have changed from a triumph
to a wail.
Yet, unconsciously, the beauty of the stories
and the lofty poetry of prophecy and psalm
did her good ; unconsciously, as fresh air and
beautiful nature do us good. They set her
heart in the open air. It was something for
her that that passionate search should be car¬
ried on, as it were, by daylight on the moun¬
tain-side, instead of in the dimness of some
chill oracular cavern.
" Tell me where my sister is ? Is she living ?
she is living, how? where?"
And here and there hints of an answer came,
faint and far between, indeed, and broken by
long wails, yet still clearer <^han anything she
had heard before. Less like an echo of hei
riCTOLT OF TEE V.iNqV18HED.
own voice. More like an answer from another
Voice, though distant as •" beyond the limits
of the world," dimly heard as by ears wearied
with long straining to listen, and dimly under¬
stood, as in some strange language, half-for
gotten or half-learnt, and broken by ceaseless
echoes of the old wail from below. Yet,
through all the dimness and confusion ol
voices, more like an answer from another
Yoice.
" Going down," the " darkness," the " sh
lence, the pit, the chasm," whose steep sides
none could climb up to the light, " forgotten
as the dead " life, a dream," the same " tale "
begun and ended to generation after généra¬
tion ; and death, a " withering, a being over¬
whelmed beneath irresistible waves, a being
consumed to ashes, a being crumbled to dust,
a cessation of work and hope, of speech to
one another, and of praise to God." Again
the hopeless old cry of the senses, bitter as in
any of the old utterances.
Yet ever and anon, through the long wail,
came faint echoing murmurs of that mighty
far-off music. They reached her not as some-
»
thing painfully wrought out from the depths
within, but as something quietly listened to
from above,
" Thy dead shall rise."
And in the later prophets,—
376 VICTOET OF THE VANQUimED.
* They that sleep in the dust shall wake."
And in the earlier words, which seenied to
ner to reach further than any,—
"As for me, I will behold Thy face in
righteousness." " I shall be satisfied, when 1
awake, with thy likeness."
" Waking" being "satisfied" with the sight
of the face of God, being satisfied by being
made like Him. If this was what lay beyond
this brief and broken years, this was indeed
an immortality worth waiting for.
She sat one day pressing her fingers on the
precious words: the roll of manuscript lay
stretched across her knees in that little room
in Esther's house where the two women spent
so many hours together. It opened on a small
nner court. The Syrian sun flickered Jhrough
pomegranates and trellised vine-leaves, on the
floor of the alcove where their cushions were
spread. A runlet of cool water was trickling
into a little marble basin, and out of it through
a stone channel.
Still pressing her fingers on those words, as
if on the casket of a jewel, Diodora looked
up. Above the low roof of the house rose
the purple outline of distant hills. In the
light of those words she seemed herself to
awaken as if from a long, terrible dream, and
.Ü see and hear the outside world once more.
^'Esther Esther !" she said. "Are the)
VIGTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 37;
awake now ?—satisfied now ?—seeing that face
now? If they are, I am satisfied. To them
death is no wrong. The pain and loss are
only mine. And that I can hear."
Esther's eyes sank before the earnest ques<
tion in Diodora's.
" I know that they shall rise again, in the
resurrection, at the last day," she said, in a
tremulous voice.
«
" But now ?—now ? " was the passionate re- ,
ply, " If they are robbed of anything like
life for anything like sleep, every hour that
they are asleep, silent, lost in the night,—
every hour that she is asleep, my beautiful,
and good, and tender, and true, the delight ol
every eye that saw her, whilst I—I—am
awake, is a robbery and a wrong to her ; and
it is this I cannot bear."
Esther bowed her head, and tenderly sought
to silence the words of revolt, so terrible to
her, by pressing the lips that uttered them to
her own.
" Child ! child ! to awake even at last, to
wake once and for ever thus, is not that some¬
thing? You forget God!" she added, in a
low voice. " That world, all worlds ; their
life, our life ; they—we—are His. The terri¬
ble thing is not death—not even death!" she
said firmly, in spite of the shudder that quiv¬
ered through the frame of Dlodoia; "but
378 YKSTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
sin. The glorious thing is not so much living
again—^aying on^buTJÍY.mg with God,,being
good like Him ; not waking only, but waking
in His likeness—to see His face."
Clœlia Diodora made no reply. The words
sank deep.
r _
" It is not death that can hide His face '
from us, but sin," Esther resumed, after a
long pause. " Of this I am sure. And to
sleep, even to sleep for ages, with His face
shining on our sleep, as a mother's on a sleep¬
ing babe, would be something."
Clœlia started suddenly, as if she had heard
a voice.
" The maid is not dead, but sleepeth" she mur¬
mured. " Oh, Esther, I have been dreaming.
The Voice that said that, and woke the dead,
is still to be heard by the Galilean lake. Why
are we poring over old books? There is a
Voice to be heard ! a living Voice, such as
these old words were spoken by once ; and
yet, if all is true, not such—not such as was
ever heard on earth before."
" Go," Esther said ; " and would to Heaven
I might be suffered to go with thee !"
But still Laon interposed delay. The very
mention of the wish seemed not now to irri¬
tate, but to pain him.
"Child," be said at last, one evening, "I
have promised If nothing can turn thee fronj
riCTOMT OF THE YANqUISHED,
» F
this superstitious longing, thou shalt go. Biu
I will never go myself with thee I had well
aigh as soon carry thee to the Amphitheatre
to be devoured of the wild beastá. Siguna
may go with thee, and Siward. Since my
voice has lost all power for thee, what service
could I render by accompanying thee ? "
" Come, Laon, dearer, better to me always
than all but one ! " she said, laying his hand
on her head, as she sat at his feet. "Hast
thou no yearning for more certain words?
Come thou thyself, and hear and see."
" I am content to live as I have lived," he
said ; " to die as Socrates died, if I may. I
am too old to hunt the world for new voices."
" Would thy Socrates have been content ?"
she ventured to ask. " Would he not have
' gladly left the cavern and the shadows of the
outside fire, for the sunlight and the reali¬
ties ? " she added, quoting a part of the Re¬
public they had often read together. " O
Laon," she concluded, with an appealing clasp
of her hands, " if they are only words like
any other words, how can they harm thee?
Wilt thou not know them, and guard me, thy
child ? Come and see. Come and take care
of me."
He seemed touched, and a little comforted.
" My poor old arm and my thin old voice .
could do little for thee," he said. " Siguna
• 38o VICTORY OF THE VAFqCttiHED.
shall cherish thee: and Siward has a stout
arm to defend thee, I will stay at home, and
work for you all. And if," he added, after a
pause, " there could be anything in the words
you seek to hear, they will not come weak¬
ened to me, child, through thy voice,"
So at last Laon suffered the preparations for
the journey to Galilee to begin ; and the day
of departure was fixed—z. fortnight thence.
Slowly the final days of expectation passed
for Diodora, The nearer the fulfilment of her
longing drew, the more she felt what it might
be to her. All the more because those words
of Esther had ploughed a deep furrow in her
heart : " It is not the death that hides God's
face from us, but sin." Again and again she
searched those Sacred Books ; not now only
to find out what they said of immortality, but
what they meant by God and by sin. And
with this new object in her search, she felt
like some one wfio has suddenly found the
magic word, the master-key, which opens
door after door in some vast palace, and cas¬
ket after casket in some inexhaustible treasury.
To these words every barrier of those Sacred
Books sprang open ; God, and sin.
This master-key which opened the Scrip¬
tures, opened also one chamber after another
%
in the woirld and in her own life. At last the
siruggles in her heart were named by such
VIC FORT OF THE VANQUISHED, 381
names as could only be given by One who un¬
derstood \ It is not death that hides His face
from us^ but sin J*
She recalled the bitter dread which she had
felt even in the solitude of the Pomaerium—
that even that abyss into which she had sunk
might be but the brink of a deeper possible
abyss: the dread of growing wicked, cruel<
malignant, like a cruel phantom of the night,
in this endless, hopeless night.
She remembered how, after seeing the sor¬
ceress, the feeling had possessed her that there
might be something which could separate her
from her Beloved further even than death ;
how she had felt that nothing which made her
unlike that pure and loving being could bring
K
them nearer ; and she remembered, too, how,
in that choice rather not to know than to do
evil, the first feeling of rest had come on her
since her sorrow.
And now, in the light of those wonderful
old Books, these dim yearnings and struggles
took shape and meaning. What was mystical
in them, what was literal—what was the up¬
ward panting of the Divine breath in man,
made in the Divine Image—what the fresh in¬
breathing of the Divine Spirit into some one
illuminated man—did not perplex her. Every,
where throughout those marvellous pages she
felt the throb of her own heart, its aching and
»
382 riCTORT OF THE VAN^riBnED.
its panting thirst ; (everywhere she felt the
warmth of Another Heart, strong and free,
able to pity, able to satisfy^
The world created,—not organized out of
some eternal substance, probably evil, yet in¬
destructible, but created,—then brooded over,
shaped, delighted in. Created good : not
heaven only, and its pure fires; but earth,
with its living creatures. Once good alto¬
gether, and delighted in.
Man, again, created—not in the image of
any living creature, but of the Creator;
created, not growing out of Nature ; created,
yet formed of dust—linked to the Divine, and
yet to this lowliest dust of the world. Man
and woman created, to help, and love, and
complete each other ; not to rival or to tyran¬
nize over each other.
Man created able to speak to God ; God
speaking to man.
Then the discord.
Man choosing to be as gods, instead of to
be like God, and with God ; and losing God
and the likeness to Him together; choosing
to be the centre of the universe, and by that
choice becoming a mere atom in the midst of
a chaos ; falling and dying inwardly with the
loss of God. Love changing into selfish pas¬
sion ; aspiration into ambition.
Still, God seeking, speaking ; pronouncing
VK!TORT OF THE VANQUISHEB. 383
the sentence, yet promising, recalling; clos¬
ing the spoiled Paradise, yet opening a Tab¬
ernacle in the wilderness, a Temple and Holy
Place among the thorns and thistles. The
chasm between the sinful creature and the
Holy One recognized, guarded ; hollowed
deeper and deeper through the centuries, by
man's sin, by deeper revealings of the Divine
holiness ; yet always, on the other side of that
chasm, infinite pity.
A sacrifice required of man : sacrifice per¬
petual, sacrifice of the very costliest and
dearest ; yet awful irony cast on whole heca¬
tombs of heartless offerings. Only the heart
—only justice, mercy, and walking humbly
with God — demanded. Only the heart
which is, absolutely the whole man.
Conscience after conscience smitten with
agony of repentance, heart after heart touched
with longing affection ; yet through all the
agonies a dim trust in Divine forgiveness—
\ through all the adoring love, dim, half-dumb
moanings of distance and separation^'
And through all the darkness, distance,
separation, always the music of a far-off hope,
growing ever nearer and clearer : the hope of
a Conquerer to be born of that poor, fallen
Eve—of a Son of Abraham, in whom the
world was to be blessed—of a King, a Shep.
herd, a Priest, a Deliverer. A Deliverer from
384 VICTORY OF TUE VANqUISHED.
wrong, from oppression, from sin, from this
chasm which rent the world from God : the
Sent of God—the Son of man.
So the two women—the Roman and the
Jewess—searched, and listened, and longe J,
and wondered, and learned. And all their
listening and learning were living with the
breath of prayer and the pulse of new hope—
the hope of hearing that Voice in Galilee. For
dimly Diodora began to feel that whatever
could bridge that chasm between man and
God—whatever could resolve the discord of
siti—might bridge all. chasms and all separa¬
tions, and bring all discords to music. In
finding one who could forgive and cleanse her
sin, she would find One who could conquer
death. Since not death separates us from
God, but sin, not death, she began to feel, but
only sin, can really separate us from our be¬
loved. The long furrow which through the
centuries the history of the Jewish race had
been ploughing for the seed of the Sower,
the Son of man, was being traced in her
heart.
So that fortnight passed in the earl y sp-ing
at Antioch, until the day came when the Ger¬
man mother and son and the Roman maiden
were to return to Galilee.
t
m
CHAPTER XXX.
♦
HE spring-time had come to those
wooded hills of Antioch, green all
the year round with the glossy
leaves of ilex, bay, and myrtle,
cringing even to the well-watered Paradises
of Epidaphne a new freshness on tree and
grass, and among the grasses a gloriouii
wealth of color in the countless tints of count
less flowers.
Every tree must flower in its own climate,
and at Antioch everything seemed to be in
its own climate. Every fragrant thicket be-
came a home of birds. Everywhere fell soft
cooings of doves, or bubbled up joyous foun¬
tains of song ; all the hill-sides broke into a
flood of blossom and of music ; and every¬
where among that forest of blossom prattled
and played the children, and the little broc^ks
—the children of the mountains.
E^ery da)^ Hilda's fair children found srme
new treasure poured out for them on the lap
17 (38«^
386 VIGTOBT OF THÉ YANQUISBSB.
4 %
of the beautiful new world. The earth B<;em»
%
ed to the children kind and smiling, like theii
Own fair young mother; and they nestled
among the flowers, and hid among the thick¬
ets, and folded themselves in all the joy and
beauty, as in their mother's robe.
And as Callias, the young sculptor, watched
and guarded them, a whole spring-tide of de¬
light and beauty seemed to blossom also with¬
in him ; and an immortality of youth seemed
necessary, if only to shape into perfection the
germs of that world of lovely visions; nay,
more, an immortality seemed promised, seem¬
ed actually infolded in such an undeveloped
inner wealth of art, as the creation is infolded
in the chaos.
To old Laon also the spring brought its
gladness. A pulse of life seemed to throb
even through the glorious old world in which
he lived. The heroes and wise men of old
seemed no more merely the forerunners, but
the fathers of the world. The present seemed
once more not the old age of the past, but its
child. And in this fresh green world, among
these forests and rivers, vigorous and beauti¬
ful as any Homer or Plato had ever seen, it
seemed not so impossible that yoices as true
and sweet might yet be heard, that lives as
high and true and j'oyous as those of old might
yet be lived.
VICTORY OF THÉ VANqUISHED. 387
Only to Onias the spring brought ncrt-hing
new. He indeed dwelt in the under-world,
the caverns of the gnomes and metal-workers,
roofed ir from the sunlight by domes of silver
and gold, and lighted only by the smelting
furnaces where the precious ores are fused.
No breath of spring penetrated there. The
very purpose of the dwellers was to secure
those dwellings from change ; to roof in their
world from God, from His storms, His rust¬
ing rains and winds, from the perilous trans¬
mutations of His light ; unconscious that they
could only secure their world from change by
sealing it against life.
Into this under-world, with its heaps of
treasufe and its vain bolts of carefulness, no
living breath reached from the earth outside,
or from the spring-tide of the Better Hope.
Blossoms had no appreciable value there un¬
less they could be crushed and distilled into
changeless oils of perfume ; nor fruits until
they were dried and preserved beyond pos¬
sibility of decay, or of reproduction.
Spiritual truth, likewise, could only be ad¬
mitted there with the perilous life crushed
out of it, dried into the immutable letter, war¬
ranted to keep for centuries without diminu¬
tion or growth (if sealed from the air and
light).
But to Esther and Clœlia Diodora, and in
388 riOTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
a measure to Si ward, that spring bi ought
anew a hope to which all the wealth of new
life flooding the hills and plains around Anti-
och seemed but as a little sea-side pool left
high among the rocks, witnessing that beyond
is the Great Sea of life, promising that at the
next tide the Great Sea will be sweeping,-
surging, boundless, fathomless there.
In Siward's heart, moreover, there was an
especial high-tide of joy that year. For the
first spring since he was a boy, he was free.
The petty fretting of the daily bondage was
off him ; and before him and his frowned no
longer the terrible possibilities involved in
Roman slavery.
The chain was around him and his no more,
and before him rose no more the shame and
the slow anguish of the Cross.
So, exchanging few words, but full of many
hopes, the German mother and son, and^ the
Roman patrician maiden, went their way
southward from Antioch towards Galilee.
Everywhere, the vineyards on the terraced
slopes, the, corn-fields in the valleys and plains,
the forests on ""he heights, were green with
the new life of spring. In the fragrant forest
glades of Galilee the hoofs of the asses which
the women rode swept through thick beds of
flowers, scarlet and purple and golden.
And as they approached the shores of Tibe-
YIGTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 389
♦
rias, in every viRage street, and among every
band of laborers among which they passed,
the pulse of the new Hope for the world was
throbbing. Multitudes were looking for a
Deliverer from the yoke of Rome ; perhaps
were wondering when He who could feed the
thousands, and break the chain of the demo-
- niac, and calm the raging of the sea, would at
last suffer Himself to be proclaimed King.
In every village were some who had felt the
touch of those healing hands, or heard the
tones of that liberating voice, freeing their
beloved from hopeless disease, and themselves
from sorrow worse than death.
On every hill-side the tones of that Voice
had sounded ; and fragments of the life-giving
words inust have been floating in every home.
To Siward the Hope was for the world.
He looked for' One to redress wrongs. With
«
Siguna the thought that lightened many a
weary mile was, that she might possibly see
those mighty hands laid gently on the bowed
and crippled form beside her, and have the
joy of beholding the Roman maiden, no more
disguised in misshapen flesh, rise strong and
fn a, and seem the good and brave and beau-
ti.' -tl being Siguna felt she was.
To Clœlia Diodora no hope of bodily deliv-
Ci ince had ever come. As her sister had
1« ved her, she was content to be. In this
390 tiotobt of the vanquished.
world or the next no ideal of life had evcf
crossed her mind, save to creep, adoring and
satisfied, close beside her Beloved, her Beau¬
tiful, unnoticed and unknown, serving her,
while she served the world.
And now one ho[)e alone inspired her,—the
hope of finding some tidings of her dead from
One who knew, merging into that deeper
hope of being delivered from that which is
.he death in death—the separation not of body
only, but of spirit—^that terrible inward death
of sin ; the hope, dim indeed and fluctuating,
But real, not only of a Conqueror of Death,
out of a Redeemer from sin.
To each of them, as they pressed southward
along the shingly beaches of the lake, by its
fishing villages, its rocky way-sides, its grassy
slopes, its springing corn-fields, came broken
fragments of speech, flying reports of acts,
such as fed the separate hope of each.
To Siward came rumors of the King, who
never denied that He was the King, yet would
not suffer Himself to be proclaimed ; wonder¬
ing surmises whether even now in Jerusalem
He who had broken the yoke of the demoniac
and stilled the raging of the storm, might not,
at the Feast, at last be suffering Himself to be
recognized for what He was—to be hailed
with bowed knee, crowned and sceptred King
of the Jews, sitting abo^'e the water-floods of
VIÜTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 391
✓
the nations, a King for ever; burning frag¬
ments of the denunciations which had scorch¬
ed the disguises from the avaricious and the
hypocrite, of the blessings on the poor, and
the proclamations of liberty to the captive.
To the German mother came tender histo¬
ries of little children folded to the heart of the
Son of man, blessed by the touch of His hands
and the words from His lips ; of fainting mul¬
titudes fed, of blind eyes opened, and deaf
ears unstopped ; of palsied and crippled limbs
made strong and free.
To the mourner came faint echoes of a bit¬
terer bondage broken, of a deeper hunger sat¬
isfied, and more incurable diseases healed ; of
mightier words, and more glorious wonders,
and fuller benedictions; of the dead raised,
and, greater marvel still, the broken-hearted
healed.
And so, with hearts throbbing with ever
stronger pulsations of that great Hope, they
pressed up the hills from the fertile hollows
of the lake of Galilee, on and on towards the
city where that Voice was said to be teaching
and those Hands were believed to be healing
still ; towards Jerusalem, if haply they might
catch some faint tones of the mighty words,
or but touch the hem of the garment, or gather
up some scattered crumbs of the benedictions
or even catch the gleam of the lightnings of
392 VIOTOBT OF THE VANqUIBHED.
the eyes which saw through all disguises to
the sin,} et pierced to the sin only to consume
it , and save the sinner ; if haply, at last, His
hour being come, they might even echo back
the Hosannas in which His people proclaimed
Him King, content for ever to be hewers of
wood and drawers of water in the kingdom
of Him who came to undo the heavy burdens
and let the oppressed go free.
Until, at last, on one quiet hill-side, the last
before they would have reached Olivet, they
met a little downcast company of Galileans,
and heard that He who they trusted should
have redeemed Israel—who had fed the thou¬
sands, stilled the storm, raised the dead—had
at length been seized by the Sanhedrim, con¬
demned by the Romans, nailed to the shame¬
ful Cross between two notorious criminals,
and there, after six hours of torture, had died.
Unresisting, uncomplaining, and unavenged,
He had died, and had been buried.
CHAPTER XXXI.
LOWLY the three retraced their
steps to Antioch. The beaiity of
the spring was still in all its fresh¬
ness on the green hills and com-
àelds, the orchards, and fragrant gardens of
those smiling Galilean shores, which seemed
to those who looked on them then as " the
Paradise of God."
The little waves of the lake rippled with a
low cool music on the sandy beach, or among
the roots of the oleanders. The sails of the
fishing-boats speckled the blue waters; the
little fleets returhed each to its own rocky
promontory or mimic harbor, to be welcomed,
with their haul of fish, in town or village, by
mothers and children. Along the plain of
Gennesaret the sower went forth to sow, fol¬
lowed along the stony way-side by the hungry
flocks of birds; far up on the slopes of the
higher hills the shepherds might be seen lead-
mg their mingled flocks—the white sheep
17* (Î9J)
394 riGTORY OF THE VANqUISHED.
clustered near them, the nimble black goats
scattered hither and thither among the steep
rocks. In the village streets the carpenter
was busy with his plane, the women sat with¬
in the shade grinding at the mill-stone, or
again mixing the leavén in the bread now
that the Passover was over.
All went on as in any other spring. The
ceaseless Parables were being lived and acted
over and over, as on those three former
springs when the eyes of One not of this
world had read them, and had shown how
what to earthly eyes seemed but pictures or
idle traceries, were indeed hieroglyphics, sa¬
cred signs of a priestly language, never more
to be forgotten or lost to men.
But to some hearts on these shores the life
and the meaning must have passed out of all
the world with those tidings from Jerusalem.
The sick might be laid at the doors to feel
the breath of spring ; but nevermore to the
end of time would they feel the touch which
" healed them all." The death-wail might re¬
sound along the streets ; nevermore to the
end of timé, in cottage or palace, would it be
hushed, and changed into the song of joy. The ,
storms might wear themselves out on the tor¬
mented waters, and on the shattered and sink¬
ing ships ; nevermore to the end of time would
the quiet words of the voice which said, " U
I
VIC FORT OF THE VANQUISHED, 395
is I ; be not afraid, ' calm the trembline hearts
of men, and the very winds themselves.
But to those who loved Him, and had
learned something not only of what He could
do, but of what He was—who had loved Him
enough to know Him, and had known Him
enough to worship Him—what must have the
«
land become where He had taught for three
years, and would never teach again ? What
must the world have seemed, where it was
possible for Him to be sentenced as a male¬
factor, and executed as the basest criminal or
slave ? ,
* * ' * * *
To Si ward all the darkest fears of his old
Northern traditional beliefs came back. The
whole world seemed indeed to have become
the dominion of the evil powers. The pow¬
ers of life and light (which always, as he had
thought in childhood, held a warfare of fear¬
ful peril and uncertainty with the powers of
death and darkness, and had more than once
been vanquished—and vanquished in the best
and most beloved—by blind force or cruel
stratagem) were most surely vanquished now.
The terrible tidings did not exactly sur¬
prise him. It was like so much that he had
feared, indeed, or had seen. It was only the
returning in the darker shape of the fear and
doubt" that had hung over all his life ; only
396 riGTOHF OF THE VANQUJaHED.
the quenching of the brightest hope he had
ever ventured to receive, as other hopes had
been quenched before.
It was no new thing for nations not to rec¬
ognize or to reject those who would have
saved them. The Germans had murdered
Herman. The Greeks, Laon said, had poi¬
soned Socrates. The Romans had suffered
Germanicus to be slowly poisoned, and went
on worshiping Tiberius, who was believed to
have been the instigator of the murder.
It was no new thing for the purest to suffer
and for the best to die. Only, in such a world,
for such a race, what place was there for hope ?
What a delusion all his visions of the libera¬
tion of his people had been ! What chance
was there of his doing anything, when power
and wisdom and goodness that seemed more
than human had failed ? What certainty was
there that, if he or any succeeded in winning
freedom for the Germans, freedom would for
them be anything better than freedom to as¬
sassinate some other Herman, and to worship
some other Tiberius ; to live, as Laon had
said, more utterly like the beasts of the forest,
with nothing to inspire them but blind hun¬
ger, and nothing to restrain them but blind
terror and brute force ^
He spoke little ; he was as watchful a gu.'ii'-
dian as ever over his mother and Diodora
nCTOBT OF TUE VANQVISHED.
but all the light had gone from his face Hope
for humanity had died for him in that death.
Everywhere, as he saw, not as of old only
before himself, the captive and the slave, but
before all the bravest and best, as the goal of
the highest aims of all men, as the best reward
the nation had for the patriot, the race for its
benefactors—«black against the mid-day sky,
the Cross.
Henceforth there was nothing but to en¬
dure ;—to endure, because it was better to
suffer than to be cruel ; to endure, because
there was no hope of cure ; to endure, be¬
cause there was no limit to the amount of en¬
durance that might be required : to trample
out any fond spark of hope, to refuse any soft
attraction of pleasure, to despise honor, to
cling as slightly as possible to any clasp of
affection,—lest any of these things should if
possible still further embitter the cup of an¬
guish and shame and utter abandonment,
when the hands used in the service of men
were stretched helpless on the slave's last
rack of torture, and there was no hiding of
the quivering face from the mockery of satis¬
fied malignity, or the cold criticism of disap¬
pointed expectation.
Since the Cross was the reward of the
world's benefactors, the only refuge for men
398 VICTORY OF THE VANqUISEED
who w :)uld not be wicked was stoicism, with,
out relaxation and without hope, here or here¬
after ; without hope for men or for man, or in
God. For what, after all, could the Deity do
more than endure, with a longer patience,
evil as inevitable to God as to man ?
With Siguna the hope had been more limi¬
ted, and the grief was simpler. For the poor
crippled maiden there could now be no de¬
liverance. She must bear her burden to the
end. Her disappointment showed itself chiefly
in a tenderer care for Diodora. Since hope
was slain, she must as far as might be make
it up by love.
But, to her amazement, Diodora scarcely
seemed to grieve. She who had longed most
and hoped most for but one tone of that
Voice, now that it was silent for ever, scarcely '
seemed cast down.
Tears indeed were often falling on her face,
when Siguna glanced at her ; unusual tears,
with her whose sorrow had been too irreme¬
diable to find much relief in weeping ; whose
tears, when they came, had come in a passion¬
ate storm of indignation against the wrong
done her sister,—or in a few bitter drops, like
drops of blood wrung from her heart.
But now her tears fell softly ;—^and mean- •
time on the poor worn face there was a look
VlOtOB T OF THE VANQ UI8HED. 395
pf tender content, at times glowing into joy,
and even into triumph.
For a long time she said nothing, and the
German mother did not dare to question. At
length one evening, as the two women sat
resting on a quiet beach by the lake of Gali¬
lee, and the little waves were rippling at theii
feet, and -the stars were shining in the clear
sky with the boundless depths of night and
the countless perspective of stars behind them,
and shining again in the still waters, quietly
she took Siguna's hand and laid it on her
cheek.
" I am content !" she said. " Content, since
He belongs no more to this visible world, but
to that, to them, to the heavens. It can be
no loss, no wrong to die, since He has died j
has die 1 r.nd has been buried."
CHAPTER XXXII.
N the lit lie company at Antioch the
tidings brought by the three way¬
farers ftom Palestine fell with very
different effect.
Hilda, the happy wife and mother, wept
öitterly when she heard it. All her tender,
joyous heart was moved, as at the saddest
history she had ever been told. Yet it fell
outside, her own little space of life and sun¬
shine. It made the outside world indeed
seem colder and darker than ever, and lent a
passionate force to the clinging to her hus¬
band and children, showing in what a peril¬
ous and ungrateful world her sweet garden
of home was set. She parted from Callias
with more tremulous anxiety, and welcomed
him back with a more tumultuous gladness—
as if any return from a world so meiciless
were like a rescue. She wrapped her children
4
closer and warmer than ever in her lov® from
the tçrrible cold and darkness around
(400)
yiCTOBT OF TSE VANQUiaSED. 401
TO Callias it gave but a deeper shattering
t,o the chaos of uncertainty in which all things,
seen and unseen, national, moral and spiritual,
seemed to him for ever fluctuating ; all things
save that little island of purity and aflcction
which Hilda kept for him in his home.
Siguna grieved, indeed, and lamented over
this fearful crime and wrong. But the world
was full of crime, and woe, and wrong. That
very year Agrippina, the wife of Germanicus,
worn out at last by exile and persecution, and
by the wrongs of her sons, had refused to take
food,, and had died of starvation at Pandataria.
Tiberius, amidst the luxuriant beauty of his
twelve villas at Capreae, was congratulating
himself that she had saved him the inconveni¬
ence of another murder by starving herself to
death. And still the paradises of Capreae
bloomed on unsmitten by any audible curse.
In Laon, on the other hand, for the first
time a real interest was enkindled in the In¬
nocent Sufferer. Whilst the reports of the
wise and holy words had continued to echo
to them from Galilee, he had occupied 'him-
self in showing that they were not altogether
new, or not altogether true. But now he ac¬
knowledged that there was something admir¬
able in the life, and that the death crowned it.
It was another martyrdom for truth. The
JewS; like the Athenians, had rejected their
402 VIGTOBT OF TEE VANQUISEED.
best aad wisest. It was but natural. Socrates
and Plato had as it were foreseen it. The
Jews, deeming their Just One.unjust, had suf-
' fered Him to be " tortured, fettered, and even
crucified." •
And thenceforth he listened to such frag¬
ments as reached him of the gracious words
without endeavoring to prove that they were
valueless, or that so ne one else had said just
the same before.
To Onias the tidings brought some pain, yet
more relief.
At length the Sanhedrim and the Romans
—and therefore, it was to be supposed. Provi¬
dence, the Unnameable—had settled the doubt
which had perplexed him. He confessed he
should scarcely have seen his way to such a
sentence. But herein lay the comfort of hav¬
ing scribes to interpret and governors to de¬
cide for you. The responsibility fell on them
He was thankful he had not been in Jerusa
lem, or even in Galilee, at the time. Many of
the signs and wonders had seemed over¬
whelming. The teaching (with the exception,
perhaps, of the vehement denunciations of the
scribes and Pharisees) had seemed worthy of
the prophets. And, he confessed, many of the
ancient prophecies had seemed to be strangely
M
fulfilled ; which was. of course, only another
proof of the peril of unlearned interpretations
VIOTOBT OF THE VANqVlSEED. 403
-f piophecy. The scribes and Pharisees had
I vidently understood the question from the
t-eginning, as was to be expected of scribes
and Pharisees. And the Romans had finaliv
and for ever, however roughly, ended the c m-
troversy. He wondered a little that the San¬
hedrim had consented to concede so much to
the Roman governor. The doom of a Roman
slave was scarcely one which should have
been suffered to fall on any freeborn Jew.
But no doubt the rulers estimated the peril
better thân he could. The whole nation,
they probably saw, was in danger of being
led astray. No doubt the Sanhedrim had act¬
ed for the best. If it had been of God, it was
plain it could never have come to such an end.
Failure was the best cure for delusion. And
a delusion so popular, perhaps, required a re¬
futation such as all the people could not fail
to understand. Nevertheless, he confessed,
he did feel thankful that Providence had cast
his lot at Antioch, and not at Jerusalem, dur-
ing the trial. It was a comfort not to have
had to decide.
On Esther and on Siward the gloom fell
deepest. To Siward it was an extinction of
hope in man and God.
To Esther it was an extinction oi hope for
_ •
Israel. If not the Messiah, she felt sure that
He who had thus suffered at Jerusalem was
m
404 VICTORY OF THE VANQtJISHED. "
one who had loved Israel, had loved God, and
had loved men as none had ever done before.
Before the Romans no accusation could be
brought against Him, but that He had said
He was King of the Jews. Before the San¬
hedrim no fault could be alleged, but that He
said, I am the Son of God.
If neither of these were true—^the royal
claims, or the divine—^yet the wonders of
healing were true ; the years of patient min¬
istering to every want of the needy, of holy
teaching which none could gainsay. No king
of Israel would ever come endowed with
more wisdom, and power, and patriotism.
No son of man could ever come again—if all
she heard was true—with more likeness to
God, " long-suffering, full of compassion, for¬
giving sin, yet by no means clearing the
guilty." If, on the other hand, bot! of these
assertions for which they had put him to
death were true, what would be the fate o*
Israel then ?
All her woman's heart and all her Hebrew
patriotism were stirred to the depths.
In an agony of pity she would moan and
sob for hours. Among the thousands those
hands had touched, healing and blessing
were there none to succour or to save ?
And then the pity would be frozen back by
a horror of apprehension.
VIGTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 405
«
What if, as of old, her people had rejected
their prophets ; if, as they had scornfully re¬
fused Moses, and thrown Jeremiah into the
dungeon; if, as when the Table of the Law
was being written by the finger of God on the
Mount, under the very echo of the thunder
and the shadow of the cloud that hid the
lightnings, they had danced round the calf;
if, as when the beautiful Temple was illumin¬
ed by the Divine glory, and the sacrifices con¬
sumed by the heavenly fires on the opposite
height of Olivet, they had worshiped the
images of base and cruel idols ;—what if, as
they had resisted God so long, now at last
they had rejected the Best and the Last, and,
in very sight of the redemption of the Re¬
deemer, had turned aside to the bondage ai
once of their own sins and of the Roman
yoke!
Day and night the vision of that great
crime haunted her as if on her hands also the
inefiaceable blood-stain rested. She made no
outward show of woe. Of what avail were
sackcloth and ashes ?
If Israel had delivered her Deliverer to
Roman mockery and torture, what could re¬
main but a fearful vengeance; another Red
Sea, with no pillar of fire, and no Diviqe Hand
to cleave a path through its overwhelming
waves—^another Sinai, with no supplicating
4o6 VIOTOBT of. the YANqmaHED._
Moses to intercede and shield from its just
lightnings.
But from Clœlia Diodora the solemn peace
that had come, as they journeyed through
Galilee, did not oass away.
She was on tne side, not of the Jews or
of the Romans, but of the Sufferer, of the
Dead.
This world had slain its Best. Israel had
rejected her King. Was it so wonderful, or
so unendurable ?
So much as this poor, blind, visible world
had lost, so much the Hades, the unseen had
secured.
Thither had passed all that wisdom and
power and goodness.
To be as He was, could be no wrong to her
beloved. To be where He was must be joy
and how unutterable ! If her beloved could
indeed hear that Voice and see that Face she
would glady have died to hear and see, she
was content. One day she would also die ;
she also would hear and see. Meantime she
could wait, content, if only the waiting and
the dimness were for her and not for her be¬
loved—content if the loss and wrong were,
only hers—content indeed with the brief
waiting and the being satisfied for ever.
Content !—nay, in a rapture of expectation,
even now and always, if only she could be
VIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED. 407
certain, as He they had crucified had been
certain, of the goodness of God.
The probability on which Socrates had
been content to launch forth into the un-
. known, had seemed to her, of old, strong
enough to die on.
The hope that life so yielded up inspired,
seemed strong enough to trust her beloved
to, which was infinitely more.
One or two rumors of that day on Calvary,
brief and broken, floated to her, which made
her hope all but a certainty.
There was a report of a strange darkness at
noon, and of an earthquake, and a convulsion
of the rocks. This might very probably have
Ijeen, she thought, but this was not what
moved her. To her it mattered little.
The sun which could light the murderers
to such a deed, and. the earth which coma
suffer such a burden to be laid on her as that
Cross, might well bear anything. He had
passed beyond their apathy, or their sym¬
pathy.
But two reported sayings rested on her heart.
It was said that a Boman centurion who
had seen Him die, had broken through his
Roman apathy and his soldierly silence, and
nad exclaimed that He was the Son of God.
Such majesty, such divinity had shone
through that shame and torture !
4o8 VIOTOBT OF THE VANQUISHEH.
And it ivas said that the last words He had
uttered on that rack of anguish were no com¬
plaint, no menace, no cry of agonized entreaty,
but calm and clear,—
"Father, into Thy hands I commend My
spirit."
If this were true, then all she hoped and
longed for was true. And it must be true.
For who, in all the world, among the Romans,
had ever heard such dying words? Would
His enemies among the Jews have invented
them ? Or, if His friends had dared imagine
words to put into His dying lips, would they
have abstained from one tone of menace on '
the murderers—one hint of majesty to be
«
avenged ?
Those words were true. She was sure of
this. Then, if they were true, all the best she
cared to hope for was true ; better than all she
had dared to desire was true.
To die is to go home.
When, as Plato thought, the spirit is liberat¬
ed by death from its prison—when, as the Jew¬
ish Catacombs pictured, as an uncaged dove
it soars forth into the free air—it soars not be¬
wildered into the infinite heavens. Hands
receive it, strong and gentle. The hands of
the Father.
The unseen world is the kingdom, the world
of God. God is the Father.
VICTOBT OF THE VANqmSBED. 40Ç
Let this world then be what it may. It
matters not. Let this whole life be a slumber,
a dream, or a weary waiting, the whole world
a shadow. There the spirits of the just are at
home ; now, at once, for ever ; at home with
the Father. There they are living now, not
waiting to be revivified, but living; awake
now, not fettered in slumbers, however calm ;
not waiting to be awakened after a silence
and blank of centuries,. but awake as those
whom infinite love has welcomed to infinite
joy-
Living, awake, at home, satisfied, like God,
like what they were made to be ; seeing the
face of God, and finding it the face of the
Father.
/
CHAPTER XXXIII.
H E spring passed, and summer can: e
to Epidaphne.
The streams which had prattled
1 like joyous children among the frag¬
rant flowery thickets, now plashed and bub¬
bled in the depths of dark foliage with a music
which bathed the very heart in delicious cool
ness. Some blossoms had ripened into fruit,
the green of many corn-fields had mellowea
into gold.
The wild revelries in the groves of Epi- ,
daphne over the sun-god restored to life, were
passing on to the day of wild lamentings ove:
the sun-god slain.
The Jewish Festival of Rescue from the
Land of Bondage, with its symbols of the bit'
ter herbs and the spotless lamb slain, was over
in Jerusalem. It had. been replaced by the
Festival of the First-fruits; the first golden
sheaves, the first loaves of the new harvest,
waved before the Holy of Holies.
Dotibtless the veil rent from top to bottom
(410)
VICTORY OF THE VANqUmiED. 411
early in that spring had been repaired, and
the darkness and the void were unbroken in
the inner sanctuary, before which the venera¬
ble rites of so many centuries continued to
be celebrated.
Some reason which he would not acknowl¬
edge to any one, perhaps not to himself, kept
Onias from attempting to go up to Jerusalem
that year to keep any of the feasts.
To Esther the pilgrimage would have seem¬
ed as a pilgrimage to the mount that burned
with fire. One thing only she would have
cared to visit there. One tomb.
Yet even this, rumors began to say, would
be found empty. Vague reports reached them
at Antioch of the disciple.s of the Crucified
having stolen the body of Him they loved so
dearly ; waking, as timid but affectionate
hearts too often do. to a desperate courage
when courage was too late to save.
To one of those rumors was added a strange
addition by way of explanation.
His disciples had stolen Him away while
the Roman guard set to watch the sepulchre
had slept ; the guard set to watch because Ht
had said He would rise again from the dead.
For the first time-since the fatal tidings had
reached her, and the first anguish had spent
itself, Esther seemed to awake from the stony
torpor into which she had fallen.
412 riCTOBT OF TBE VABqülSUED.
There had, then, been a promise of a Resur.
rection. There had been a fear of it among
His enemies. So strong a fear, that they had
asked for a Roman guard to watch the tomb.
The people who had risen in insurrection, a
few years before, at the introduction of any
Roman soldiers into Jerusalem, had been pos¬
sessed with such a desperate fear that the
promise of their murdered victim might
prove true, that they had waived all Jewish
rights and Jewish prejudices, and entreated
the Governor for a guard—the very Governor
from whom they had wrung the concession
not to introduce his troops and their standards
into Jerusalem.
The guard so dearly purchased had not sue
ceeded in its purpose.
Roman soldiers had slepf at their post, had
committed an unpardonable ofiFence against.
Roman discipline, and had suffered this crime
of theirs to be spoken of openly.
In spite of the Roman guard, a few disap¬
pointed and broken-hearted Galileans had
rescued from the tomb the dishonored form
no dishonor could make less dear to them.
*
F rom a tomb close to the walls of the city.
What could this mean ?.
The words of the SufiFerer had indeed been
mighty, since His unavenged death could
leave them still so strong.
VICTORY OF TUE VANQUISHED.
Could there be, after all—could there pos-
bi »ly be even yet—a hope ? another side to
this perplexed rtmor.? another page in this
most mournful history ? a hope for those who
love Him yet?
Once more, with that faint glimmer of a
hope, tears came to the Jewess, and prayers,
and a venturing once more, though with
trembling hands, to open the sacred Scrip¬
tures of her people, which for weeks had been
to her as Sinai, as the mount which must not
be touched, from which at any time might
burst forth the slumbering thunders and the
lightnings of most just menace, scorching her
heart.
Once more, in the little inner chamber open¬
ing on the garden, the two women, Diodora
and Esther, sat together searching the ancient
books. But this time it was Esther who was
longing with trembling passionate longing for
some clear message. On Diodora had dawn¬
ed the hope and the calm.
And as they looked and listened a new
world seemed to arise before the Jewess,
which she had not seen there before. New
forms seemed to start up out of the old pages ;
dim and shadowy indeed, and dissolving into
something e-se, or into darkness, just when
they seemed becoming clearest. Or rather,
indeed, it seemed One Form, most majestic
414 VIOTOBT OF THE VANQUISUED.
and most sorrowful, claiming for Himself a
supremacy in sorrow ; honored with an honor
above that due to man, yet trampled under
foot, a worm and no man; beloved above all
by God, yet feeling forsaken by God ; bruised
by the enemy, yet destroying him ; vanquish¬
ed, yet victorious ; always a Promise shining
through every promise, a Hope strong beyond
every fulfilled hope, a Seed of Abraham still
.onged for after Isaac was born, a Lawgiver
anticipated by the great Lawgiver himself,
the Conqueror of a Rest Joshua never gave.
Shepherd to the flocks of God such as David
could not be. King with a majesty and an
universal dominion such as Solomon never
reached. And yet through all the notes of
triumph Esther began to hear tones of anguish
anutterable, of sorrow which no sorrow could
equal, as superhuman as the majesty ; of woe
which was no accident but an essential attri¬
bute,—woe borne willingly, yet crushing the
suflerer to the dust; an agony intertwined
with all the victory, as if essential to the vic¬
tory and the redemption it wrought. Such a
stiange blending and conflict of power and
weakness, of majesty and mockery,'of suffer¬
ing and triumph, that it is said some old inter-
preters had thought there must be two Mes¬
siahs, one to suffer and one to reign. Could
it be possible that all these dim and broken
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 41 j
foreshadowings met in Him who had raised
the dead in Galilee, and died unresisting at
Jerusalem ?
Then vain indeed would be the Jewish
stratagem and the Gentile guard. No power
on earth or in hell could baffle His resurrec¬
tion.
But if indeed He rose, with what terror on
the patient brows, with what lightnings around
the despised and tortured form !
The pillar of fire whence of old the God of
Israel troubled Pharaoh and his host, as they
struggled drowning in the returning waters,
would be but a child's terror to the sight of
the Face they had mocked, drooping on the
cross—^the Face of the betrayed King, who
might have been their King, and was now the
King of the world, and their Judge.
And He, it seemed, had said He would rise
again ! His disciples believed it ; his enemies
feared it.
And something had happened, which his mur¬
derers explained by saying a guard of Roncan
soldiers had slept at their post.
* * * *
Meanwhile, as Diodora read, once again the
iron entered her soul, ploughing the old fur¬
row. Once more the two pervading presences
of those ancient Books took their absorbing
place in her heart. Once more the thought
4i6 victory of the vanquished.
«
of God—holy, infinite, immutable—rose be.
fore her in all its majesty ; and the thought o!
sin sank before her in all its depth of degra.
dation.
If, as she felt, the life and death of that
beneficent and patient Sufferer made immor¬
tality for Him a certainty,'—^if the chasm
between man and God in Him ceased to be,—
was there not still an impassable gulf between
Him and other men? If, as it seemed. He .
Himself were without sin, and therefore with¬
out separation from God, did not that very
sinlessness separate Him as far almost as God
Himself from sinful men ? If immortality had
become more than a probability through His
being suffered to die, what was to ensure im¬
mortality being a going home to God for any
but Him ?
The race which included Him and His
murderers must surely include two very con¬
trary destinies. The same Father's house,
the same divine Patria, could scarcely include
Him and Tiberius Caesar, or the endless grades
of character between Him and Tiberius Caesar
Where did the chasm between him and othei
men begin? Where the reconciliation be
tween man and his God ?
If the question of immortality seemed solved
in Him, what of the questions below and be
yond it?—what of sin and forgiveness? If
t
VIOTOBT OF THE YANqUiaHED. 417
the link between Him and God was not to be
broken, where was the link between Him and
man?
«
So once more the old Book plo'^ghcd its
problems into the hearts of those n ho
it; and still the solution had not fni'y come.
è
CHAPTER XXXIV.
T last the tidings came to Antioch
that something altogether new was
indeed happening at Jerusalem ; per¬
plexing beyond all perplexities, un¬
less it was to be a solution of perplexities
dissolving the old order into chaos, the most
chaotic element in the old chaos—unless, in¬
deed, the beginning of a new order.
It was said that the little band of disciples,
chiefly Galileans, who had followed the Naza-
rene, instead of being scattered by His death,
had been gathered into a body, compact and
firm, as it had never been before deprived of
its Head.
A knot of timid. peasants and fishermen,
slow to leam, and possessed with ideas of His
destiny totally different from that of their
Master, seemed suddenly to have become—
together, a living community, united by in¬
dissoluble bonds ; and separately, each one a
living power, endowed with something of the
(418)
VWTOBT OF THE YANqUISHED. 41g
character and aims of the Master they had
lost.
The characteristics of His teaching had been
that He made Himself the substance of it ;
that, unlike all the ancient true lovers of wis¬
dom, He had persistently turned the thoughts
of His disciples from His doctrine to Himself.
*
And now He Himself had vanished from the
world,—to all appearance defeated, dishonor¬
ed, dead ; and His doctrine was spreading as
in His life it had never spread.—pricking the
consciences of men and enkindling their
hearts by thousands.
The characteristic of His disciples had been
a devoted personal attachment to Himself—a
clinging, reverent affection—2l hanging on
His words—^a watchful responsiveness to His
very looks. And now that the Object of a
love so adoring and dependent had been
taken from them for ever by a death so f ull of
failure, and pain, and shame, instead of their
life becoming one long mourning for their
lost Lord, they were said to be living in a
glow of gladness that could not be concealed
—meeting continually in the Temple, singing
praises to God, and, by their very certainty
and joy, winning multitudes to believe as
they did.
The explanation : many believed He had
risen from the dead. They were sure of it
4'o VIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHED.
1 hey had seen Him again and again in the
early gray of morning, at noon, at evening;
outside the sepulchre, with the useless grave-
clothes folded inside ; in an upper room of
the. Temple itself; on the slopes of Olivet;
on the familiar beaches of the lake of Galilee.
He had spoken to them by name, and to
two especially, the Magdalene and Peter—^the
faithful love that yearned for recognition, and
the unfaithful love that might have dreaded
it.
He had eaten with them. He had been the
guest of two of them at supper, and had bro¬
ken bread in the way so familiar to them.
He had made them His guests on the sea¬
shore in Galilee, waiting for them after the
weary night of unsuccessful fishing, with the
. little fire of coals, and the simple fishermen's
fere on it ; no ambrosia or nectar, but broiled
fish and bread.
No mere midnight apparition, no vision, no
mysterious voice : " It is I Myself."
They had seen Him, seen the prints in
\
hands or side ; touched Him, listened to Him.
He had quietly explained to them the things -
concerning Himself in the ancient Scriptures .
Again and again they had seen Him, only
with one difference. He was ño longer a
denizen of this lower world.
And at last they had seen Him ascend al
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 421
Bethany, near the old famil ar home of the
orother and sister He loved.
Quietly, naturally, as a matter of course,
ascending from this unworthy world that had
so dishonored Him in no magnificent burst
storms ; taken up to heaven in no imperial
cnariot of fire, no legions of angels visibly
bearing Him aloft—not even the few who
sang to the shepherds when He was born;
. only soaring through the air as easily as He
had trodden the sea, hidden from their strain¬
ing eyes by a simple, ordiuitry cloud. The
Master, as He rose, lifting up His hands, and
blessing them, as He had blessed their simple
food so often before. Lord of sea, and air,
and earth, and heaven, and man. Soaring to
his ' .irone on the right hand of God.
They went back as He had told them, as
two of his angels came to remind them. They
went back to Jerusalem.
Not in gazing after Him into heaven, not
even in living on the memory of His life, were
their lives to be spent.
By no slowly-decaying impulse of a Found¬
er was His kingdom launched ; but by the
inspiration of a perpetual 'Presence, and a
perpetually renewed life.
They waited in Jerusalem, still the little
flock of faithful men and women, until some
power came upon them which divested them
422 YIGTORT OF THE TANQUIEBED.
of all fear, and endowed-them with an elo¬
quence which in one day raised their num bers
from the hundred and twenty He left, to three
thousand.
The Christ had vanished from sight into
heaven. But the Church had come into be¬
ing, and for a time at least shone manife<!tly, a
light an i a joy to all around.
CHAPTER XXXV
HE Church had been born into the
world. But as yet she knew not
herself ; knew not her strength, nor
her nature, the glory of her destiny,
or the bitterness of the cup she would have
to drink; knew only the glory of her Lord,
and the bitter cup He had drunk for her.
What every fresh child's life is in the homes
it brightens, for a brief time the Church was
in this worn old world.
The gladness and singleness of heart, the
* «
crown and glory of childhood were on her,
and she, like her Lord in His childhood at
Nazareth, for a time had favor with all the
people.
A serene childhood, touching and winning
the hearts of men in that weary, faded Old
world.
It was into no legendary life of innocence
and faith that the glory of that fresh life
came.
C4»3)
424 VIÜTORT OF THE VANQUIBHBD.
The age of Tiberius Caesar, of the Rheton-
cians, of the Contractors, of the Gladiatorial
Games, was no spring-time of the world.
The Church had begun to live at Jerusa
lem. But as yet she had little sense of her
universal dominion. To herself, in great part,
as well as to those outside, she seemed still a
sect of the Jews. She was not yet christened.
Not at Jerusalem did she find her truo name.
The first joy was enough for those first
days.
The Lord was risen indeed, and had shed
forth that marvellous power, anointing one
after another out of the palaces of His glad-
less with the oil of joy, as kings. That the
anointing of the kings was also that of the
wrestlers, did not as yet appear.
He was risen. He was living. He was
forgiving. In heaven, at God's right hand ;
on earth at their right hand, every day to the
end of the world.
It would be some time before more truth
could be learned, or more joy contained in
human hearts, than this.
Moreover, beyond all this joy of the past
thus brought to their remembrance, of His
presence with them assured to their hearts,
rose the joy of the future which would crown
all.
He was ooming again.
riGTORT OF TUE VANQUISHED. 425
For a little while the heavens had received
Him. For a little while they were here to
turn the hearts of men to Him. Diligent and
joyful must they be for that little while,
touching the treasures of earth very lightly,
and very little disturbed by its storms.
But as yet the Church remained at Jerusa¬
lem. Elsewhere, there were on/y a few Jews
whose hearts might be stiried with wonder
at the things happening ac Jerusalem ; and a
few Gentile proseJ} tc.«, who might faintly
catch the echo, and carry it on.
On the heathen world, as yet, no sign that
the Light had indeed dawned for them.
In the Jewish synagogues, no suspicion that
any Gentile would ever approach God, except
by becoming, as far as possible, a Jew.
******
A great stir and movement agitated the
hearts of the little company at Antioch, as in
broken fragments the rumors of these things
reached them.
Confused murmurs floated hither and thith¬
er o^ miracles of healing, of rapturous speech
in many tongues, of a pouring of separate
possessions into a common store, all barriers
of selfishness swept over by a flood of joy and
loyalty.
But abo- e dl rose distinct the great fact
42ü vigtout of the vanquished.
that this community was founded on the Jîe»
urrection.
" It was a strange age," old Laon said, " for
such mystical enthusiasm and child-like over¬
flowings of generosity. A hard, prosaic, un- "
believing age. While this golden age of in¬
nocence and sunshine, this ideal, Platonic
republic—or whatever you liked to term it—
was rising into life at Jerusalem, at Caprese
the aged Emperor was'^ vainly trying to ex¬
tract one drop of new pleasure out of this dry,
withered world ; at Pandataria, the dead prin¬
cess Agrippina had at last reached her long-
desired repose, through the agonies of volun¬
tary starvation. At Rome, the god Caesar
and the Mint-goddess were being diligently
served ; new men were devising ways to
build new fortunes, and old families were
struggling to restore lost fortunes by con¬
tracting for the taxation of the provinces.
Rhetoricians were teaching the young Ro¬
mans how to use words which had once
grown, living, around liv'ng thought and
feeling, to conceal the absence of thought and
feeling. The strongest agents of Government
were the Informers ; the mass of the citizens
were regarding their political rights as mere
com to purchase personal advantages with.
Faith in the gods and in men, in the family
in the country, in virtue, and in trulh," hfl
riCTOBT OF THE rAN(¿[ri8HED.
said, "had vanished. With faith in each
other, faith in themselves had died in the
hearts of men, and nothing remained but a
blind love of se-f."
The Em Deror and the Romans were living
in perpetual terror of each other: Tiberius
afraid to enter Rome, and the Romans crouch¬
ing in bewildered terror before the Informers
—the lives of both so embittered and cramped
by mutual fear, that they fluctuated between
cruelty and vice, as the only pleasures left.
While the morning songs of thanksgiving
and the joy of forgiveness were pouring from
the lips of the Christians at Jerusalem, at Ca-
preae this terrible cry of despair was wrung
from the heart of Tiberius,—" What I shall
write to you. Conscript Fathers, or what not
write, the gods and goddesses make me per¬
ish with a worse destruction than that by which
I am perishing every day, if I know !"
Few contrasts so strong have come so close
to each other as that new Song of Eternal Life,
and that cynical wail of inward eternal death.
" Force was the only thing," Laon said,
" really believed in, in that hard, smooth, old,
Roman world, — the force of the Imperial
Government on earth ; the force of a black
magic to wrench, from those who kept them,
the secrets of the future and the unseen."
428 VIGTORT OF THE YANQUI SHED
And in such a world appeared this living,
loving, rejoicing community ; poor and de¬
fenceless, but gloriously liberated from all
fear, mightily lifted above all force ; built oc
faith in God, in each other, and in that mighty
Master. They appeared not in some remote
region of pastoral simplicity, but in the heart
of one of the world's great cities—not a holy
city, but a city of political intrigue and petty
traffic ; of bargaining, even with God, about
tithes of mint, anise, and cummin ; of the dri¬
est ceremonialism, and the fiercest partizan-
ship. They aimed at no vestal isolation or
supernatural spiritualism. They aimed at be-
ing good men and women. They won men
and women of every rank and party to join
them. And amidst that corrupt society, all
who did join them at once partook of this
love and faith and joy.
Old Laon looked on, and confessed it was
strange—a rare exclamation from him. He
could link it on to no old facts, and explain it
• away into no old doctrine.
" If this had sprung up in some mystical
forest of your young German world," he said
to Siward, " I might have understood it. But
such a fresh growth from these dry old trunks
is not so easily to be comprehended. We
must wait and watch."
From Hilda a great weight seemed removed
riCTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 429
If the Resurrection was indeed true, she
thought this might yet be a world m whicli
little children and their gladness might not
be out of place. Dim glimpses came to the
young mother and father of a religion which
might consecrate not only death and sorrow,
but joy and love, life and beauty, nature and
art; not the unseen only, but the body, and
the visible world.
On Si ward also arose faint, far-off hoi>es of a ,
liberation for the world, of a victory for the
vanquished, for his people, for all people ; if,
indeed, beyond the cross, and through the
cross, could be reached a life which seemed
to be still a life of activity and power towards
this world.
The perplexities of Onias were only revived
and increased by the tidings. After all, then,
it might not prove such a complete safeguard
not to have happened to be in Jerusalem on
that fatal day. He might yet have to decide
which cause to espouse. He, with his capital
so painfull)"^ acquired and so securely invested,
might yet have to be brought face to face with
penetrating questions, to which it was impos¬
sible to give vague answers—might even yet
be harassed by applications to commit him¬
self and his possessions to a community who-
nad shown themselves capable of a fanaticism
of all others most fqtal to property and the
430 VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
due preservation of social distinctions—the
fanaticism of a community of goods.
For, with Esther at his side, he at least
would find it impossible to keep these agitat¬
ing novelties at a distance.
To her, life and death were involved in the
truth of this fact of the Resurrection ; the life
or death, before all else, of her people of
Israel.
This, then, was the explanation of that per¬
plexed rumor about the empty sepulchre, and
the Roman soldiers slumbering at their post.
The King, the Anointed, the Son of God,
rejected of Israel, betrayed by His own people
to the Romans, mocked in His dying, actually
risen from the dead, living with God ! And
yet, not a menace of vengeance on the rebels.
His betrayers and murderers !
Nothing but forgiveness, reconciliation, en¬
treaties, even, it was said, to all to be recon¬
ciled to Him.
The very worst crime possible had been
committed. Was nothing lost by it ?
Was Israel indeed, renewed by faith in this
ascended King, -nvisible, but working most
mightily still, still to be the centre and source
of life to the nations ?
There was no sign of any change in the
Gentile world. The believers were all Jews.
The, city o> David, the city of the great King,
• •
Yíijm^Y OF THE VANqUISFED. 431
Wîki àùU the ctt\ of the Christ and His dis¬
ciple,».
It waa in the old Temple, on its ancient
heights, that they met and poured forth then
new psalms.
Reports came, indeed, of an opposition still
continued by the Sanhedrim, of some of the
leaders of the new community being impris¬
oned and beaten.
But the persecution seemed neither to have
. checked their joy nor the increase of their
numbers.
Was it only a beginning?
If so, to what would it grow ?
Or was it a beginning of the terrible end
A gathering of the elect into the citadel be
fore the battles with burning and fire ; a little
gleam of light before the day of storms and
thick darkness, of the shaking once more not
of earth only but also of heaven, the day of
the great slaughter when the towers should
fall ? A gathering of the righteous into the
Ark before the floods'came, floods of fire, to
which the ancient world-deluge would be as
nothing ?
For Clœlia Diodora, the tidings of the Res¬
urrection from the sepulchre awakened min¬
gled feelings.
If she could have been absolutely assured in
432 VICTORY OF THE VANQUIBEBD.
any other way of continued deathless lile in
power and joy, she would contentedly have
dispensed with the thought of the body being
raised.
Was this thing, which had been to her the
source of so much hindrance and disquiet, not
indeed to be done with once for all when it was
laid in the grave, or consumed on the pyre ?
Was this bodily life, which her beloved had
lost, indeed thought of value enough to be
delivered or be restored ?
She had found a kind of joy in despising
and heaping indignities on this fleshly prison
from which her beloved had been delivered.
If to that hobest Sufferer it had been re
stored, there was then still some defect in the
condition of her dead.
It seemed as if the resurrection of One
threw a shadow on the immortality and the
perfection of the rest.
Moreover, how, and from what cause, had
Herisen? Was it not from a cause which
isolated Him from the rest of humanity ? Had
not He, as the holiest Son of men, risen by
virtue of His superiority to other men, per¬
haps by virtue of His being in some mysten-,
DUS, separate sense a Son of God ?
Still, moreover, from those heavens no word
seemed to come for the Gentiles.
Into that heavenly Temple, as in the Tcm
riCTORT OF THE VANQUIBEED. 433
pie at Jerusalem, was there then no admission
save for the Jew? Tc all ages, for all but His
race, nothing but a dim longing for His shad¬
ow to pass by, for some far-off echo of His
voice ?
A proclamation of pardon had indeed, il
was said, been sent from heaven to His be¬
trayers and murderers ; but only, as far as
could be understood, to Jews: to Jews, who
had done Him the utmost dishonor and
wrong ; but not, it seemed, to any Gentiles,
even if they would have desired above all
things to pay Him homage.
Indeed, as far as she could gather, the utter¬
ances of His followers seemed to be less uni¬
versal than His own ; the disciples more Jew¬
ish than the Master.
Jews ol every nation under heaven had
heard,"and believed, and been accepted; but
. of those nations themselves, not one.
What access was there for the Gentile ?
If through the Jews by taking the lowliest
position which could associate them with the
nation He had loved on earth and now loved
in "heaven, even the lowliest position might be
welcome.
But what sign was there of even such an
expansion of the old boundaries ?
The link between God and this dying, rivea
Son of man, seemed perfect.
19
434 VICT0B7 OF THF VANQUISEBD.
There seemed tj be a link acknowledged
between Him, the Jewish Christ, and the
Jew.
But where was the link between the Gen¬
tile and the Jew, the Jewish Christ, the Son
of God ?
Another defeat was to precede the Victory
which opened the way to that further univer¬
sal Conquest.
Another vanquished, and another Victory.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
IHE votive altar to Germanicus at
Antioch, where his funeral pyre had
I been raised, and the Tribunal at
J Epidaphne, where he had died, might
be visited now without arousing Imperial sus¬
picions.
The ashes of Agrippina might be removed
from their dishonored grave on the lonely
island of Pandataria, and laid beside the ashes
of her husband in the Imperial Mausoleum
by the Tiber.
The Emperor was dead. The long strain
was over, with which for so many years he
and Rome had watched against each other;
the Emperor as a keeper with his eye and
hand ceaselessly fixed on the wild beast, which,
if he turned aside for an instant is ready to
spring at him ; " holding the wolf by the ears
Rome, with her eyes on him as on a madman
who could only be kept from some frightful
(435)
436 VICTORY OF THE VANqUlSRED
cuprice of malice b/ incessant deference and
amusement.
The long watch was relaxed at last. The
lestraiuing grasp had collapsed; and now
throughout the Empire men began to sa}
aloud the hateful things they had long be
lieved of him, things of which it is almost as
terrible to think they should have been credi¬
ble at Rome, as that they should have been
practicable at Capreas.
But until the very last, that watch of mu¬
tual terror did not relax in the slightest de¬
gree.
To the last the physicians dared not let the
Emperor know they thought him dying. To
the last the Emperor dared not let the Romans
know that he was dying. Terribly awake to
the truth of facts around him as he had been
throughout his life, to the end his keen eyes
saw as clearly as ever, and saw only to dis-
trust.
For himself he created no illusions. For
years he had felt himself within the shadow
which must spread and darken before him,
until it blotted out the Universe. Old age
and Death made nothing dim to him; they
only removed any dazzling haze which might
yet linger about the world, and left everything
distinctly and sharply outlined as if seen
through a vacuum.
I
yiGTOBY OF THE VANQUISHED. 437
At times the mere aearness of the seeing
made it foreseeing. To some who were pay¬
ing court to his nephew Caligula, he said:
"You leave the setting to court the rising
sun." To Caligula himself,- " You ^ill kill
%
my grandson, and some one else will kill you"
Yet he persisted in keeping the courtiers in
suspense and dread by refusing to name his
successor, and by occasionally tin owing out
hints that he might yet cause both his grand
son and his nephew to die before himself.
Few passages in history have a more unre¬
lieved blackness than those last days of Tibe¬
rius. The story is too mean to be called
tragical. Even the defiance of death, which
in an old Norse warrior might have had some¬
thing heroic in it, in Tiberius is merely revolt¬
ing. It is so evidently one terror held in
check by another; the dread of dying van
quished by the dread of seeming death-stricken
to the Romans; lest, at any moment, before
his hand relaxed in death, the wolf he had
cowed so long should turn and spring on him
and have the mastery.
On his last journey towards Rome, seven
miles from the city, terrified by a bad omen,
he turned back along the Appian way. Yet
after a sensible increase of illness and languor,
at Circeii he roused himself to preside once
more at the games, and even to throw jave
438 TIOTOBT OF THE VANqUISHED.
lins at the wild beasts in the Amphitheatre
The Romans had- called him " morose," be-
cause he did not delight enough in the gladi¬
atorial combats. Some Romans now deemed
his strength failing. He would show them all
Iheir double mistake.
At the villa of Lucullus, however, he had
to pause, before once more, he could retire
from Campania to his retreat at Capreas.
He dismissed his physician.
The physician in taking leave contrived to
oress an enquiring finger on his pulse.
The sick man observed it, and insisted that
n.ght on prolonging the festivities beyond the
usual hour.
Yet at the very last, in spite of all his pre¬
cautions, it was believed the terror which had
naunted all his life proved true.
He rallied once too often for the patience
of his attendants. They suffocated him with
nis pillows.
* * * *
" The wolf he dreaded has vanquished at
last," old Laon said, when he he^rd it. " Ti¬
berius Caesar was right. ' Men are mortal, but
the State is eternal.' It is a hopeless struggle
with a wild beast which will be as strong as
ever for its deadly spring when the restraining
human hand relaxes its grasp for ever. Now
the worshipers of Tiberius are free tc erect
V10T0B7 OF THE VANQUISHED. 43g
hiin as many temples as they please. During
his life-time, he restrained their enthusiasm.
Now their adoration can rise freely. If it has
anything of the character of the worship of
this new Jewish Sect at Jerusalem, whose
adoration has gathered strength from death,
now is the time for its expansion."
Meantime, at Rome the citizens were shout¬
ing over the Emperor's corpse, " Tiberius tô
tke Tiber ! " and throwing their whole ener¬
gies into the welcome of the young Emperor,
' who was henceforth to be their Divine Dis¬
penser of bread and gamaes.
Once more Caius Caesar Caligula walked
in a funeral procession along the Appian way.
. Eighteen years before, a child of seven, he
had accompanied his mother, the widowed
Agrippina, from Brundusium, with the sacred
urn containing his fathér's ashes.
Even on his childish imagination, the throng¬
ing of the people from village and town, the
burning of incense and of costly raiment,—
the silence and the tears of such a multitude
must have stamped an indelible impression.
And now it was Germanicus again the peo¬
ple were welcoming back, in the person of
his son. Altars greeted him on all sides, with
incense and sacrifices; torches and flowers
and rapturous welcomes, such as, on another
spring day, one May, twenty years ago, had
440 yiGTOtii OF THE YANQUI SHED.
greeted his father s triumph, when as an infant
of four years old,—the darling of the legions,
Caligula had ascended the Capitol, with his
four boy brothers, in the Triumphal Charict
by his father's side.
Father, mother and brothers, all were dead ;
it was believed, all through the murderous
sway of Tiberius. And now again the Italians
in this procession were celebrating, not the
obsequies of Tiberius, but the Triumph of the
race of their Germanicus.
They welcomed the young Emperor as the
child of the beloved of Rome. ' They lav¬
ished caressing^ names on him, calling him
their " nursling," their " chicken," their " pup¬
pet," and to the end persisting in distinguish¬
ing him (not to his own satisfaction) by the
pet name given to him by the legions, among
whom his father and mother had their early
home.
There is a pathetic irony in the fact that the
prince whom the nations learned to execrate
as a monster of cruelty, continues to be called
m the gravest histories by the name of the
baby military boots, which the soldiers lik-
ed to see him wear in the camp on the
Rhine.
Twenty years had passed since the multi¬
tudes had gathered in a tumult of exulting
welcome around Germanicus the Conqueror;
4
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 441
eighteen, since they had gathered silent and
weeping around his ashes.
And now they met, once more full of hope
and confidence ; once more trusting they had
found the heart they could rest on, the hand
that could lead them.
» * * *
And meantime the heart the whole world
may rest on had been broken on the Cross ;
the Hand that can lead all the flocks of men
had been nailed by man to the Cross.
He who came not to be ministered unto,
but to minister, who had compassion on the
multitudes because they were scattered abroad
as sheep having no Shepherd, the True Shep¬
herd of men had ministered to men, had given
His life a ransom for men,—had risen to His
Father's throne, and from it was slowly gath¬
ering His flock from the East and the West,
the North and the South, a great multitude
which no man can number.
The Voice, not of the stranger, had been
heard. The great gathering and separating
of the flock had begun.
But the multitudes of men as yet knew
not of it, and wistfully looked to Caius Caesar
Caligula, to be their Prince and their Saviour.
At first he seemed in many ways to meet
their exy ectations. He pardoned royally, and
gave royally, fulfilling the dving bequests ol
19*
442 VIGTOKT OF THE VANQUISHEI).
the Empress Livia, which her own son, Tiber,
ius, had neglected. He also worked royally,
throwing himself with a passionate energy
during the summer months into the enor¬
mous labors devolving on a rule which, had
absorbed so many powers into itself.
A id then, the good things he had inherited
from a high and virtuous ancestry seemed to
sink and be lost beneath the corruptions of
his training at Capreae, and the intoxication
of his intolerable position.. He is said to have
abandoned himself with a phrenzy of license
to every kind of pleasure,—in eight months to
have thus brought himself to the brink of the
grave ; and to have returned from the brink
of the grave,—a madman,—totally bereft of
self-control ;—^yet still invested with the su¬
preme control of the whole Roman world;
clever, witty, keen-sighted,—but insane ; in¬
sane and the Emperor and god of Rome.
The worship which Tiberius had refused, it
became his moody pleasure to insist on. His
making the Temple of Hercules a mere por¬
tico to his own palace on the Palatine, was a
symbol of the place he claimed. The Tem¬
ples of all the gods were to be porticoes to
tiis. Some men might have a special devo¬
tion for one divinity, some for another. He,
the true Latin Jove, claimed the devotion of
all.
VICTORY OF THE VANqUISHED. 443
Such was the sway beneath which the in-
lant Church had to grow, beneath which she
began the Conquest of the World.
As yet she was too insignificant to attract
the attention of the Emperor, or even of the
chiefs under him.
Her first persecution arose from that an¬
cient nation of which she still believed herself
a part.
Not as the subjects of a king claiming
universal Empire, but as an apostate from the
old Jewish law, the first martyr fell ; not as a
rebei. against Rome, but as a heretic.
CHAPTER XXXVII
í í they which were scattered
abroad upon the persecution that
arose about Stephen travelled as
I far as Phenice and Cyprus and
Antioch, preaching the word to none but tc
the Jews only.
And some of them were men of Cyprus and
Cyrene, which, when they were come to An¬
tioch spake unto the Greeks, preaching the
Lord Jesus.
And the hand of the Lord was with the,m,
and a great number believed, and turned to
the Lord.
Simple, unemphasized words, yet contain¬
ing in them the record of the foundation of
the Church ; of the transition from Judaism
to Christendom.
At last, the invasion of the world by the
Church had begun.
To those who first (mtered the opening, it
(444)
VICTORY OF TEE rA^QmS^ED. 445
seemed not a portal into a new world, but a
breach in the walls of the old ; not a gathering
but a scattering.
The law of the Kingdom, expansion through
rum. Victory through the Vanquished, death
through life, the crown through the Cross,'
growth through dissolution, had begun to
act.
At last the missing link came into the hands
of Clcelia Diodora. Into the heart so long
broken, at last the true healing balm was
poured.
The chasm so rudely rent, and hollowed so
deep, was filled to the brim, filled to over¬
flowing with the waters of life, ready to pour
forth in blessing on all around.
Feeling to the core of her heart the death
that gnaws at the heart of all the visible world,
life and immortality were brought to light for
her.
Feeling deeper still the sin which is the
death in life, the death in death, forgivenes.«
came to her.
Feeling the terrible isolation of her Own lot,
without father, mother, brother, or sister, utw
relationships were revealed to her, new, \ et
older than her life ; love familiar mi ith evf y
secret of her life and character.
In heaven she found the Father,
446 VIOTOBT OV THE rANQVISHEUt
On earth, truest and tenderest ties of áa
dred ; " brothers, sisters, mothers."
And all these through and in One,
Child of God in the Son of God.
Sister in the redeemed Family through
Him who was not ashamed to call us brethren.
Redeemed to be no more her own: Set
free to serve,
Woids of infinite joy and perfect freedom.
"Not our own." Redeemed from the bondage
of self-seeking, from the isolation of self-will.
Belonging to Him who had given His life
a ransom for her, had sought her wandering,
brought her back to God ; belonging for ever
to that Crucified Conqueror, to that patient
King ; belonging in Him to the Father Who
had loved her from the beginning.
No more drifting aimlessly to and fro on
the sea of life ! Piloted !
Glorious contradictions of Christian life !
Nothing changed ; yet everything changed.
Not a burden lightened ; not a sorrow re¬
moved ; not a new faculty bestowed.
The crippled, suffering body, crippled and
suffering still. The bereaved heart still bo-
reft of the sight and voice and touch of its
dearest.
But the burden changed from a shapeless,
meaningless load, into a Cross, into the like¬
ness of what He had borne ; into a yoke, no
VlCTüh f OF TEE VANQ UIBHED. 447
more pressing on the neck bowed beneath it,
but binding it to the appointed work ; into a
sacrifice accepted willingly in subjection to
the Father's will ; into a weapon of the great
warfare whereby the Victor)' of the Vanquish¬
ed was to be for ever carried on.
Her lost beloved, her beautiful, who had so
patiently continued in well-doing, rescued as
she believed by Him who went and preached
unto the spirits in the unseen prison, now
reaping glory and honor and immortality, one
of the great Flock of the Redeemed, not afar
oíF, one Flock and one Shepherd, though not
yet one Fold.
For herself, every faculty consecrated, glori¬
fied, stamped with the Image of the King,
made current coin of the heavenly kingdom,
an instrument of service in the hand of love.
Not Transformation ; new Creation; every
old thing made new by being inspired through
and through with the new life.
Yet not more a new birth and a new life, or
a new world for her, or to any in those earli¬
est days, than now to all, who receiving the
same Saviour receive in Him the revelation
of the eternal love, the power to become sons
of God.
Not merely a new impulse was Christianity,
breaking up the old world. It was a new life.
U is, as much as ever it was, not in us, nor in
%
443 VIÜTOBT OF THE VANqUIBHEB.
anything done for and in us, but in Him Who
has done and is ever doing all in us and for us ;
in Him Who not merely raises and quickens,
but is the Resurrection and the Life. ,
Nor only were suffering, death, and the un¬
seen world consecrated in her eyes.
If the Cross had opened a path of light into
the world to which it had borne the Master,
if His death had hallowed dying. His Resur¬
rection had opened her eyes again to this
visible world, as His creation, and His in¬
heritance. If His burial had made the grave
the gate of heaven. His rising again had made
life its threshold.
If His " Thy will not mine, be done" had con¬
secrated sorrow. His " Peace be unto you" had
consecrated joy.
Not the life beyond this lower world only,
the life also of little children bounding along
the first steps of the long journey, every stage
and every station of life were sacred through
that human life which He had taken in its
infancy, borne without sin, resigned without
sin, and resumed never to part with more.
Not in the Cemetery only, and the solemn
night, in the Çroseucha synagogue, but in
Hilda's home among the little children on the
sea-shores His feet had trodden, by the tables
whose fare He had blessed, that redemption
had made her at home.
YICTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
•To Si ward all the brightest hopes and n<ost
earnest purposes of his youth came back, glori¬
fied.
lie had found the Deliverer and the King
Who set free by reigning, Who gave the true
freed >m, not of the forest, but of the King¬
dom, Who began the lifjeration of men from
within by setting thenilfree from the bondage
of self.j
Christianity did not quench patriotism in
iiim, but exalted it, as tvciy other pure hu¬
man jfeeling.
The Church, in the early days of Divine
order and growth did not take the color and
shape out of the natifjnalities any more than
out of the character she embraced.
Her " In Christ Jesus, neither Jew nor
Greek," no more destroyed distinct national
ideals, than her " In Christ Jesus, neither male
nor female " destroyed the true manly and
womanly ideal. In Him nothing that charac¬
terized was lost, only all that separated. Not
distinctions, only barriers, were broken down.
Never did Siward's heart beat more warm¬
ly for his people, nor the hearts of Cloelia,
Callias and Esther for theirs than when they
began to see the fulfillment of the hignest
ideal of Teutonic liberty, Roman duty, Greek
order and humanity, and Hebrew godliness
in the One Lord of all and to hope for its fu|.
450 riGTOBY OF THE VANqUISHED.
ñllment in the One Family of many bretln
ren.
The new Kingdom had indeed begun,
which makes Antioch a place well nigh as
sacred to the Church as Jerusalem.
If Jerusalem was the Bethlehem of the
Church, where the angels rejoiced and sang
" Peace and good-will to men " around the
manger of infant Christianity, Antioch was
»ts Nazareth, the first home of its conscious
3'outh; the baptistry where its distinctive
name was given to it ; the first place where
the Jewish nation was incorporated into the
Universal Church as but one. Province of the
Universal Empire ; where the Gates of Morn¬
ing at length were flung open wide for the
Light to lighten the Gentileç.
The restless, keen-witted crowds of various
races which thronged the long colonnade by
the Orontes or ranged through the gardens of
Epidaphne little thought that in exercising
their faculty and license of giving character¬
istic names on that little band of believers of
all nations, they were rendering a service to
the world ; and that when the gardens of Epi¬
daphne had vanished, like an enchanted gar¬
den in a desert, and the Orontes instead of
bathing marble temples, and crowded quays, -
palaces and amphitheatres, should flow
through a poor little Syrian town, that one
riCTOBT OF THE VANQUISUED. 451
careiMi^ly 'flung soubriquet should make the
name of Antioch familiar in countless homes
throughout the world.
" The disciples were first called Christians
at Antioch."
, Do we think sufficiently what a commenda¬
tion on those first disciples is involved in the
fact that such a title should be characteristic ?
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
4
LD LAON still held aloof, and kept
silence. Onias and Siguna were the
two members of the little society
whose hearts were least gladdened
by the tidings of great joy which, like the
music of the legend, drew the living stones
together and began the building of the City
of God.
For very different reasons. More than ever
Siguna longed for one more sight of Olave,
that they might yet rejoice together over the
treasure she had found. The conviction that
he was still living, that they should yet meet
face to face again on earth had never been
quenched in her heart. And now, in thé light
of this new Hope, the old hope sprang up in
h-esh vigor.
Her child Hilda was at home now in An-
tioch. She determined to remain no longer
away from Rome, but to spend the rest of
her life in that center of the world watching
(451)
VICTOBY OF THE VANQUISHED. 453
once again every company of captives, or
every stray band of wanderers which found
its way from the North to the City which to
so many of her countrymen still seemed a
Golden Home of gods.
Onias, on the other hand, was inextricably
%
perplexed by being brought into contact with
a quescion which absolutely demanded a de¬
cision.
Between the recognition that the Nazarene
was the Messiah, and.the declaration that He
had deceived the people, no vague and gener¬
alizing neutrality was possible. It was not a
mere matter of religious opinion about which
there might be infinite shades of thought, from
a fervent acquiescence to a fanatical denial. It
w'ds a question of loyalty or rebellion ; not a
devout notion about the other world, but a
' practical test as to this ; a question which af¬
fected acquaintanceships, daily acts, commer¬
cial connections ; not the mere superfluous in¬
come or expenditure of life, but its very es¬
sence and capital.
For the Church which the Antiochenes
knew so well how to name characteristically
came among them as no mere glad and loving
child, half vividly conscious of her life but un¬
conscious of her mission and her destiny.
At Antioch above the childlike robe of
gladness and singleness of heart which found
454 VIGTORT of THb VANQUISHED.
fe for with all thu people, and which she must
ever wear next her heart, she had been endued
with the panoply of her warfare, and was no
longer merely breaking bread from house to
Aouse, and praising God in the Temple, but
was going forth conquering and to conquer.
This warfare of the Church required the
material sinews of war. Whatever theory
may be adopted as to the use of the gift of
tongues in saving the first Christian Mission¬
aries the necessity of learning languages, it
is clear that no gift of an inexhaustible purse
was bestowed on them, that Alexandrian com
ships would not remit their fares for Apostles,
unless in the keeping of Centurions, that
houses could not be hired or tables spread in
Rome, or in Corinth, for nothing.
The community of goods at Jerusalem had
ended, as Onias had predicted, in the neces¬
sity of contributions for the poor saints in
Judaea. And from the beginning it seemed
as if Antioch was expected to be one of the
Treasuries of the .Church, a distinction which
must have involved continual decisions be¬
tween God and Mammon from the rich mer¬
chants and capitalists there.
Onias would have been quite content to
wait in a most tolerant spirit to see, by the
success or failure of the new doctrine, what
decision had been made about it in heaven.
VICTORY OF THE YANl¿UI8nKP. 455
But the disciples of the new doctrine were
quite determined it should succeed ; the sub-
lects of the new Kingdom were determined
to conquer, to conquer if necessary, like the
King, by suffering and by dying ; and in this
way the decision was thrown, not on heaven,
but on the consciences of every man and
woman who came within hearing, which was
far more perplexing.
Moreover, with Esther by his side, quite
ready to risk everything, divested of all fear,
saying in her heart like Esther the Queen,
" If I perish, I perish" or with the Three Chil¬
dren, " Our God Whom we serve is able to
save us, but if not,"—quite ready to be cast
into the furnace, whether to her it should
prove a " bed of roses," or a bed of anguish,
—his difficulty was increased an hundred fold.
Tenderly she bore with the fretfulness and
anxious carefulness, which his perplexities
produced in the old man. She knew they
sprang from a root of bitterness within which
must at any cost be extracted, or it would
choke all the roots of truth and goodness
which she knew had once been there.
Any axe would have been welcome to her
wnich would be laid at the root of that corrupl
tree. And at last it came.
The Jew s, stronger in faith and conscience
%
456 VICTORY OF TUE VANQUISHED.
than any other nation, even in this hour of
their fatal fall, alone, of all races throughout
the Empire, refused to give Divine honors to
Caligula.
Worship meant more to them than to any
other people because the Name of God meant
more.
Terrible tidings had reached Antioch of a
popular riot against the Jews at Alexandria.
Only a few years after the Jewish nation had
suffered her King to be crucified at Jerusalem,
the Greek and Coptic population of Alexan¬
dria, always envious of the marvelous, com¬
mercial genius and success of the Jewish
colony there, were roused to fury by the ar¬
rival among them of Herod Agrippa, with,
the title freshly recognized by his friend the
Emperor, of of the Jews.
That these Jewish merchants and brokers
should actually pretend to have a king of
their own was an assumption not to be toler¬
ated.
In revengeful mockery, their Coptic and
Greek fellow-citizens paraded a Jewish idiot
through the streets, robed in ragged gar¬
ments, with a reed in his right hand, crowned
with a crown of papyrus,—and bent the knee
to him, presenting petitions to him, and hail¬
ing him " Lord."
So fiercely was the cry of the Jewish pi lesi«.
VICTORY OF TUE VANqUISHED. 457
** Wie have 110 king but Ccesar" taken up» and
hurled back at them by the Gentiles.
Persecution in its most terrible form, a per«
secution of the populace, followed. The Jews,
who possessed two out of the five quarters of
the city, and were also scattered throughout
the rest of it, were driven into one district.
Within those narrow bounds multitudes of
them died of hunger, of bad air, while those
who ventured outside, were relentlessly seiz-
ed and torn to pieces, the Roman Governor,
Flaccus, making no efibrt to check the mas¬
sacre.
p
Fearful details of death, embittered by
every kind of insult and torture came to the
Jewish community at Antioch.
To the early Christians, persecution, shame
and death could have seemed no signs of
Divine abandonment. That lesson, at least,
must have been stamped on every Christian
heart, while the Cross was still to the mass of
men the symbol, not of a religion, but of crime
ignominiously punished.
But in the mind of Onias these things re
awakened man)' fears and suspicions.
What if, after all, the unutterable, wonder¬
working name were no longer on their sides.
What if, after all, that execution on Calvary
had been a crime, (and if a crime, there could
be no doubt of its enormity,) and the silence
»
20
458 rwToiir of the van^oished.
i >
. of heaven had only been the slow gathering
of the thunders, and this were the first,burst
of the avenging lightning ?
Yet, he persuaded himself, there might be
another explanation. These Alexandrian Jews
were, for the most part, Hellenists.
They had translated the sacred Scriptures,
thus obviously casting pearls before swine.
They had even endeavored, it was said, to
extract by allegorizing and double meanings
,a mystical philosophy, half Greek, half Orien¬
tal, from the Law and the Prophets. Might
it not be possible that the wrath which had
fallen on these Hellenists was for their special
Hellenistic sins? that because they had got
up the stumbling-block of Grecian philosophy
in their hearts it was permitted that the
heathen rabble should set up heathen idols in
their synagogues and houses of prayer ?
This refuge did not suffice to shelter him
long.
The storm drew nearer. •
The decree went forth from Caesar Caligula
that a colossal statue of himself should be
made for the purpose of being enshrined in
the Holy of Holies of the Temple at Jeni.«5a-
lem.
The menace around the Syrian Jews, nor tc
'rebellion, but to something deeper. The in
most heart of that old Hebrew patriotism, uJ
YIVTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 45g
«rays more fervent and indestructible than
any other, was touched. •
The whole nation was stirred with some«
thing of the spirit which moved the three
children who chose the furnace rather than
idolatry.
Clothed in sackcloth, with ashes on their
heads, they gathered in troops, from all quar-
ters, around the Roman Governor, Petronius,
at Ptolemais.
The command of the Emperor was uncon¬
ditional. Two legions, usually stationed on
the Euphrates were, if necessary, to be con¬
centrated on Judaea to enforce the violation
of the Jewish Temple. The resistance of the
whole nation was not to be suffered to prevent
it..
But Petronius dared to deliberate. Unlike
that former Procurator of Judaea whose fear
of offending Caesar had not saved him
from banishment ere this to Gaul,—^to the
people he presented a firm frqnt, whilst in
private he held a council and debated earnest¬
ly how to avert the collision.
To the Jews, gathered before him in mourn
ing garments, air immense crowd of men,
women, and children, he vouchsafed no words
save those of the sternest rebuke : " We must
obey the Emperor, and they must obey him."
They replied that, "They must obey God
4
• .
46o VIOTORT OF TBE VANqUJSUED
rather than Caesar; that they would all dje
rather than suffer the Holy Place of their God
to be thus desecrated."
The worship of Caligula created no enthn.
siasm to oppose to a religious and patriotic
fervor genuine as this. Petronius was hu¬
mane. He left his troops at Ptoleraais, and
repaired to Tiberias to see if this passion of
resistance was really universal among the
people.
*****
One evening Esther was returning from the
home of Hilda and Calliâs, among the gar¬
dens, to her own in the city. Diodora was
with her.
The gardens of Ephidaphne were glorious
then with spring flowers, and they brought
home branches of blossom.
It was the first day of the week, and their
hearts had been gladdened by some fresh de¬
tails of the life over which they knew Death
had no dominion. Unutterably full of inter¬
est must those gatherings have been, where
the sermons were the text on which Christen-
• dom has lived for centuries, where the Gos¬
pels were written on the hearts of those earli¬
est Christians before they had been embodied
in any manuscript.
They had met together also at that Sacred
Table where Christ is evermore the Master
riCTOBT OF FEE VANQUISHED. 461
%
of the Feast ; not in memorial only but in liv«
ing Presence.
Something of the calm, deep joy which pos¬
sessed her that evening must have shone on
. the pale features of Esther ; for as she passed
along the great colonnade which traversed
the city, many, among the groups of idlers,
paused in their conversation and turned to
look at her with a kind of surprise, blended in
some with pity and in others with contempt.
She was well known in the city. Her good
works and alms'^eeds could not remain alto¬
gether hidden, extending as they did far be¬
yond .the limits of the Synagogue ; and her
husband had the perilous reputation of being
one of the wealthiest Jewish brokers in the •
place. For the most part those glances .were
far from friendly.
A bitter envy was always ready to overflow
against a race which was so successful and so
exclusive, so rich and so " morose," so hard to
borrow from, and yet so necessary to those
who wanted to borrow.
" Clœlia, what has happened ?" Esther whis¬
pered at length, laying a trembling hand on
the arm of the Roman maiden. " See how an¬
grily they gaze at us."
The crippled Diodora was too much accus¬
tomed to be a butt of the wit of Antiocb to
bave noticed any thing immoral.
402 VIOTOBI OF THE VANqVlSHEV
4
" I nevCT letimyself see that mocking stare,
she said. And very quietly she added, " 1
used to feel it so bitterly. But not now. 1
think of the mocking stare of the multitude
He bore for us."
But soon insolent words came in explana¬
tion of the contemptuous looks.
" A strange occasion for a Jewish matron
to choose for parading the streets with gar-
.ands and smiles!"
4
" Ah ! probably she is of that new sect of
theirs, to which the nation is nothing, their
crucified Christ every thing !
" Still, Caius Caesar enshrined in their Tem¬
ple might try the patience even of a Chris-
tian."
Esther stopped, and fearlessly turning to
the man who had spoken these words, said,
" What news has arrived ? Of what ill-tidings
do you speak !"
" Only of the decree oí Caesar Caligula
commanding an image of himself to be en¬
shrined in the Temple of the Jews at Jerusa¬
lem, and the report that the whole nation are
thronging round Petronius the governor, de¬
claring they will die rather than suffer it."
Esther said no more. With the certainty
of peril to her people, her courage had re¬
turned. ■»
She entered the house pale, indeed, bul
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED, 463
with no sign of agitation in voice or bear¬
ing. .
Onias was there before her. She found him
m the little inner chamber opening on the
court, crouching on the ground like a fright¬
ened animal, his hands clasped on his knees
and his face buried between them.
She knelt beside him, bowing her head as
low as his.
♦
" Onias, my husband !" she said, " I know
all. We will go together and entreat for
the children of our people. We will go to¬
morrow."
" You will go ?" he exclaimed.
He had half feared, half hoped she would
scarcely have heeded the tidings, no longer
identifying herself with the nation which had
committed what she regarded as an unequal¬
led crime, and which now seemed falling un¬
der such unequalled vengeance.
"We will go!" she replied, meeting his
wavering eyes until they began to kindle with
something of the light in hers. " This is work
'or women, for children, for every creature of
our name and blood. Women can at least
entreat, and babes can kneel ; and if needful,
women as well as men can die."
" Esther !" he said, " I had thought you
would look on this as inevitable, as the just
consequence of that Death !"
464 VICTORY OF TUB VANqUISHED.
»
" That Death was voluntary, to the last dy.
ing cry," she said. " He offered Himself up
without spot to God for us. He died rather
than deny Himself to be what He is. If it is
to be, we also will let our death be voluntary.
We will die rather than deny our God."
"But to you, Gentiles, Greeks, barbarians
are brothers," he said. " Is your heart indeed
' Jewish still ? I always feared you might die
for being a Christian. Would you also die
for being a Jewess?"
" I would die if God called me, and strength¬
ened me," she said, in a low voice, " rather
than do any thing or suffer any thing to be
done which He has forbidden. Was not the
Christ, our Lord, sent first to the lost sheep
of the house of Israel ? Did He not drive the
traffickers out of the Temple ? And shall we,
if we can hinder it, suffer a base idol to be set
up in its inmost sanctuary ?"
He rose from the ground, and, raising her,
took her hands and looked with intense ear
nestness into her face.
" But what if this is the vengeance for the
Cross ?" he said in a hollow voice.
" If it be," she said calmly, " all the more
would I go, and pray for my people, and suf¬
fer with them. To me," she added, " no blow
from His hand would be unwelcome. And
who knows but they might even yet 'epent
VKTORT OF THE VANQUISHED., 465
1 know well that where He menaces, it is but
a stronger form of entreaty to drive those
who will not be won, home to Himself."
The old man bowed his head on his breast
" I at least," he murmured, " have deserved
any stroke from His hand ;" and, after a pause
"We will go," he said. And in saying those
words, he met her eyes with a look, straight
and untroubled, such as she had not seen on
his face for many a year.
He did not allude to the great sacrifices he
might have to make. He had risen, for the
time, to another level, from which they looked
not great, but nothing.
Hastil)' they made arrangements for the
journey. The next morning Esther was some¬
what troubled to see him enter the treasure-
chamber from which he so often came with a
countenance careworn and perplexed.
But this time, after some minutes, he came
out of the door again, with a look of quiet
determination far more reassuring to her than
the most triumphant smile.
" I have only been labelling the pledged
property to be restored to the owners," he
said, " if we do not come back again. Per¬
haps some of it, if we do."
Once more the old love sprang up from be-
neath the load of care and covetousness which
had so long crushed it down. And it vai
20*
466 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISBEO.
with a heart lightened of its heaviest care trat
Esther accomplished that solemn journey to
T'herías.
They said little by the way.
It was a strange sight that met their eyes
as they approached the edge of the deep ba¬
sin ol the Sea of Galilee.
It was the sowing season. But all along
the slopes and levels of those fertile shores
not a laborer was to be seen. They urged
their mules through a silent land ; and when
they came to the brow of the hill above Tibe¬
rias,—below, bordering the shore, and girding
the city round was gathered a dense dark
mass of human beings.
" As sheep having no shepherd !" Esther ex¬
claimed in a broken voice. "They prayed
the Good Shepherd to depart out of their
coasts. And He has gone."
She would not ride further. Onias also dis¬
mounted, and covering themselves with sack¬
cloth, they walked slowly down the steep to
join the suppliant crowd of their compa¬
triots.
Different indeed was this dark-robed, silent
crowd from the loitering, expectant throng
which a few years before had gathered on .
those shores.
No rich tints or picturesque forms of Orí-
entai costume varied the sombre uniformity.
VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 467
All were clothed in sackcloth. Many had
.ashes sirewn on their heads.
Men of all ages and ranks, women and little
children, all subdued into one voiceles^ com¬
pany of suppliants.
There was no wailing or clamor. The only
eloquence they attempted was that of silence.
They would not return to their homes, or
their fields ; they would not till nor sow the
ground, nor seek the shelter of a roof, until
they were assured that the Temple of their
God should not be desecrated.
For many days this voiceless petition had
been presented before the governor, remain¬
ing perplexed and uncertain within the walls
of the City of Tiberias.
When Esther and Onias reached this mul¬
titude of their people, many faces already
looked worn with watching.
Silently they took their places in the crowd.
Day after day the thousands assembled
there remained, their numbers slowly increas¬
ing. and none departing.
It was an unusually sultry season, even for
that sultry hollow of the lake, with its trop>ical
heat and fertility.
All day they were exp:)sed to the sun,
shining in his strength, from the first moment
of his breaking forth like a giant from the
screen of the eastern hills, to the last, whea
468 VIGTOBi Of THE VAflQUIBHBD.
he disappeared behind the green Mo ant oí too
Beatitudes.
The night scarcely cooled tne air, or the.
* hot earth, ere the dawn began to bum again
across the lake.
The only changes in that weary anxious
watching were when the rulers came back
with reports of failure, from the presence of
Petronius.
« •
He had, he said, but to obey. The statue
was already in the hands of Sidonian carvers,
at Ptolemais. Day by day, whilst they were
waiting there, the shapeless marble was
growing into the ' image of Ceesar. Would
they fight against Caesar ?
The rulers of the Jews replied, "they had
no thought of fighting; but they would all
be massacred rather than break their law."
And prostrate on the ground, with expres-
bive Oriental gesture, they offered their necks
to the sword. The Roman soldiers might
slay them, unresisting, one by one. The
power of Rome was invincible. But np
power on earth could compel them to live,
and see the Temple of their God, made the
temple of an idol.
For forty days this passive pleading con tin*
:3ed.
Strange and awful days and nights to Es-
#ner. Did none beside herself, in that supplb
VICTORr OF THE VANQUISHED. 469
t
af t crowd, see any strange significance in aL
this,—any strange contrast?
Were , there none there who had felt the
healing touches, heard the matchless teach¬
ing? Were there none who had listened to
the Beatitudes? Were there none who had
listened to the Woes? " Woe unto thee ChorU'
ein! Woe unto thee Bethsaida!" To her the
whole silence seemed full of that Woe, so en¬
treating, so reluctant, so sure !
Were there none who thought of that long
night of silence, of the holy Sufferer buffeted
to and fro among Roman soldiers, and Jewish
priests, and brought at last before another
Roman Governor, less compassionate and just
than this Petronius, with no voice among the
thousands he had helped and healed raised to
plead for him ?
To Esther it seemed as if her whole nation
stood now, silent and sentenced, in the place
to which they had betrayed their King.
Were there none there who thought how
their Holy City had been desecrated with a
< desecration beside which even this threatened
pollution of the Sanctuary was but as a mo¬
mentary ceremonial defilement of its outer¬
most Court?
Were there none who knew b^w the Son,
the Beloved of God had been ' ejected, the
Sanctuary of His sacred life r iolated and
O
4/X) VWTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
I
desecrated, the very express Image of the
Father dishonored ?
She prostrated herself on the ground, won¬
dered and wept.
Yet not altogether bitter or hopeless tears.
Could it be that her people were awaking
at. last, and not even yet, too late ?
The long suffering they had wearied was so
unconquerable; the love they had despised
so infinite. And always, she thought, in that
day of inhuman ingratitude as in this day of
heroic patriotism,—then as now, now as then,
these multitudes, with their ignorance, their
blind anger, and their blind trust, " know so
little what they do."
" Father ! forgive them."
As she wept and prayed, the echo of the
''Woe!" seemed to fall fainter, until the si¬
lence grew full of those later words of un¬
quenchable pity.
^'Father, forgive them! For they know not
what they do." * * * *
At last the relief came.
Fetronius assembled the people to hear hia
decision.
He was risking everything for himself, by
delaying the execution of the edict. He knew
it and they knew it. But he was determined .
to take the risk, rather than lay waste the
Province he had been sent to govern.
VICTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 471
He promised to do his utmost to obtain the
repeal of the decree. Meantime the Sidonian
carvers should be stopped in their work. The
statue should be left unfinished.
And before the answer could arrive from
Rome, the Emperor himself had fallen pierced
' with many wounds from the hands of assas¬
sins ; the body from which was modelled the
image which was to have desecrated the
Jewish Temple was cast into a dishonored
grave.
As Petronius ended his merciful speech to
the Jewish suppliants at Tiberias, the shadow
of clouds not felt for Weeks began to soften
the sultry pitiless glare. And before the day
closed, on all the burnt-up slopes and parched
plains came down refreshing showers of rain.
Quietly, with glad hearts, the crowds dis¬
persed to vineyard, orchard and corn-field.
Once more, they thought, the God of their
fathers had appeared for them. Once more,
as much his direct gift, as if smitten from the
rock. He sent them the living waters.
" Once more," Esther thought, " He had
caused His sun to shine on the evil and the
good, and sent His rain on the just and the
unjust."
With some anxiety as to the effect of this
472 VICTORY OF THE VANqUISRED.
%
deliverance on Oiiias, she recommenced the
homeward journey.
Would he regard this rescue as but another
proof of prosperity being the "sign from
heaven," and be led, once more, to .deny the
Messiahship of Him whose life had ended, to
the eyes of His people, in defeat and death ?
She need not have feared.
The cutting off of the right hand which it
had been, to him to abandon all his treasures,
and place himself as a beggar among the sup¬
pliant crowds of his people, had raised hire
to an altogether higher level. The one single-
hearted act had cleared the dim and troubled
eyes. And he saw things as they are.
" Once more he has been patient and long-
suffering with us," she said softly as they
mounted the slopes from the lake.
" Patient and long-suffering indeed yirith me,
my beloved," he replied. " I have found Him
at last. All through those weary days and
nights I .heard a voice, saying, in the words
you told me He spoke once to one who for¬
sook him because he had great possessions,"
' Come, leave all, and follow me.' AH these
silent days and nights I have been seeking
Him. And now at last I have found Him.
I have found Ihe Christ. And I find, that to
leave all for Him is to leave nothing but care
and chains and a prison-house."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
NCE more on the way to Rome, to
the Center of the world, the source
of law and government, of wonder¬
ful order and of disorders, crimes
and corruptions unutterable, with the sacred
wood, the Tree of Life in their keeping to
cast into the bitter fountains.
Not outwardly did the early Christians bear
the symbol of the Cross, not even on their
sepulchres. The power of it was on their
hearts. The symbol was visibly before them
too often, and too complete ; the symbol not
of victory, but of the utmost humiliation and
defeat a human life could reach, such as the
guillotine or the gallows would but feebly
represent to us.
Not in bronze and marble and the pathos
of religious sculpture ; in its own unmitigated
horror and ignominy, with the writhing of
tortured human limbs, it met the eyes of the
(473)
^74 VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
little Christian company as they returned
from Antioch to Rome.
Siward and his mother were once more
slowly passing along the Appian way, one
evening in spring, when once more on the
brow of an opposite hill as before, on their
Journey eastward with Germanicus, the ter¬
rible thing rose black before them against the
golden sky.
Once more their eyes met, and each became
conscious that the other had seen it.
They drew closer, and spoke of that evening
long ago.
" It was before me then," Siward said, " as
the most terrible possibility of slavery."
" It is before our hearts always now," Si-
guna said, "as the measure of His love for
us."
" And as the measure of the sacrifice which
may be involved in ours for Him," he replied.
He meant quite literally ; but he spoke the
words in a tone which made them sound like
a song of triumph.
The world as far as it concerned itself with
them at all, knew well that their Master had
been crucified, and had been buried. His
cross had-been visible enough. From morn¬
ing t/D night it had stood close to one of the
stateliest cities of the Empire, the Jerusalem
of H erod th e Great.
VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED. 475
The Gospel the early disciples hád f o teli
mas that His sepulchre was empty, that rie
had risen.
Their message was the Resurrection.
Their life was the Cross. A continual pa¬
tience with all, a perpetual sacrifice of all for
His sake, a perpetual victory through appa¬
rent defeat, a triumphing through suffering.
In the martyr ages while the cup of her Lord
was continually in her hand, the raiment of
the Church was the white and glistening robe
of joy. The world provided her with the
Cross, and the Crucified with the crown.
When the world provides the crowns, the
Master can give the Cross.
For in this world the Cross may not be ab¬
sent, though the crowning very well may, and
the true crowning must, through all the ages.
CHAPTER XL.
NCE more in the Pomœrium, in the
desert in the heart of the City, in
the sacred waste.
Once more Clœlia Diodora knelt
on the ground at night by the Tomb of the
V estai.
The memories of the lonely days and nights
spent there, were present with her again ; the
memory of the restless searching hither and
thither for some voice to tell her of her dead,
for some gate into that dark Under-world.
What had changed to her since then ?
She remembered now with a kind of tri¬
umph in the midst of her anguish she had
ooked on palace and temple, and on all the
pomp of life in the city, and had thought—
" Not Tiberius Caesar, but Death is the Uni¬
versal Lord. That which has triumphed over
my Beloved, will lay low and triumph over
all, beautiful women, strong men, soldiers,
(Í76)
riCTORT OF TEE VANQUISEED. 47;
senators, Emperor. Whatever seems, Death
alone reigns. "
What had changea since then, that every¬
thing was changed to her ?
To the senses, nothing. The sacred urn on
that tomb still actually held what was dear¬
est to her of all visible things on earth. And
it held only ashes.
What then had changed? To herself, to
her spirit, everything.
Death, to the senses, still conquered all.
But Life, she knew, had conquered Death.
Not Caesar, not any dark power of the Un-
der-wo' Id, not Death, was Universal Lord,—
but Christ, Christ seen in the quiet morning
by the lake, in the quiet evening by the table,
blessing the bread.
To Him "all power was given in heaven
and earth." Lord everywhere, and forever.
It was impossible to be exiled from His do¬
minion. Death only brought nearer Him ; one
stage nearer, from the Provinces to the Mother
City, from the School to the Father's House.
That was all she had learned of the Unseen
World. But it was enough.
He was there ; reigning there. There was
no need of any other light to make that world
bright, but the light awful, mysterious, sweet,
familiar, which His Pre.sence, Divine and hu¬
man must make-
478 VICTORT OF THE VaNQUISBED.
The words of the Apostle had not yet been
written to the Church at Rome.
" Glory and honor and peace to every man
t at worketh good, to the Jew first, and also
to the Gentile; for there is no respect of per¬
sons with God. For when the Gentiles which
have not the law do by nature the things
contained in the law, these having not the
law are a law unto themselves, which show
the works of the law written in their hearts,,
their conscience also bearing witness."
But no perplexity had disturbed her heart
with regard to her lost Beloved. Christ the
Lord had not begun to live at Bethlehem, nor
to reign at Jerusalem. He had been living
and reigning with the Father, from the begin¬
ning. He was living and reigning now, over
all things, visible and invisible. That was
enough.
All the heart's yearnings tor justice and for
pity, were satisfied absolutely in the certainty
that he was satisfied, and that He was Lord.
All barriers were broken down in Him, the
atoning sacrifice, the mediating Lord ; all bar¬
riers between man and man; between man-
and God ; between earth and heaven.
No barriers of race could destroy the unity
of the Immunity He had deigned to take, not
as a mutable vesture, but as another nature.
No bar riers of past sin would divide the most
VICrORT OF THE VANQUISEBR. 47g
sinl'ul who believed in Him from God and
trom purity. No impenetrable brazen gates
Ol Hades, even, could separate really the dead
and the living, since the Seen and the Unseen
were alike His kingdom.
Where any wall of partition had stood, He
stood and said,
" / am the door."
Where the gates of exclusion stood. He
stands, with the compassionate countenance
to welcome, and the irresistible pierced hands,
to bless, and to invite.
She knelt in the solitude, feeling something
of the expansion and the comprehension, the
light and the freedom of His presence, and
wept soft healing tears such as she had never
wept there before. Across the waves, through
the storm the words had come to her
" It is I. Be not afraid."
No more. But absolutely enough. For to
, her, His " It is I," meant the assurance in His
voice Who saw, and commanded, all ages and
all worlds, that all is well.
As she rose from the ground, a little way
off, she perceived old Laon, leaning against a
black olive-trunk.
" You came to take care of me," she said.
" You knew where to find me, best and oldesi
friend."
^ VIGTORT OF THE VANQUiaHED.
' Scarcely best now,' he said, in rather a
thick voice ; " you have entered on a world
of brothers and sisters, now."
" Laon," she said, " are not you—even you,
also one of these ?"
He did not answer for some moments.
Then he said,
" You have heard no voice, seen no vision.
Yet the world is changed to you. And //its is
changed to you, which was all in the world
you cared for. Is it indeed true that you be¬
lieve One has risen from the dead, has been
where she whom you love is, has come back
and has told you nothing whatever about that
unknown world save that He is there, and that
nevertheless you are satisfied ?"
" It is true," she said. '* I cannot find that
He has told anything but that He is there,
and that He will welcome each of us thither,
and that we shall be with Him there, at once,
without interval. And with this we are satis¬
fied."
" If what you believe is true," Laon replied,
" think what He might have told you. For
He must be as familiar with that world as
with this. He must surely know how human
hearts long for tidings of it. He might, for
instance, have told you where they live.
Would it not have been something to-know
that if you turn vour eyes to someone spot 1«
VICTORY OF TEE TANQUISHED. 481
<he heavens, you are looking towards t ie bor¬
ders of their dwelling?"
" It seems to us that it would have been
worth something," she said.
" Would it not have been worth something,"
he continued, " to know fully what they know
of us, to have one positive declaration that
they are with us, that they are watching over
us, rejoicing when we do right, caring for
us?"
' I believe they do," she said. " Are they
not with Him Who gave us to each other,
and Who cares for us more than any."
"You trust, you think, you infer," Laon
replied. " But, if you are right. He knetv.
One positive word from His lips would have
been worth much to you."
" It would," she said. " But He has not
given it, and He knew best. Perhaps," she
added, " He saw it would make us stronger
and happier in the end to rest, not on the
things He could have told us, but on His
love ; better for us to all eternity to have
known wliat it is in the face of darkness, and
anguish, and silence," even His silence, to
trust Himself."
" Would it not have been something," Laon
resumed, " to know how th íy live ? what their
employments are, how they are influenced by
this visible world, or can influence it?—^thia
21
482 VIOTORF OF THE VAN<iülSUED.
«risible world which is still so much to us !—
If that pure Being you love had been exiled
to Pandataria, would you not have spent all
your living to get tidings of her, just to know
in what kind of a dwelling she abode, what
she did at any hour of any day ? That world
must have been as familiar to Him you trust,
if your trust is well placed, as your father's
home on the Cœlian to you and your sister ?
Has He told you nothing ?"
" He called it Paradise ; the garden of spi
rits ; the garden of all the worlds," she said.
"That is something, but what the keeping
and tilling of that garden mean. He has not
said. He called it His Father's House and
that is more. It must mean a Temple and a
Home. But what the services of that Temple
are, what that Home life is. He has not told.
But we know what He delighted to do here,
on earth," she added, " and we know they are
with Him, that they must delight to do what
He delighted in, and must be able to do it,
being strong, as He is now, not in weakness
of flesh as He was, and we are. Indeed,
Laon," she concluded, " we are content. And
we have reason. Perhaps He told us all it is
good for us to know. Perhaps He told us all
it is possible for us to know. Which of the
two we know not. But one of the two it must
be, knowing our hearts as He knows them
TIOTORT OF THE VANQUISHBD. 483
ar>d b€Íng what He is. Meantime we are
waiting for the opening of the door. Won¬
derful, happy secrets are behind for us to
learn, we know ; for He is love ; and not one
dark secret; for in Him is no darkness at all ;
and while we wait, we have always one way
■ of learning more and more of them, and that
is by learning more and more of Him. Every
fresh detail we gather concerning Him of His
life here. His words. His dying. His life now,
gives us a glimpse into their lives whose joy
is in Him. Every fresh revelation of His love
and truth is a fresh revelation of their bliss.
Every prayer to Hini draws us near them.
Every act of service to Him associates us
with them. For they are with Him beyond
the night ; and He is with us day and night.
And indeed we are satisfied. Have we not
rèason ?"
" I think you have reason, Clœlia Diodora,
my God-given," he said after a pause. " Man}
have been persuaded, you say, by His words
I am convinced by His silence."
CHAPTER XLI.
NITED in one Family, the little com¬
pany sfill retained their individual
characters and aims, or rather their
various ways of carrying out the
one great inspiring purpose which is the in¬
spiration of every Christian life.
All barriers were broken down; but no
characteristics.
To Clœlia Diodora the words of the Vestal
that morning in the old garden on the Coelian
often came back, like a hymn.
" Rejoice with me," she had said. " To¬
day I began the sacred priesthood, the charge
of the sacred fire. To-day my life flows forth
from the shadow of the rock-arches to .serve
our Rome."
The whole Church seemed to Diodora the
fulfilment of that fair type ; a Vestal Priestess,
clothed in the pure white "stole, every morn¬
ing drawing the living water from the Foun-
1484)
riOTORT OF THE VANqUISHED. 485
tain for the Shrine ; day and night keeping
the Sacred Fire burning, not only for Rome,
but for the world.'
The whole redeemed Church on earth and
in heaven, and every member of it.
Even to her her portion • of the sacred
charge was given. The charge of Laon's
little home, the brightening of his failing life,
the bearing of his little irritabilities, the
watching his every wish. And in that cor¬
rupt and suffering city, so full of sins and
wrongs and pain, there was no lack of wider
ministries.
The whole work of the Church lay before
her. Slavery was in the world, slavery with
its possibilities of crucifixion, with its certain¬
ties of degradation. The gladiatorial games
were there ; and the Empire which provided
them, and the people who delighted in them
were there.
All these mountains of wrong nad to be
overthrown, and every one of them had to be
overthrown by no earthquake, by no volcanic
outburst, by no thunderbolt of Divine ven¬
geance, but from within, slowly, impercep¬
tibly, by the living waters cleansing, and the
sacred fire enkindling heart after heart.
Slowly, imperceptibly, yet by no quiet, in¬
evitable diffusion of an atmosphere, by a rev-
nlution in heart after heart wrought by a
486 VI0T0B7 OF THE VANQUIShED.
power far mightier than any which convulsed
the visible world,—^by unflinching loyalty,
and unconquerable courage, and unquench¬
able love, by the willing sacrifice of life after
life, in ministrations of charity, and in deaths
of anguish.
Victory, sure and steady, but always
through the vanquished. Victory, not by
the lightnings, but by the Cross.
To Callias, the young Athenian sculptor,
the difiiculty of uniting the new loyalty with
the old habits of life, seemed at first the
greatest.
Laon and Si ward still worked on at the ar¬
morer's workshop in the Suburra. We do not
hear that the Centurion of those days left his
calling as a calling. The arms of the Roman
soldiers, if often used in the destruction of
national life, were yet in general employed in
the support of law and order.
With Siward the old desire for the libera- .
tion of his Germans was not yet quenched.
Understanding now what liberation meant, un¬
derstanding that no one can be set truly free
except from within, and knowing how this
emancipation was effected, more fervently
than ever he purposed, one day to return
among his people and bear to them the sum¬
mons to the seiwice which is perfect free«
dom
nCTOBT OF THE VlNqUISHED. 487
But he had much to learn ere he could
teach ; nor could he preach until he was
sent
Meantime he learned continually by work¬
ing, by listening, by praying, and he felt as in
the old days, that each day's work was a
preparation for a better. How much better
he had not known then. How much better
he did not yet know.
But to Callias the perplexing questions
which beset the early Christians presented
themselves for immediate decision ; how to
reconcile the beauty of the Pagan sculpture
with its desecrations, how to disentangle the
Beauty from the Idolatry and the Vico which
entwined their rank, poisonous growth round
every portion of it.
The early Church, we know, had an im¬
perial fearlessness of evil. Into the very
shrines of the corrupt rites she entered in her
Vestal Stole, and claimed therein whatever
was good and beautiful and true as belonging
to her Lord.
In the form of Orpheus, for instance, shep¬
herding the sheep with his lyre, she saw the
Good Shepherd of all the Flocks of God, in
heaven and earth. Beautiful and True and
Good, and fearlessly delineated the symbol of
Orpheus on her sacred sepulchres.
Too full of faith and love was she in those
488 VICTORY OIT THE VANQUISUMD.
first dîiys to know fear. With no apologetic
concessions, but with Imperial claims to Uni¬
versal Empire, she came forth into the world.
While she dared the Cross and the Wild
Beasts in the Arena, and the Plague, she dared
also as feàrlessly the worse perils of mora,
pestilence, entering any lazar-house to rescue
thence whatever could be rescued.
Still, diseased and ghastly as the life was,
heathenism was yet living; and it was not
possible for the Christian sculptor to carve
Apollos or Venuses for Temples where in any
sense they were still worshiped. Nor was
it possible for Apollos and Venuses to be re¬
ceived into Christian households, as harmless
decorations, fair relics of a religion passed
&way. Christianity was a religion primarUy
in the sense of its being not an opinion, but a
loyalty. And perpetually, practical questions
would arise, which involved a decision be-
tween a Pretender and the King.
Pagan religion was not yet dead, and there-
fore Christian Art was not yet possible.
Moreover, the world had to be conquered ;
every Christian was a soldier, and soldiers in
such a campaign had little time for Art.
Callias, therefore, abandoned for the pi'es-
ent the sculpture of the human form, and lim¬
ited himself to making such things as were
needed for the homes of men ; cups and flag*
riOTOBT OF TUE VÄmUiaUED. 4. ,
ons, and ums, as beautiful as he could maLe
them.
On Calilas and Hilda, more than on any of
the little company around them, Christianity
brought an apparent loss.
To Si ward longing for the freedom of his
Germans ; to Clœlia disguised and imprisoned
in her poor crippled frame, and bereaved of
her dearest, to Laon on the verge of the other
life,—to Siguna, with but one longing left in
this,—^it was altogether Gospel,~altogether
gain, with no present loss, whatever the fu¬
ture might demand.
But the mother and father of those fair
young children, came at once under the pres¬
sure of the great burdens of the world, which
hitherto young and strong and buoyant as
they were, had scarcely touched them. They
became members of ah Immortal Band, ap¬
pointed to the front of the Battle.
As the mother looked on her children, un¬
speakable as the joy was of committing them
for life and death to Him Who was Lord of
both, and had taken the little ones in his arms,
nevertheless, it could not banish the convic¬
tion that in training them to be His disciples,
she was training them for a service in which
they deliberately subjected themselves to a
destiny as cruel as the worst infliction of
slavery.
21*
VICTORY OF THE VÄNQUiaHED.
There was no levity in Christian life in
those days. The holy depth of the joy for¬
bade it, and the weight of the glory to be re¬
vealed, but also the probability of the inter¬
vening suflfering.
CHAPTER XLII.
HEN the day's work was done, Si-
ward might often be seen, with his
mother, on the quays by the Tiber,
at the schools of the masters of the
Gladiators, or at the slave-dealers, gleaning
any information they could about captives, or
foreign slaves.
Through countless bands of downcast-look¬
ing men and women, brought from all quar¬
ters of the Empire to the great slave-market
of Rome, Siguna's eyes had searched in vain
for Olave.
Year by year she had traced, in thought,
the changes time must have made in the form
she had seen last in the fullness of manly
strength. Sometimes she said to herself that
perhaps his countenance would be so changed,
and his form so bowed that she might scarcely
recognize him. But the voice she could never
fail to know ; the voice uttering her name.
Might I'ot she also be so changed that even
(49« >
492 VICTORY OF THE VANQUiaHED.
Olave might scan "her features vacantly, find,
ing no traces of old times ? She had watched
herself change, looking at herself as if with his
eyes, and had seen the golden hair turn to
gray, and the furrows deepen, and the eyes
lose their lUstre, and the cheeks their fresh¬
ness ; and transferring the same slow work of
time to the face she remembered so full of
power and life, more and more, as the years
went on, the fear grew that they might possi¬
bly meet, gaze vacantly on one another, and
pass by and so lose their one opportunity of
reunion for ever.
But the voice she felt could never chango
so that she could fail to recognize it. Some
tones utterly indescribable to any besides,
would reveal him to her, above all, if they "
spoke her name. And with him she was sure
it must be the same.
Patiently therefore she would pass through
%
every company of German captives, softly re-
. iterating his name.
So year after year had passed, but no re¬
sponsive look or tone had come. Still she
hoped on. To every one else, even to Siward,
the hope had come to seem a mere fond delu¬
sion. He never failed to attend and guard
her, and as far as he could to assist her in her
search, but to him other hopes and other wo'"k
gre^ cut of it.
riOTOBT OF TUE VANQUiaUED. 493
«
Stories of wrong and sorrow were poured
out into his ear. From East and West and
North and South the cry of the oppressed
came to him ; sometimes with the fruits of his
%
daily labor he would relieve the misery ne
saw so much of; sometimes even he had been'
able to pay a ransom. Sonietimes he had
been able to bring the tidings of the Life
g^ven a Ransom, given for all, and of the Mas¬
ter whose disciples could never in the deepest
sense be in bondage more.
Esther and Onias had remained at Antioch,
and the means of the little company at Rome,
Laon, Clœlia Diodora, Calilas and Hilda, Si-
guna and Siward, were very scanty. But in
every Christian heart was erected that Altar
to Pity which theTity of God never suffers
to fail in sacrifices, or in the heavenly fire.
At this time, at the beginning of the reign
of Claudius Caesar, the number of captives
from the North began to increase. Two gen¬
erals, Servius Galba and Corbulo, had crossed
the Rhine once more, and recommenced the
conquest of the Germans. And from the
Chatti and Chauci, and other tribes in the
country between the Rhine and the Elbe—
the native land of Siguna and Olave—faii-
haired men and women, and aged people and
ittle children began to arrive.
They came along the Flaminian Way. And
494 VIGTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED.
evening after evening the mother and sou
used to go forth along that Great Northern
Road to watch these captive bands of their
compatriots, dragged or driven along the
road by which, so many years before, they
themselves had been led to Rome.
At length, in May, it was reported that
there had been a successful invasion, and that
an unusual number of captives were expected.
Siguna persuaded Siward to start early in the
morning and go a day's journey from the
City, so as to be more secure of not missing
any who might arrive.
Before evening they reached a slope beyond
the undulating plane of the Campagna, which
seemed to Siward familiar as if he had visited
it in a dream. Siguna was wearied, and they
sat down to rest a few moments before thej
climbed higher. As they rested they turned
their faces towards Rome.
Before them stretched the arrowy lines of
the Roman Road, scaling the hills and span¬
ning the valleys.
Slowly, as they gazed, the day dissolved
into dusk, the silvery glimpses of the sea be¬
tween the openings of the hills vanished, the
rolling surges of the Campagna grew dim and
gray, the glossy bays and evergreen oaks
around them were massed in impenetrable
shade, until at last, on earth, nothing was
riCTOáT OF THE VANqUISEED. 495
discernible but those arrowy lines of road
Btretching into the darkness ;—^and nothing ir
heaven but the green and golden seas which
quivered between the purple bars of lower
cloud, or the ruby amber which jewelled the
tops of the sunlit clou-ds above.
Suddenly the full recollection of the morn- .
ing when he had sat there with his mother
on their first approach to Rome; rushed on
Siward's mind.
" The walls of Asgard ! " he exclaimed.
" Mother, since we were here last, we have
found we have entered the Gates of the City
of God ! Do you remember that morning,
long ago, when we sat here, both slaves, "
looking towards Rome. To me, the very
words we spoke, and the thoughts I could not
speak come back with a strange clearness.
* Death,' you said, ' cannot be kept out even of
Asgard! And I thought, ' Is there no place
where wrong and death cannot come? No
time when Justice and Truth will rule? No-
«
where a happy City of the good ?' Mother,
do you remember ?"
" I remember," she replied, " you said, ' Did
no one know ? Then it was not worth living
longer, it would be better to die and know.'
And I said, ' Die and know zvhat ? ' Then you
spoke with a protecting gentleness which made
me thiiik of your father, boy as you were,
496 VICTORY OF THE VANqUIUHBH.
and you said you had been a coward to wish
to die and desert me, and that for mc and
Hilda it was well worth while to live. I re-
member, my son, you have well kept the
charge you took on yourself then."
" Think, mother !" he resumed, " how e rery
. thing I longed to know, or dared to hope, has
been fulfilled, and yet in a way none of us
would have chosen, or dreamed of. Fulfilled
by worse than my worst fears having proved
true. I never told you what I saw when I •
left you that May morning. It was here first
that I saw the shadow which lowered so long
over our lines. It was here first that I saw
one dying On a Cross. And, now, the Holy
and the Just; the Deliverer, such as I was
groping for in vain on the right hand and on
the left,—^the King,-—the Son of God,—has
died on such a Cross as that. And Death it¬
self is slain. Death itself has become the
Gale of the Heavenly City into which, unlike
Asgard, Death can never come. More even
than that, He Himself, the Crucified, has be¬
come the Gate of the City of God, the City
of the Immortals, the City of the forgiven and
the loving, to be entered here on earth, with¬
out a barrier,—stretching up the heights of
hea''fen, with gates on earth, ever open tc
men."
They did not journey farther that night
VICTOR Y OF THE YANQITSHED. " 497
#
%
On a bed of dry leaves, wrapped, after she had
fa.Ien asleep in Si ward's cloak as well as her
own, Siguna slept the sleep of the weary.
But Siward could not sleep. Such thank¬
fulness filled his heart, and such wide hopes
of a life of service for his Lord, and for his
people.
Those arrowy lines of road which had
seemed to him of old as threads of the web
which drew the prey to Rome, had become
to him as lines along which should glide the
sunbeams of the Good Tidings.
" And I," he thought, " even I, may be one
of the bearers of that light."
In the morning, early, before his mother
awoke, he went to buy a draught of milk from
a goatherd whose flocks were .«sv^attered over
the slopes.
At the next turn of the road, he came on a
band of captives with a Roman guard.
On a bank by the roadside was sleeping an
old man, a little apart from the rest. His
white beard fell on his breast. His sleep
seemed uneasy ; once or twice he moaned as
if in pain, and then Siward saw that his bar«'
feet were wounded and blistered, and bis an
des grazed with fetters.
While Siward was still looking at him com¬
passionately, as at one of the countless suffer¬
ers of that oppressed world, wondering what
»
498 VIOTOBT OF THE VANQVISEED.
further miseries the few years left him on earth
might involve, the old man awoke. Not be¬
wildered, altogether awake, at once, as one
1 iccustomed to be on his guard against sur¬
prises. He arose at once, and Siward saw,
through all the feebleness of age, and the
weariness of pain, the soldierly bearing, and
the power of endurance, and of conimand, in
the clear blue eyes.
He hazarded a few words in his native
German. They were answered in the same
dialect.
A hope flashed on him. But before he had
time to make inquiries, — suddenly, — not in
the timid, hesitating, anxious tones to which
he had become so accustomed, but with a
ring of recognition and joy which brought
back all the youth into the voice, burst on him
the familiar name—
" Olave ! Olave !"
And the answer—
" Siguna ! my lost : my wife ! mother of my
children !" was all but hushed in Siguna's
sobs of joy.
» * * * * * .
With Siward there was no doubt or hesi¬
tation as to the duty which had fallen on him.
In the slave-market, at the gladiatorial
games, one human chattel was as good as an¬
other, except for the work to be got out of
t
riCSOBF OF THE VANqmSHED. 499
either. In this case the exchange oí feeble
old age for vigorous manhood was one to be
accepted with alacrity.
No choice was left to Olave or Siguna.
Siward had effected the transfer of himself
for his father, before either he or his mothei
knew of it. And the leader of the band of
captives sarcastically declined to annul itj at
the old man's entreaties.
Once more, therefore, Siward trod th «e
last weary miles of the Flaminian Way, a sU re.
CHAPTER XLIII.
»
T was the birthday of the Emperor
Claudius. Lame, with a head that
quivered from palsy,—^the aversion
of his grandfather Augustus, the butt
of the courtiers, despised by his own mother
Antonia, Claudius the brother of Germánicos,
after fifty years experience of the contempt
with which that hard old world regarded
bodily infirmity, had been dragged from the
corner of the palace where he had crouched
in terror after the assassination of Caligula to
wield the Empire of the world.
To his honor, those years of neglect and
scorn do not seem to have embittered him.
He indulged in no act of petty vengeance..
He had no pleasure in seeing others suffer-
The only indelible evil stamped on his char¬
acter by those long years of contunie^and
impotence, were a destitution of^élfíéíiance,
an abject timidity which palsied his power for
(Soo)
VILTOlîT OF THE VANqUISUED. 501
£..v> vnd left him the prey of wicked women,
ana designing courtiers.
But whether the Emperor delighted in them
or not, the appetite of the Roman people for
the sanguinary gladiatorial games must be
satisfied, and the Imperial birthday must be
celebrated by an especial slaughter.
For many years Claudius had been forbid¬
den to appear in the Imperial seat, at the
circus or amphitheatre, because his stunted
and slightly palsied form was thought by the
Imperial family to be a slur on them, a
blot on the Beauty and Strength by which
their " Divine " lineage was distinguished,—a
Wounding of the hiajesty of Caesar, in the
eyes of the populace.
But to-day all this wâs changed. The Clau¬
dius Caesar was the Divine Dispenser of bread
and games,—rand his p.Tesence was to glorify
the Combat.
The crowds streamed out of Rome to the
Campus Martius, and filled range after range
of the seats of the great amphitheatre near the
Tiber.
It was the first of August. The glare of
the sun was overpowering. Many protected
themselves from it by what others regarded
as the Oriental effeminacy of umbrellas. But
the show was to be magnificent, and it was
worth enduring somethi ig to see thoa'sands
502 VIVTOBY OF THE YANqUISHED.
of slaves and criminals, and among tbem hir.â«
dreds of these new German captives, who had
been in training since May, (stalwart men
most of them,) in deadly conflict with each
other, and afterwards with hundreds of Nu-
midian lions, panthers and tigers.
For after the gladiatorial fights the people
had been promised a grand combat with wild
beasts.
The quays on the Tiber had been danger¬
ous frequently of late with the disembarkation
of the irritated and bewildered beasts.
And now their unquiet moanings and ro:ir-
ings could be heard in the dens, beneath the
Amphitheatre, where they were chained, hun¬
gry and perplexed, in readiness for the conflict
Siward was there, not among the specta
tors ; among the gladiators. Not among
those who were armed fully for combat with
each other, but clothed in the short tunic,
and armed only with the prong of the beast
combatants. Choice having been allowed
him, he had chosen rather to fight with the
wild beasts than to make sport for a Roman
crowd by fighting for life with men who had
done him no wrong, many ({ them his com¬
patriots.
It was in no solemn silence, as of a con« '
demned cell, that the men around him were
awaiting their terrible lot. Manv of them, in-
VKJTORr OF TUE VANqUlSHED. 503
*
deed, were captives, reluctantly driven to this
cruel combat ; yet even some of these had en
tered with, zest into the training, and looked
forward to the fight, not without a fierce ex
citement, and not without a hope of victory
aod escape.
But the majority, on this occasion at least
were criminals, men of the lowest and mosi
reckless character, to whom the descent into
the arena was rather a rise than a fall in life.
Or they were voluntary combatants, men
who willingly hired themselves, who had
chosen prize-fighting as their profession, and
were the heroes and the models of the young
Roman nobles, the popular subjects of endless
gambling, themselves content to gamble away
their lives for the pay and the palms, and even
without pay or applause, having a fierce wild
boast's joy in the fight.
They had all taken the terrible gladiator's
oath, and probably taken it with little thought.
"We swear the oath, to be burnt, van¬
quished, beaten, slain with the sword, and
whatever else is commanded us, submitting
ourselves to our Master, as lawful gladiators
most religiously, body and soul."
To this Siward had added in a loud, deal
voice '
" With reserve to the Master to Whvjm I
have S'vorn all this before."
Í04 VlüTOnr OF TH& VANQUISHED.
f
He had gone diligently through all the
training He intended to sell his life dearly
He had hoped to do so much with it.
And he had much hope.
Few frames more muscular or agile than
his were among that desperate, but well-
, trained band.
That gathering of gladiators was no quiet
place in which to prepare for what might be
the last scene of life to him.
Oaths, and jests, and eager betting, and
angry debating, and loud wild laughter, and
the fierce boasting of those who had already sur¬
vived many such combats, made a din around
him which drowned the roaring of the beasts.
He found it difficult to think or pray.
Only, as often in moments of suspense, or
of strong excitement, one set of words kept
beating through his brain, half mechanically,
yet now and then striking on his heart with a
vivid fulness of meaning.
" I swear to be burnt, vanquished, beaten,
slain with the sword, or whatever else is com¬
manded, submitting ourselves to our Master
religiously, body and soul."
"To our Master religiously, body and soul.'
The words came and went like the monot¬
onous moaning of a wind, and beneath them
his heart was surging with all its freight oí
m
long-cherished hopes.
ViVTOB'ï OF TUE VANQVISHED.. 505
It was not for such a combat he had been
training himself all these years.
Would he indeed perish in the Arena, un¬
distinguished among those degraded crimi¬
nals and men who had basely sold themselves
to such a life ? Perish without a word on his
•lips, or a sign on his torn limbs, to show in
what Master's service he had really fallen, by
what Sacrament he had been bound ? Perish •
and the glorious message he had hoped to
bear among his people perish for them with
him?
Still the words came back ;
9
•' Submitting ourselves to our Master re¬
ligiously, body and soul."
They came, as of old the Master's voice
across the surges of Galilee, and brought a
great calm.
Religiously, willingly, not as a victim, as a
living sacrifice, redeemed body and soul, be¬
longing body and soul to the Redeemer, he
would die. The life his own had rescued,
would, he felt sure, not be forgotten or lost
before God.
At length the first combats were over. The
signal for the wild beast fight was given.
At one gate came forth the human combat¬
ants. At the other were driven in the raging
troops of bewildered beasts, bears, lions, pan¬
thers, and among them a tew peaceable g ants
22
4
5ó6 victor 7, of the vanq ulseed.
of elephants, to be irritated and maddenea
into one midistinguishable tangle of rage and
pain and slaughter.
For an instant the crowd of eager and ex¬
pectant faces on the seats of the amphitheatre
flashed on Siward, as the troop of combatants
passed before the Emperor with the
" Ave Caesar, morituri te saluant."
For one calm conscious moment he lifted
up his heart.
" Hail Christ, living or dying I worship
Thee ; " then in the words of the fatal oath
"To thee Master, to Thee, body and soul."
Then the rush of the combat began.
And thenceforth he was conscious of nothing -
but the straining of every nerve and muscle
in the conflict for life, until, torn and bleeding
after the last death-grapple, he saw a power¬
ful panther rolling in the dust before him
heard a shout of applause ringing from al
sides of the crowded amphitheatre. Then ah
sights and soiinds faded into shadows and dim
echoes far away, and nothing remained clear
" To Thee Master, body and soul, to Thee."
******
He woke ; not to the welcomes which
never die into farewells ;—but once more to
the wistful tenderness of his mother's eyes,
not to the immortal vigor of the life beyond
death, but to the mortal weakness of a frame
é
VIOTOBT OF THE VANQUISHED. 507
which could never again be as it had been,
the wi lling servant of the spirit.
Very slowly, by the tenderest nursing, he
recovered, but maimed and weakened hope¬
lessly
At first it seemed very hard to be thus
lieaten back a helpless wreck the stormy
shore he seemed to have left for ever; to
come back thus to the old work without the
old power.
He had longed, and prayed, and striven
hard for life. The Kingdom of God had such
glorious conquests to make still on earth, and
here,, on earth he had felt he might aid in
them. Not by passive endurance only, and
by feminine patience, and by martyrdom, but
by daring and enterprise, by the highest con¬
tinuous strain of the energy of the bravest
men were the first conquests of Christianity
achieved.
Above also, in the higher world he knew
he might aid in that highest service, although
he knew not how, and he would like not to
have seen the Master until he could have
done a little more towards winning the " Well
done." He had taken the oath to suffer and to
die ; he had not thought it might mean rather
live and suffer.
Life being yielded up, he had thought of no
other alternative but that other life beyond.
5o$ vrnroRr of tub vanqjisbbl.
pf the inconceivable joy of seeing the Master â
face, and being for ever with Him.
To die to the work of earth and yet not to
enter on that heavenly life, this was what he
had not dreamed would be laid on Him.
The only thing that, at first, made the pros¬
pect endurable to him was the welcome in his
mother's eyes. For her sake he felt it was
well.
" Thank God !" she said to him one day,
when his strength began to return. " Do you
remember the man of God in Esther's books
who ^.ook his only son up the hill to sacrifice
him, and raised the knife to slay him ? If thou
hadst died, my son, all my life would have
been like that. Day after day I should have
felt toifing up the hill to the altar of sacrifice,
and lifting up my hand to slay thee."
He was content to spare her that anguish,
although to him it seemed that the burden
had but been transferred. All his life, he
thought, he Would be toiling up the weary
hill, bearing the wood of sacrifice, and having
no strength to bear anything else.
Yet he was content. ' The Master had said
it was the Cross His disciples should bear
after Him. That must mean, he knew too
well, as hard a thing as a man cou d endure.
Exactly this had been laid on him. It was no
more than he had willingly undertaken in his
4
, VICTORY OF TUE TANQUISUED.
baptismal promise when rising from the cold
tide of the Orontes into the glory of the Sy¬
rian dawn, baptized into Christ, he had come
forth into a new world, and a new life, vowed,
as he was altogether redeemed by Him to
be altogether His, to suffer combat, serve or die,
" to be subject to Him body and soul for ever."
It was all the harder because the life he had
rescued by his own, seemed so little likely to
be a substitute for his, and so doubtful a bless,
ing to its possessor.
Very seldom, at first, did the old man
Olave the Smith, enter the sick chambar, and
when for a few moments he came and stood
beside his son, he would scarcely speak a
word, but stand helpless and dumb, with a
look of bewilderment and pain in his face,
more like the perplexed, wistful gaze of a
faithful dog, than that of human eyes, until
Siguna would gently take his hand, and dumb
and unresisting he would submit to be led away.
By degrees, however, he consented to watch
by the couch, seeming pleased like a child to
be allowed to be of use. He would sit and
mechanically brush away the flies that buzz
about all defenceless creatures. As he sat
thus Siward grew conscious of the world of
civilization that had been slowly growing
between him and the old barbarian life.
To what must the old man's thoughts be
jia VICTORY OF THE VANQUISHED.
wandt ling back, as his eyes were fixed in thai
sad far-away gaze ? To the old forest-life, the
chase, the forge, the battle-field, the carouse
with its monotonous yet eager talk of the
chase, the forge, the battle ; to the early màr-
ried life when his boys and girls were grow¬
ing up around him, to a recurrence of just
such a life as his own, as surely, it seemed, as
the nestlings of this season into the songstei s
of the next.
To old Olave the city was a mere prison, a
labyrinthine barrier between hirn and free¬
dom. The mythologies and philosophies
with their aspirations after light and their
chasms of darkness, which had sprung from
the fertilizing contact of nation with nation,
and man with man,—^and which both by their
ight and their darkness had prepared the
world for Him in whom all practica., prob¬
lems are solved, and all theoretical perplexi¬
ties hushed to acquiescent expectation,—to
old Olave the Smith, all these things were
but as the language of an unknown world.
Philosophy was to him known but in its bar¬
est practical conclusion ; such as to endure
what could not be cured ; history limited itself
to narratives of the feuds between the Chatti,
the Cherusci, and the Chauci, with a dim
background of mythical heroes in the far East
which constituted also his theology.
VlüTORT OF THE VANqUISHED. jn
And yet beneath those silent lips flowed
the souices from which all poetry and philos¬
ophy and mythology had sprung, the rejoic¬
ing, sorrowing, struggling, yearning human
heart. To him also God was indeed the only
source of life. Before him ajso was Death,
and the lile unknown.
And Siward felt not a doubt that in that
redeeming life and death of the Son of God,
Lord of all men, lay what would meet his
father's sorrows and needs, dim and speech¬
less as they were, as well as those which had
learned to name themselves.
What then was to unseal that dumb heart
to him ?
He had not yet learned the potency of the.
spell which lay in that worthy name by which
he was named. He had yet to learn that it
could roll away the great stone which seemed
an essential part of the rock, and gave no sign
of the hollows within, as easily as it could dis¬
entangle the subtlest fastenings.
»
" Father," he said one day, as they sat
alone together in a little inner court, to which
for the first time he had gathered strength to
v?alk. " This city is a dungeon to you. I
-V used to feel it so once. We will go back to
gethcr to the forests."
The old man made no reply for some min-
5X2 VÏGVJBY OF THE VAEQUIbBED.
« •
utes. His fa^e worked painfully, and at last
he exclaimed abruptly,
"The whole world is a prison to,me! Si-
ward ! Boy ! My. son ! you had no right to
keep me here against my will; no right »0
prevent my dying as a soldier, and make me
live on as a sick woman. To me it would
have been nothing to fall among their beasts.
I should never have risen again. It was a
great wrong to give me no choice, to keep
. me chained to a miserable old age to see thee
suffer thus."
" Father ! " Siward said, " I had no choice ^
no more than thou hadst. I have learned of
the Father in heaven, thine and mine. I had
to obey Him. I have sworn allegiance to the
Master Who redeemed us, to Whom we be¬
long, thou and I. Thou didst not know oi
Him. Painful or pleasant to thee or to "me, it
was for me to go to Him I serve, and for thee
to stay here and leam of Him. I did but
what I had to do. He called and I could but
obey "
For the first time the seal seemed broken ;
the bewildered look changed into one of ques¬
tioning.
And, simple as a little child, the old man
sat and listened to the Story which the little
child can learn, and received the religion
»
VICTORY OF THE VANÇIUIBRKD. 513
wnich "enters in at low.y doors," because it
is nc elaborate machinery of opinion, but the
revelation of relationships, the record of facts,
the story of a life and death and a life that
oc'cr does more, and a love that never fails.
And as he listened and learned, the myste¬
ries of our common human life grew clear to
him, the rents and fissures of the heart torn
and convulsed by the changes of seventy years,
were filled with the living waters, every rent
and fissure but deepening its capacity to re
ceive,—^and the murmurs of the infinite sea
• by whose shore we are all standing, to which
he had listened wondering so long, not know¬
ing what they meant or whence they came,
were changed into music and were interpreted
into a triumphant song echoing the Voice
which commanded its waves, and the harps of
God on the other shore.
Gradually Siward endeavored to accustom
himself to his cramped and narrowed life.
Often he would watch Clœlia Diodora and
think how his heart had warmed, of old, inte
a glow of compassion for her and other suf¬
ferers, and how little he had comprehended
what it was actually to suffer, to take the bit¬
ter cup of deprivation and pain into one's own
hands, and not merely try to make it toleia
ble to others, but real!} drink it ourself.
514 VIOTCTRT OF THE VANQUlSnED.
The Cross gained for him ever deeper sig¬
nificance; not only to save His own from
suffering, but to enable them to suffer and by
suffering to grow pure and strong, lowly and
loving, like Himself, had He suffered. ( Not
as an Imperial largess, from the throne of the
Universe, which was His, had He shed pity
on the world, not from the joyous overflow-
- " ings of an unbroken heart, but from the depths
of a heart broken for man, broken by mi.n,
the Fountain of Divine Compassion flowed. ")
So, slowly, he learned to bow beneath t he
Master's yoke, the yoke the Father laid on
him, and bowing beneath it, found it grow
good and kindly, not a fetter to hinder fn tm
serving, not a burden to encumber, but the
yoke binding to the service appointed him,
and therefore for him the highest; and the
best.
And having thus submitted, he had learned
his lesson and done his work, i.nd from him
the yoke was taken off.
The apparent recovery of the spent strength
did not continue.
The neat of the Roman summer in the stag¬
nant air of the close city dwellings, finished
»n the strong northern frame the work which
the wild beasts had begun.
t
There was little speech among them al
7WT0RT OF THE YANQUI8HED. ijiç
about the end which he slowly grew to hope,
and those who watched him to fear ; no per-
■ feci finishing, no sweef melodious close of life,
Imperfect, unfinished, fragmentary, it ceased
to be seen.
With countless expiinatory words unspo¬
ken, and high hopes unfulfilled, and high pur¬
poses not even uttered.
Not "as a tale that is told;" incomplete,
unexplained, inexplicable, is the first pages of
a tale which is not told, which is but begun.
The last legible page rising to no climax,
rounded ofi" with no Finis,—not the chapter,
not the sentence even finished.
Incomplete, because immortal
Unfinished, because scarcely even begun.
Passing imperceptibly and quietly into the
next stage of life, as childhood into youth, and
youth into manhood, without a break,—at
least, without a break to him, to the deathless
redeemed spirit commending itself into the
hands of the Father.
But to those left below who belong« d not
yet to the life beyond the eternal gafes, to
whom, therefore, seen from this side, they
seem, not the shadow they are, but offen the
only reality in a world of shadows,—m \ny
things yet remained to do, many !■ ' n«
learn, man}- sacrifices to acccnrplish.
5i6 riCTOBT OF THE VAHQUISHED.
The meaning, and the quiet beauty, of the
life they had ceased to have among them, be¬
gan to unfold itself before them.
He had said so little. How was it that he
had been so much to all ?
«
"Ah!" old Laon said, "we, the talkers,
shall pass away and leave no such blank and
silence as this. Other floods of speech will
flow on and drown ours in forgetfulness, while
these silent lives echo on and on. Speech is
for the present. Deeds are for all time. They
lever die, but live on in the hearts of men,
and out of the hearts, out of which are the
issues, ever fresh, of fresh life.
" I thought," he said at another time, " I
was teaching him, as I told him all the wise
things I knew, while he worked steadily on
at the old workshop in the Suburra ; now and
then asking some childlike question, or in dim
struggling words trying to make me under¬
stand the old legends of his people. But all
the while he was teaching me."
" How was it," Laon said, again one day,
" that he never seemed doing anything won-
• derful, and yet when he sacrificed his life, like
one of the heroes of old, no one thought it
anything wonderful for him to do. We have
had a hero with us. And we did not know it.
Oh, why did we not know it ?"
' I knew it," his mother said, softly, bu!
VICTORY OF THE TANQUiaHED. 517
witn a triumphant 'ight m her eyes. " I knew
it always."
And Clœlia Diod jra felt that she also had
known it. From the moment when he hao
saved her from the trampling of the crowd by
placing her so gently on the steps of the tem¬
ple, to her all manly heroism had been en¬
shrined in his form, as all womanly heroism
in that of her sister the Vestal. To her he
seemed not farther off, but rather nearer, now
that one veil of flesh was rent between them
forever. And she could not help feeling a
kind of keen joy in the pain which, while it
impoverished this poor transitory world be¬
low, enriched the world "above where those
she loved best abode,* with another victorious
heart who had well fought his fight. )
Hilda wept over her brother and would not
be comforted. " She had thought the Master
would have come back for them all," she said.
" She had .thought He would have been here
and her brother would not have died."
But Diodora said,
" I would not have our dearest escape what
our Lord underwent for us. I WQuld not
miss, or have them miss one step of the dark
way He trod. What are chariots of fire to
the glory of treading in His footsteps? To
all eternity I think it will be sweet to have
drunk of His cup, to have been baptized with
. 5i8 tiotort of rhs vanquibeed.
His baptism. For ever—^for ever, I think it
will be good to have died as our Saviour
died."
Callias found a soiace in lavishing all the
skill he had in making the rocky sepulchre m
the Catacombs where Siward was laid, as
beautiful as he could with symbolic painting.
In the presence of that through which, so
lately, that strong and gentle spirit so uncon¬
scious of its beauty had spoken to them, he
felt it would be a sacrilege to withdraw the
veil of humility which had clothed him. Nor
would he darken the memory of the presence
of that free and glad triumphant spirit with
symbols of defeat and pain. Not Inward but
to his Lord, his Lord who had crowned him,
must all the Sacred Symbols point. Not of
the humiliation of that Lord must they speak,
but of His glory and His joy, the glory and
.the joy the liberated spirits were sharing
now.
The sepulchre was orightened with the
form of the good Shepherd, strong and joy¬
ous in everlasting youta, feeding His flocks
in heaven and earth, and carrying His lambs
in His bosom : the Shepherd and the Living
time, the Life of men, the source of all the
life and all the fruits of grace and all the wine
of ioy in heaven and on earth.
So with these happy sj mbols around their
» é
nOTOBT OF VANqUIBHED. 519
resting place, these early disciples left the
precious mortal remains.
Biit not in the Sepulchre, in the dark, under
that low, cold roof, did they seek and find
communion with him, any more than with his
Lord and theirs.
Something unutterably dear and sacred was
indeed laid and left there, sure to be sacredly
guarded by Him who had left nothing in the
Sepulchre where He had been laid but the
folded grave-clothes, whose voice was, one
morning, to ring through all the sepulchres
and make them as empty as His own.
N But not in the Sepulchre, and in the dark¬
ness,—^in the daylight, where work could be
done; in the world where slavery and the
gladiatorial games still had their constant vic¬
tims ; in the world of the oppressed and the
wronged, of outcast babes, and of lives lost in
ways unutterably worse than death, where as
yet there was no hospital for the sick, no
refuge for the poor ; in the world of blacker
evil still, the world, not of the oppressed but
of the oppressor, of those who enslaved the
slaves, and cast out their own babes to perish,
and delighted in the dying agonies of the am¬
phitheatre- in the world which nevertheJbss
Christ the Lord had loved and had redeemed,
and where He was working with His own for
man, there would they be nearest those who
eiío VÍOTOBT OF THE V4HQUI8HSD.
K.J
absent from the body were present with the
Lord :n1 There they would be working with
them in one Kingdom, in one Family, in one
Service. "Tothem," astneircontemporaries
said, " every strange land was as their native
country, and every native country was as a
foreign land."
" Not the world where our beloved dwell
with Christ is the Under-world; but this,"
Clcelia Diodora loved to say. "Not this, can be
the Home, but what He who knew it, called
His Father's House.
" Not we, but they it is who are awake, wno j
are the Living and the Strong.
" Not we it is who shall have the precedence
in the day of the great triumph, but they."
And then once more together, together with -
Him,—before us all, will be infinite lengths
and breadths and heights and depths beyond,
and no darkness anywhere."
And even then, even there, even forever
the deepest depth of our joy, as the only
strength of our agony, will be "To Thee,
Master, submitting ourselves wholly, to be
and do whatever is commanded us. To thee
subject most religiously, body and soul, for*
ever."