The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 41.

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CONDEMNATION. Part 3.

Ecce Homo (Bosch, 1470s)

The Procurator pondered a little, weighing the life of Jesus against the favor of the Romans, his own weak will and the clamor of the crowd. He yielded at last to the fear of endangering his interests. "And their voices prevailed." ( St. Luke xxiii, 23.)

Casting fear aside, he ordered Jesus to be scourged, as the usual preliminary to crucifixion. Stripping Our Lord to the waist, the soldiers bound Him to a low pillar, that bending He might be in a better position to receive the lashes of the instrument of torture—a leather thong, loaded at its tips with lead or iron.

The scourging began. The Mother of sorrows heard the blows that descended upon the flesh of her Son and her God*

You, who have suffered through the pain of one you dearly loved ... oh, was your grief like hers? What are torments or sufferings ever endured compared to hers when she beheld that cherished body mangled in such a manner by the hands of men ?

And that Son of man, the fruit of her womb, is divine; that flesh, whipped and torn, is divine! That silent Victim is the Son of God, God of God and Light of Light!

But ... at this very moment . . . . when the Man God is overwhelmed with most frightful physical agony, He looks upon a horrible vision. He sees all who will withdraw themselves from His Redemption, the schisms, the divisions, the incredulity of future ages. Irreligious luxury. Pride that would call itself Philosophy. His soul is burdened with every sin, every crime, every evil which ignorance and blindness commit. The iniquities of earth's creatures tear at His soul as the lashes tear at His body.

But now the scourging was over, and the Roman soldiers, who have no pity for this Victim, who belonged to the hated Jewish race, would carry their sport still further. They clothed Him, therefore, with a purple cloak, and they put a crown of thorns upon His head, and they placed a reed as scepter in His bruised hands.

And then began an hour of cruel jest and ribald play. They mocked Him. They prostrated themselves upon the ground before Him. They struck Him and asked Him to prophesy whose hand inflicted the blow. They laughed and jested and paid court of cruelty to Jesus, the King of the Jews.

When Pilate beheld Jesus in this frightful condition, he was moved with compassion. He could not understand why the people could want Him punished further. He himself, therefore, led Him forward and presented Him.

"Behold the Man!" he exclaimed. "I bring Him forth unto you that you may know that I find no cause in Him!" (St. John xix, 4.)

Behold the Man more bruised by the sins which He has taken upon Himself than by the scourging, more wounded by the crimes of men than by the tearing of His flesh. In the presence of such suffering, such meekness, the people were silent. Then the voices of the chief Priests and their servants sounded clamorously.

"Crucify Him!" they screamed. "Crucify Him!"

Pilate was incensed at this implacable hatred.

"Take Him you, and crucify Him; for I find no cause in Him," he exclaimed, resolved that he would not put Jesus to death. But the crafty Jewish leaders rose up once more.

"We have a law," they cried, "and according to the Law He ought to die, because He made Himself the Son of God!"

Again Pilate wavered between fear and sympathy. He went back to the hall.

"Whence art thou?" he demanded in desperation.

Jesus did not answer.

"Speakest Thou not to me? Knowest Thou not that I have power to crucify Thee, and I have power to release Thee?"

That thorn-crowned head was raised wearily. Those worn eyes gazed out at him from that bloodstained face.

"Thou shouldst not have any power against Me unless it were given thee from above," said Jesus. "Therefore he that hath delivered Me to thee hath the greater sin."

"I—I can not! I will not condemn this Man to death!" said Pilate. "I—"

"If thou release this Man thou art not Caesar's friend!" said the Priests with a sneer. "For whosoever maketh himself a king speaketh against Caesar!"

The Roman Procurator was no match for his wily opponents. They threatened him with the thing he feared the most on earth—the displeasure of the Emperor. This decided his course of action. He felt himself compelled to give the final sentence. But first he offered a sop to his own accusing conscience. In the midst of the tumult that now ensued he ordered his servants to bring him water. Standing there, in the sight of the assembled multitude, he washed his hands. This singular action quieted the noise for a moment. The silence that followed allowed the voice of the Roman to be heard most plainly as he disowned all share in this horrible crime.

"I am innocent of the blood of this just Man!" he exclaimed. "Look ye to it."

A yell answered him—and the voice of every demon in every lane and alley and byway of hell joined to make that shout as loud as loudest thunderclap:

"His blood be upon us; and upon our children !"

At this frightful cry, the Virgin moaned, and buried her head in her hands. Magdalen and the others were terror-stricken — they expected the heavens to open and annihilate these unfortunate wretches. Pilate's face whitened. Inside the grated window Claudia, his wife, heaved a great sigh and fell unconscious to the ground. Yet with that same hand which he had just washed and purified, he signed the sentence of Jesus' condemnation. Our Saviour was led forth once more.

"Behold your King!"

"Away with Him! Crucify Him!"

"Shall I crucify your King?"

"We have no king but Caesar!"

The condemnation was given.

"Conduct to the place of punishment Jesus of Nazareth, who incites the people to revolt, despises Caesar, and calls Himself falsely the Messias. Go, lictor, prepare the cross."

Hearing this, Magdalen trembled, and sank almost unconscious to the ground. Salome and the other women supported her. Only Mary remained —Mary, the Mother of the Man condemned. She saw nothing but her Son. Her soul was in her eyes, and across the sea of hatred and passion that surged between them their pure gaze met. She could almost read His thoughts. "The work advances," He was saying to her in His heart, and her heart heard.

In the meantime an echo repeated in the air: "Prepare the cross!" A second repeated it; a third which seemed to come from the heavens above re-echoed the phrase:

"Prepare the cross, whence is to issue salvation to the world."

But the frantic, maddened, devil-driven multitude heard nothing. Neither the voices of heaven nor those of earth; nor the smothered wailings of Mary Magdalen, nor the pitiful sobs and cries for pardon and justice from those who accompanied her.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 37.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE BETRAYAL

TOWARD evening, Judas, followed by a body of soldiers from the Temple and the servants of the High Priests, stealthily left the palace of Caiphas and descended the winding streets of the city.

He led the way, crossing the quarter called Area, and reached the Sterquilinarian gate, which he found open, having previously apprised the gatekeeper of his intentions. There a cohort of Roman soldiers awaited them. They passed in silence through Ophel, where dwelt many friends of Jesus, and made their way along the extensive walls of the old palace of Solomon, soon arriving at the dried-up bed of the torrent Cedron. They crossed it, leaving to the right the tomb of David's rebellious son; they marched quickly into Gethsemani and gained the foot of the mountain.

The moon, which at first had illumined the heavens, suddenly hid itself under dense clouds. The darkness became profound, and the wind moaned sorrowfully in the tops of the trees. It was a gloomy night, seldom seen in this beautiful climate. One of the soldiers carried a resinous torch, and him Judas called, making him march beside him. Either from agitation, or because of the obscurity, the traitor staggered at every step. The ascent was rough. Several times he stopped to take breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Still, the night was cold and the soldiers wrapped their cloaks tightly about them. Once when Judas paused to wipe his streaming brow, the soldier who carried the torch exclaimed:

"If you are so hot, why do you tremble?"

"It is because his heart is the heart of a coward," remarked one of his companions. Several of these knew that they were come to take Jesus of Nazareth prisoner—and they asked themselves: "In what is this Man really guilty? What has He done?"

Judas made no answer. He continued his ascent, but stopped no more until he reached the summit. They had scaled the mountain on the rockiest side, fearing to meet armed partisans of Christ. Useless precaution! All slept. Sin alone was on the watch around Him that night!

At last they reached the garden where Jesus went daily to pray and converse with His disciples. A voice rang out clearly on the night air. It was the voice of Jesus, and at its sound, Judas gave a violent start. He was speaking to Peter, James, and John. "What?" He asked, mournfully. "Could you not watch one hour with Me?"

There was silence. The darkness was intense. Then, farther off, came the low and thrilling tones:

"O My Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from Me." (St. Matthew xxvi, 39.)

So mournful and sad was His voice that it seemed to soften all nature. The rocks themselves, and the echoes lurking among them, responded to it by what seemed almost a moan. Arid the soul of Judas was troubled, though it was not changed. The demon of his terrible crime clung to him like a vulture; he harassed him, goaded him, intoxicated him with fury, preventing him from turning back.

"He has disdained thee! He has laughed at thee! He has preferred all and every one to thee! Revenge thyself! Revenge thyself!"

The garden had but a single entrance; they followed the windings of the hedge until they came to it.

"If there are several within" said the tribune, the officer of the escort, in a low tone, "how am I to recognize Him whom you call Jesus? Should He choose to escape while I seize on one of His followers, He might do so."

"Do not be afraid," Judas answered, in a thick, guttural tone."Order the torches lighted and come near me. He whom I salute with a kiss will be the Man you seek."

"You would betray Him with a kiss?" breathed a voice close to his ear, but when he turned to find out who had spoken, no one seemed paying any attention to him. They were nearing the gate of the garden, which was made of reeds and supported by two high palm-trees, forming a natural arch. Judas opened it—but he staggered, and drove his head against one of the trees. For again that mournful voice was borne to him on the quiet sigh of the night:

"My soul is sorrowful even unto death."

And again:

"My Father, if it be possible, let this chalice pass from Me. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt."

And again:

"Behold, the hour is at hand!"

At these words Judas shook.

"Rise! Let us go! Behold, he is at hand that will betray Me!" (St. Matthew xxvi, 46.)

A violent imprecation burst from the traitor's lips. Seizing a torch from the hands of a soldier, he plunged ahead of those who were accompanying Him. Hardly had he taken three steps when a form barred his way, and in the light of the torch upflung in his quivering hand he gazed upon the gentle face of his Lord and Master.

Down Judas, upon your knees, and hope will light its flame once more in your unhappy soul! Down, and beg the pity, the forgiveness of this Saviour, this Redeemer, who loves you!

But the hell in Judas' bosom flamed into greater fury. That mild and beautiful countenance, shining with light, sent a passion of hatred through his wretched heart. Advancing with haggard eyes and foaming mouth, he saluted Jesus. "Hail, Rabbi!"

And he pressed his lips to the adorable cheek of our God.

"Friend, whereto art thou come?" asked Jesus

mildly. And then, in a sterner tone, "Judas, dost thou betray the Son of man with a kiss?" (St. Luke xxii, 48.)

The grave words, the reproachful tone, seemed to linger, as if their echo could not die away. And at the sound of them Judas the unfortunate came down headlong from the peaks of hatred to the verge of that yawning chasm of despair which was to prove his last undoing. The crime had been consummated! He had betrayed his Master. The name of Judas— Judas the traitor!—was his for all eternity. And Jesus, advanced toward those who had come to arrest Him.

"Whom seek ye?" He said to them. "Jesus of Nazareth," they replied. "I am He," He answered.

At this word they fell in fear, with their faces to the earth. For the glory of His converse with His Father still shrouded Him; the agony of that lonely hour, in which the precious blood had oozed from every pore, still remained. And when He, the Christ, the Son of God, thus proclaimed Himself, the weak beings before Him yielded Him in fear the homage they refused to yield Him in love or respect.

But Our Saviour looked down with calm dignity upon them. His Passion was at hand. He wished to enter upon it. He was the Man of sorrow, the Victim offered for all mankind. And He said, again:

"Whom seek ye?"

The guards arose, exchanged glances—wondering glances—for their fear had left them as suddenly as it had come.

"Jesus of Nazareth," one said again—and waited.

"Have I not told you that I am He?" asked Jesus. "If therefore ye seek Me, let these go their way." (St. John xviii, 8.)

Ashamed of an emotion for which they could not account, they surrounded Him, shoving Him among them, so that there might be no opportunity for rescue or escape. As they turned to leave the garden, the disciples, overcome with anger and sorrow at seeing their Master thus maltreated, would have opposed them, and Peter, drawing his sword, with a sudden blow severed from his head the ear of Malchus, one of the High Priest's servants.

The Saviour looked at Peter reprovingly.

"Put up again thy sword in its place," He said, "for all that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Thinkest thou that I can not ask My Father, and He will give Me presently more than twelve legions of angels ?" (St. Matthew xxvi, 52, 53.)

Ashamed and ill-at-ease, Peter withdrew a little, and Our Lord, coming forward, touched the wound in 'MaIchus' head and healed it. The astonished man stood lost in the crowd, irritated still by the blow he had received, but of which there was no evidence now save memory.

" Who can He be, this Nazarene, whose touch heals the wounded flesh?"

After this act of violence, the tribune at the head of the cohort ordered the hands of Jesus to be bound and the torches made ready for the march. And he gave the word of command to go to the house of Annas, the father-in-law of the High Priest, Caiphas. Hearing this, and beholding the Saviour treated with such rudeness, fear seized upon the hearts of the disciples. They fled in a panic, as raw soldiers might flee who See their leader captured before their very eyes.

The disciples were then but weak and pusillanimous men, incapable of resisting the great and powerful of this earth. The very name of Annas made them tremble. Yet these men were later to become, by the power of the Holy Ghost, the unconquerable heroes of the new faith.

Judas remained. His eyes followed the flaming lights through the trees until their last glimmer was lost. He was alone in impenetrable darkness. Like a man who, in a moment of frenzy has been about to throw himself into an abyss, and is restored to reason just at the moment of his fall, so Judas now found himself the prey of other thoughts than those of hatred and jealousy. He was in the bottomless gulf, indeed, but he was not alone. The angel of darkness was there, and laid burning fingers on his heart.

"Rejoice, rejoice! Thou hast done what no other being has wished to do! Since the birth of this Man I have vainly sought for one to betray Him. All have refused. Only thou, Judas!"

Judas caught his head in his hands as if to still the tumult in his brain.

"To some I have offered all the wealth of the earth! To others, the dominion of this world! To others, pleasures that would intoxicate my angels. Some have been tempted—but one look alone from His eyes has disarmed them. All—yes, all, have refused this great mission of hell! Only thou, Judas!"

Moans of mortal terror fell from the lips of the unhappy wretch.

"Of thine own will thou hast undertaken this thing! Without effort, without fear! For thirty— pieces—of—silver! Thirty--pieces—of—silver! All the powers of hell are in thy debt. In debt to thee, Judas, only thee!"

The moan of terror rose to a loud shriek as these thoughts burned their way into his soul.

"But, say, Judas, what harm has He done thee? What harm has He done thee? Come, tell me, Judas."

Oh, most unfortunate of men, thine hour of grace is not yet past. Seek the feet of that Jesus who is being led away from thee! Force thy way through the soldiers and let His eyes rest upon thee! Divine eyes, that will cure thy wound and assuage thy treachery! Stumbling like one gone blind, muttering and moaning, his teeth chattering, Judas fled. He encountered no one—he was alone with his crime, alone with his despair. But Satan whispered mockingly:

"And hell is thy portion, forever, forever, forever! Hell is thy portion forever!"

Later, a miserable being with staring eyes and haggard countenance re-entered the city of Jerusalem. It was Judas. Here he learned the issue of his Master's trial, and going to the Temple, threw the silver they had given him at the feet of the Priests assembled in the council hall. Then he went out.

Afterwards it was said that he must have wandered during the night in the valley of Josaphat, and round the tombs of the Prophets. When the day dawned he was found dead under the broken branches of a sycamore that grew at the foot of the Mount of Scandal. A cord, attached to his neck, and to the broken branch, indicated clearly what kind of a death he had chosen.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 34.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE HIGH PRIESTS HOLD A CONFERENCE

CERTAIN it was that Caiphas, the High Priest for that year, cherished a violent resentment against Jesus. He complained haughtily that the Nazarene arrogated to Himself that right and authority which belonged to others. And when, after His triumph, Jesus expelled, for the second time, the vendors from the Temple, that hatred was fanned to a white heat: "My house shall be called the house of prayer. . . . But you have made it a den of thieves," He said.

For a long time Caiphas had planned the punishment of the Prophet, but found himself checked on every hand; and not being able to do as he wished in the matter, his anger was but augmented. The cries of joy, the shouts of delight which had filled the streets of Jerusalem, and which had been carried to him on every breeze, so loud and so prolonged that it seemed as if they would never cease, fed his rage with such intensity that he felt as if he could no longer contain it. So he ordered the officers of the palace to his side, and sent them in haste throughout the town, bidding them call together the Doctors of the Law, the Scribes, the chiefs of the Pharisees, as well as the princes of the Priests. He assembled them in council.

"What are we to do?" he asked, in the heat of his passionate anger. "You heard these clamors? Shall we suffer this? Jesus, who calls Himself a Prophet, draws all after Him! If we allow Him to master the multitude, the people will believe in Him. Already in the public places and in the crossroads the mob is crying: 'Blessed is He who cometh in the name of the Lord !' Publicly the people call Him the Messias! Suppose they revolt in His favor? What will happen ? The Romans will come and destroy our country and our nation!"

He stopped to observe the effect of his words. Those who listened were much calmer than he wished —for Caiphas had already won the disfavor of some of them by adverse judgments. He continued:

"We have been divided in opinion, true, and even have not thought alike upon some points of doctrine. But a common danger threatens us, and we must face it united. This Nazarene is your enemy as well as mine!"

He turned to the Scribes and the Pharisees.

"What does He say of you?" he sneered. "'Wo to you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, because you are like to whited sepulchers, which outwardly appear to men beautiful, but within are full of dead men's bones, and of all filthiness. Wo to you, wo to you! That upon you may come all the just blood that hath been shed upon the earth, from the blood of Abel the just, even unto the blood of Zacharias, the son of Barachias, whom you killed between the temple and the altar. (St. Matthew xxiii, 27, 35.)

"Also has He said of you: 'The Scribes and the Pharisees have sitten on the chair of Moses. All things, therefore, whatsoever they shall say to you, observe and do: but according to their works do ye not; for they say and do not.

"Tor they bind heavy and insupportable burdens, and lay them on men's shoulders: but with a finger of their own they will not move them.' " (St. Matthew xxiii, 2, 4.)

In a moment he saw that he had roused the Scribes and Pharisees. Stronger than their disagreement with Caiphas was their hatred of the just One. He turned then, to the Priests and Doctors.

"Our altars are abandoned since this Man began to teach His mad doctrine, which overthrows our own. How many times hath He pronounced anathemas against us? 'Wo to you, blind guides!' He cries. What respect have the people for you— you who alone ought to be heard!—since He comes to the Temple to teach? He blames your doctrine, mocking you in your own words: 'Whosoever shall swear by the Temple, it is nothing; but he that shall swear by the gold of the Temple is a debtor!'

"And if you had heard, as I have just heard, the bitter irony with which this Galilean added: 'Ye blind! For whether is greater, the gold, or the altar that sanctifieth the gift ?' (St. Matthew xxiii, 16, 17.) He makes Himself King! He makes Himself Priest! He makes Himself Doctor! He arrogates our powers to Himself, holding us up for derision. Shall we suffer it ?"

"No, no, no!" cried out with one voice the Scribes, Pharisees, Priests, and Doctors of the Law. "He is a disturber of public and private peace. Let Him be punished as He deserves!*'

"Agreed! We shall forget our dissensions, since all are threatened as one man. Let us have but one object now—the silencing of the Nazarene. Only His death can effect this."

And the hatred of each added fuel to the hatred of all.

They decided to be rid of the Saviour as soon as it could be accomplished, but it was necessary to find some means of seizing Him. They feared an outbreak of sedition among the innumerable multitudes that followed Him, and were then assembled at Jerusalem, for the Feast of the Passover was near at hand.

* * * * *

While these men sat plotting the death of our blessed Lord, His triumphs continued. Mary followed Him, her heart filled to overflowing with pure worship, and delight, not unmixed with sorrow, in the praises which were being showered upon Him from all sides.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 33.

CHAPTER XXXI. JESUS ENTERS JERUSALEM

The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem 1500, Jan van Haldern (1480 - 1511). 

THE following day—the day of festival—the little band of holy people who so dearly loved Jesus, started out once more. He had left Bethania, and gone to Jerusalem, and as they wended then-way thither, the miracles He had performed met them, like precious flowers strewn along the path. As they approached, the people seemed to grow more numerous and the farther on they went the denser became the throng, so that they could not get into the city.

At last Cleophas inquired the cause of this extraordinary assemblage. He learned that they were awaiting Jesus. Followed by Mary Magdalen, the other Mary, and Salome, the Mother mingled in the crowd, anticipating, like any of the women about her, the coming of her Son.

Soon she saw the disciples in the distance. Among them she distinguished Simon, whom she had known at Cana. He marched, proud of his Master, and proud of his own strength, his virtue, his unconquerable courage. Bartholomew followed. Mary had known him also in Galilee. Then came James and Jude, and John, the beloved one. The other Mary could have cried aloud with joy on again beholding her sons, but she blessed them in her heart, and allowed them to pass in silence. Other disciples preceded the Saviour, and their faces were sad. The great crowd of people, the acclamations, did not reassure them. They knew too well that such transports but aroused the anger of the great. Already the murmtirings in high places seemed to threaten Him.

"This man preaches for the people," they said. "Why? Because He comes from the people! Because He wishes to make partisans that He may foment rebellion! He will bear watching !"

Aware of this sentiment against Him and filled with uneasiness, they walked before their Master.

At last the Virgin saw her Son.

He rode upon a colt, on which no man before Him ever had been seated. She looked at Him, feasting her eyes upon His face. Most beautiful of men! Power, force, mildness, bounty, intelligence, compassion, love, mercy, gentleness—every virtue, every gift, every faculty in its most perfect state, was mirrored there. And on this day, this one day of triumph, they shone with superhuman splendor.

And the people saluted their Saviour as if He were indeed their earthly King. They cast flowers in His path. They spread costly garments oh the ground that the feet of the animal He rode might not touch the earth. They carried palm branches in their hands, waving them joyously.

"Hosanna!" they cried. "Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!" (St. Matthew xxi, 9.)

"Hosanna in the heavens!

"Glory in the highest heavens 1"

And the entire people cried out with one voice, "Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord!"

The voices of adoring angels mingled in these acclamations, and every lip repeated the wonders that had been wrought by Jesus.

One told of the resurrection of Lazarus, and how those few words from the Saviour had drawn him forth from the tomb—that man whose body had already been the prey of worms and rottenness. They pointed him out, following in the Saviour's train.

Another spoke of the cure of one who had been long a paralytic and showed him among the friends of Jesus. He was full of life and strength, although he had made a long journey.

A woman recalled tenderly His kindness to her little ones.

"Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not," He had said, "for of such is the kingdom of God." (St. Mark x, 14.) "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hath come perfect praise."

And the mother kissed the fair heads of her boys, upon which the Lord had for a moment placed His hands. The Virgin looked at them with interest, thinking within her heart that at some future period these children would bear witness to the high favor they had received.

Others spoke of the marvelous doctrines which Jesus gave to a listening multitude.

"His sanctity raises us from the abjection into which we have fallen. His laws are in favor of the weak, and the oppressed. He thinks of us poor ones, who are enduring the burden and the hardships of life. Who thought or cared before Him? He consoles our miseries, saying that God has counted them, and will give us recompense if we bear them without murmuring. He is poor, so that we may know how to suffer poverty. Of Himself He spoke when He said those words: 'The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay His head.'" (St, Luke ix, 58.)

"He possesses nothing who can give everything. He tells the rich that their wealth is theirs in trust, only that they may assist us. If it ever happens that they listen to Him, we will have to know but the indispensable evils of life. He is truly the God who made us, before whom all are equal!"

And a woman added:

"He wishes woman to be no longer treated as the slave of man, but as his companion. He wishes the son to love and venerate his mother. He loves and venerates His own Mother. Let Him be blessed! Hosanna to Him on earth and in heaven!"

The Virgin heard these words—they were spoken close beside her. Her heart leaped with joy—the joy of a mother, a joy which included her Son, and all who loved her Son, in an immense and maternal affection.

"May God bless His people!" she exclaimed, and as the words left her lips a gust of wind raised her veil. Several, whose attention was attracted by her remark, beheld her beautiful countenance. Instantly her resemblance to the Saviour was commented upon.

"This is His Mother! Surely this is His Mother!" they exclaimed.

Mary hurriedly' drew her veil about her, and sought refuge behind Magdalen; so dense was the crowd that they had no difficulty in losing themselves in it. Following, or preceding the Virgin, Magdalen, herself concealed, saw many of those whom she had known in Jerusalem. Once her shoulder almost touched that of Joseph of Arimathea, and she noted his sad and thoughtful countenance. To her surprise Servilius was with him.

"Do you not see that this triumph will lead to His ruin?" asked Joseph, sorrowfully, of the young Roman.

"The fault will be His own!" was the answer.

"Why does He display His triumph under the eyes of the governor and those in high places who fear the influence He exercises over the people? Why did He not remain in Galilee instead of coming here to compromise His partisans ?"

"I believed you to be one of His trusted disciples," said Joseph of Arimathea, wonderingly*

Carried forward by the crowd Magdalen did not hear the reply. But Servilius' countenance told its own tale. He had always wavered between courage and interest, and he had not the strength to sacrifice one for the other.

"Weak, weak Servilius!'' she murmured. "Never has thy soul known true elevation or generosity."

But the crowd had entered the city. The acclamations were redoubled. The sight of Lazarus, of whose resurrection all were talking, sent the dense throng into greater enthusiasm. Flowers and palm branches were cast upon the ground, making the Lord's way the path of a conqueror. But never had any conqueror excited such transports.

The shouts and cries of joy penetrated to the palace of Caiphas and made him tremble with rage. He had never forgotten or forgiven that earlier Pasch in which Jesus had whipped the buyers and sellers out of the Temple. "Take these things hence," He had said, "and make not of My Father's house a house of traffic!" (St. John ii, 15,16.)

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 29.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE WIDOW'S SON

IT was at Nazareth that the Messias had fewest followers. "A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country, and in his own house," (St. Matthew xiii, 57.) Jesus had said, in leaving the town which had sheltered Him so long. And in the course of His whole mission He rarely returned to it, for He knew that there His preaching would be without fruit.

Neither the humble Mary nor the lowly Joseph had ever told of the wonders of the birth of Jesus. He had passed as the son of an obscure workman, and the neighbors—those who had seen Him lead, in their very midst, a solitary and busy life, similar in almost every detail to their own—could not believe in Him, despite the prodigies they heard recounted. Some declared that He neglected the Law —and to prove this assertion, added that He healed on the Sabbath day, even as He did on the other days of the week. Others again, hearing that He conversed with publicans and Samaritans, preaching brotherly love to all men, without regard to place or country, were scandalized.

His brothers—so called because they were the children of Joseph's sister—those who loved and followed Him, doubted the truth of His divine mission. They saw in Him an extraordinary man. They admired Him. But they did not believe in His divinity. Several times they had merited His rebuke, "men of little faith, slow of heart to believe.'' His miracles astonished them, but could not completely banish their doubts. Jesus restored sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, speech to the dumb. He changed the most rebellious hearts and minds, yet their incredulity, vanquished for the moment, returned.

But they could not weary the goodness of Jesus. He read their hearts; He saw that, within, they were pure and upright. They loved Him dearly, but their minds were in doubt.

And the miracles continued.

In their presence He cured all kinds of disease and suffering. He multiplied the loaves in the desert, and fed the hungry multitudes that flocked to hear His words. He healed the mother-in-law of Simon, who had been sick for twelve years, and was gradually wasting away. The officer from Capharnaum approached Him, supplicating Him that He would come and restore his dying son to life. And the words of Jesus were: "Go thy way, thy son liveth.'' (St. John iv, 50.)

And the father, returning home, learned that at the very hour in which the Lord had pronounced these words the fever left his son.

Nor could they forget that early incident in His ministry when, before Sichar, near the well of Jacob, they saw the confusion of the woman of Samaria, to whom the Lord had spoken.

"Come and see a Man who has told me all things whatsoever I have done. Is not He the Christ ?" (St. John iv, 29.)

The Samaritans themselves believed when told of what had occurred. "And many more believed in Him because of His own word." (St. John iv, 41. )

One day, James and Jude, returning from a mission to which the Saviour had dispatched them, had come, according to His orders, to rejoin Him in a city of Galilee called Nairn, where their Master had arrived that morning.

There they found the people in great agitation. The women had left their household duties, the men their labors. A great rumor reigned in the streets and public places, and from the crowds that flocked together in tremendous excitement rose the praises of the Lord, men crying out:

"A great prophet has appeared among us; the Lord God of Israel has visited His people!"

Some, seized with fear, struck their breasts, tore their hair, and spread ashes upon their heads in penance for their sins, and all conversed, some in dread and some in astonishment, of the marvelous occurrence which had transpired under their very eyes.

The two disciples were anxious to find out the reason of such general consternation. They learned it from the mouth of an eye-witness who had evidently not yet recovered from his fright.

"The Lord arrived this morning from Capharnaum," he said. "Passing near the gate of Nelpha, He met a dead body which was being carried out to be buried. Now, the entire town had seen the dead man during the funeral ceremonies, for all had sorrow for his mother. He was her only son, and she was a poor widow."

The narrator paused as if to control his emotion.

"When the Lord saw her He had compassion on her, and said 'Weep not.' Then He came near and , touched the bier. They that were carrying it stood still."

Again the man ceased, almost overcome.

"And Jesus^ said, 'Young man, I say to thee, Arise.' And he that was dead sat up and began to speak. And He gave him to his mother. (St. Luke vii, 12-15.)

"I saw him," continued the man faintly. "His limbs were still trembling with terror at the thought of what he had been delivered from."

James and Jude exchanged looks of surprise.

"Do the dead obey His voice?" they murmured. But before they were able to express the thoughts which this extraordinary event caused to spring up in their souls, they beheld a numerous crowd approaching them.

It was the man restored to life, whom the people were conducting in triumph to his dwelling. Beside him walked his mother, who appeared to have lost her reason for joy. Holding one of her son's hands in hers, as if to assure him of her presence, her manner plainly indicated that happiness had almost unbalanced her.

"Let us see this through to the end," said the disciples. And they joined the crowd and followed.

Despite the rejoicing caused by this tremendous event the silence was remarkable. They had witnessed the occurrence of the miracle, but with the admiration it kindled was mingled a great fear. So that, when the young man and his mother had arrived at their own house, those who had escorted them thither wished them a thousand prosperities and withdrew, speaking in low tones of the wonderful thing which they had seen with their own eyes.

James and Jude, compelled thereto by an ungovernable curiosity, approached the open door after the crowd had dispersed, resolving to hear more from the lips of the young man himself. They hesitated, however, for although they could be seen, neither the youth nor the woman paid the slightest attention to them. Still clothed in his winding-sheet, the young man was seated on a stool by the almost extinguished fire. The disordered bed, the untidiness of the room, the embalmer's table, the vessels of perfume, the remains of aromatic herbs scattered upon the floor—all, all announced the indescribable desolation which death brings to the home. The young man looked about him furtively, fearfully, and every once in a while a terrible shudder convulsed his frame.

His mother, whose emotions had, till now, deprived her of the power of speaking, began to weep.

"My son! My well-beloved Melkam! Is it true that I again see thee? That thou art restored to me? My child, my life, my treasure! Speak to me! Of what art thou afraid? Dost thou still suffer? Speak to me!"

Melkam did not answer his mother nor did he return her caresses or dry her tears. Instead, he continued to gaze about him in terror. She was grieved, and followed the direction of his eyes. Then she observed, for the first time, the poverty of her dwelling, and thinking that it was displeasure which she saw upon that livid and wasted countenance, she went on:

"Oh, my dear son, our home is indeed most empty. I sold all that I possessed of any value to cover the expenses of thy funeral. We have only that which thou now lookest upon! But what of it, what of it ?" She threw her arms about him and drew him close to her bosom." Thou art here! What matters famine or thirst, or poverty, or evil of any kind? Thou art here! My beloved, my beloved! I will work, I will beg, I will starve for thee, so great is my love, my gratitude, my courage! Blest a thousand, thousand times be He who has restored thee to me! Now I may again cherish the sweet hope that has ever encouraged me during the days of my widowhood. I shall not have the sorrow of seeing thee die! Thou, thou wilt close my eyes!"

She looked at her son tenderly—then bent and kissed his forehead, as if to assure herself that life and warmth had really revivified his body. And when her lips encountered that living flesh she raised her streaming eyes to heaven in a very transport of intensest joy.

But the young man did not move. Gloom shrouded his features—a gloom that began, gradually, to give way to profound fear.

"Mother!" he exclaimed at last, in a low tone.

"My sort?" she answered.

"Is—is it true that I behold thee? Is it . . . true? Art thou sure? Sure? Ah! What a ream I have had! What terror has taken possession of me, of my heart, my brain. . . . Ah, mother, do not leave me! Do not! Hold me, let me feel thy loving hands! Do not let me die again!"

He clung to her as if he were a little child, and she put her arm about him gently, striving to reassure him. After a moment's silence, resting his cheek upon the hand he held, he began to speak.

"How dreadful is death when one is guilty I O my God, I will never forget Thee! I will wash all sin from my heart! Oh, mother, if you knew! Damned! My soul was damned!"

"Dear boy, it is past—"

"I was descending, whirled by the wind into a gulf without noise or weight. A demon kept forcing me down, pressing me, so that I could not give one single look backward. It was that demon against whom thou hadst warned me—"

He began to tremble violently.

"Fear not," said the poor mother, resting her boy's head against her bosom. "It is over. Fear not."

James and Jude exchanged glances of awe.

"He was the angel of darkness" said the young man. "And so announced himself. 'I have fed thy passions upon earth, and tempted thy young desires. Thou hast followed my counsels, and now . . . thou art mine, mine!' And he laughed—and his laughter was like a sword, at once red with heat and frozen with bitterest cold, which pierced through my whole body."

"Oh, my child, my child!" said the mother, weeping as she kissed him.

"And then another voice sounded near me. A voice which fell feebly on my ears, and which, as the distance between us increased, grew still more faint. 'Oh,' it exclaimed, 'if thou hadst but listened to me in the voice of thy mother! Thou wouldst now be accompanying me to the realms of the angels of light!'

"With difficulty I lifted my head. There, far above me, I beheld a troop of beautiful seraphim. They escorted a soul, white as a dove, and this beautiful soul looked at me with pity. But the angel of darkness laughed once more, and pushed me on . . . down . . . down ... to that yawning abyss. I beheld that place where faults are expiated.

"And then a voice resounded through the gloom. Such a voice! At its accents the demon released me. My downward progress was stayed. I opened my eyes . . . before Him who had called me, and looking upon Him with dumb lips, my heart cried out, 'Master, behold Thy servant!'

"Ah, mother, watch over me, lest I again return to the tomb. Who is this that has restored me? Where is He? How shall I find Him and serve Him evermore? How does it happen that I am here . . . with thine arms about me . .

He regarded her with uneasiness, for he feared this life to which he had returned. And the mother, twice happy, related to him the miracle of his resurrection, and how Jesus had restored to her alive the son who had been two days dead.

Very softly James and Jude stole away, not daring to interrupt, by a single word, this tender and affecting scene, their hearts filled with the deepest conviction of Christ's divinity,
"Death and hell obey Him," they said. "Can we doubt? No, no! He is indeed the Christ, the Son of the living God!"

*****

As for Melkam, he embraced his mother affectionately.

"From this hour I wish to become a new man. Life has not been restored to me that I may lose my soul a second time. My dear mother, bless me. Never again shalt thou have to complain that I pay no heed to thy wise counsels!"

He caressed her, and the poor mother, in a very transport of joy, fell upon her knees, thanking God who had restored her son to her in full physical strength, at the same time enlightening his soul.

Afterwards, when they had time for recollection, and the youth had somewhat recovered his strength, he turned to his mother thoughtfully.

"Mother, it would be well for us to follow this Man, and be instructed by Him. Since death obeys Him, He must have the words of eternal life."

So, rising, they set out, and found and followed Jesus, and Melkam's voice was raised above all the others who sang the Lord's praises, crying:

"Blessed be He whom heaven and earth and hell obey!"

So Christ passed in the midst of acclamations. The sick, the poor, and the infirm followed Him, or crawled after Him, or begged to be carried wherever His way led. A divine virtue emanated from Him. Those whom He approached were cured or strengthened.

* * * * *

Now, while Melkam thus followed our dear Lord through the city, making one of the great throng which surrounded Him, he was astonished after some time, to perceive, passing close to him, a white figure entirely covered by a veil. An old man, recognizable, by his garments, to be a chief of a synagogue, marched near her, and sang aloud the praises of Jesus Christ.

"Behold!" he cried, in thrilling tones, "my dearly* beloved daughter! She was dead. We were about to carry her sweet body to the grave! With her had passed the happiness of my house! And then He came, and restored her to life! May His name be ever blessed! May His name be adored from generation to generation, until the end of the ages."

And his voice was raised in a song of joy that told of the resurrection of his only one.

The young girl, whose name was Jezel, still bore upon her pale face the marks of the sickness which had brought her to her grave. She seemed, moreover, to have only one emotion—love for the Master, who was passing amid the throng, and whom she endeavored to keep in view. Melkam heard the old man's words, and trembled. He approached neat to the maiden.

"Thou, t00?'' he said. "Has {he Master brought thee back to earth? I, also, owe my life to Him!"

The daughter of Jairus—for such was her father's name—uttered a low cry.

"Hast thou been snatched from death?"

"And given time for repentance. I was on the brink of hell."

The maiden shuddered.

"Poor soul! Ah! Bless God all the days of thy life—"

"My mother, walking beside my bier, met the Man of God, and on her He had compassion. He recalled me from the gates of the damned—whence weeping and the gnashing of teeth already ascended to me!"

These two young and handsome children called back to life—one from the threshold of heaven, the other from the brink of hell—conversed a long time upon the miracles of sorrow and happiness of which both had had a glimpse. Those who surrounded them listened with terror, and some who had never given a thought to life beyond the grave, were smitten with fear.

"Man lives when life is o'er!" they said, in astonishment. And several left all and went after Jesus.

The mother of Melkam and the father of Jezel followed their children, mingling in the crowd. They wept for joy as they heard their voices; as they looked upon them, living, walking, moving, whom they had beheld lifeless and motionless.

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234 THE LILY OF ISRAEL

They were transported with happiness. At nightfall each went to his home—but Melkam could not forget the sweet young girl, and she, on her part, demanded the presence of her new friend. The terrors and joys of death filled their minds. They were like two travelers, who, having visited a distant country, where each had encountered great suffering and great dangers, knew now no greater pleasure than that of talking over what they had seen.

Both followed Jesus from city to city. They could not leave Him. He drew them on and on, their hearts on fire with love of Him.

"This Christ, this God made man," said Jezel one day, "who by a word recalled us to this earth— do you know that I beheld His countenance in the celestial regions?"

"And I, Jezel," returned Melkam, tremblingly, 4 1 dare not contemplate Him even now! I shall never forget the sternness as I was forced downward . . . downward toward the bottomless abyss!"

"He is everywhere," said the young and innocent girl. "But if He were always present to thy heart, Melkam, and if thy life were employed in His service, thou wouldst not fear Him. As for me, I can not do aught but look upon Him. His presence fills my soul with that unutterable content and perfect happiness which I enjoyed for a moment in the company of the angels."

"Jezel," said Melkam, tenderly, "permit me to live near thee. Teach me how to love Him. Thou wilt be my shield against every evil thought or action. If I had always known thee I would have been worthy of thee."

And so did this young maid, by her love of purity and goodness lead Melkam to the love of God and the love of virtue.

After these great, these incomprehensible miracles, the number of Jesus' disciples suddenly increased, and the Apostles, the men whom He had chosen from among all to carry His word throughout the world, believed in Him with invincible faith, and followed Him with admiration and confidence.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 28.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT

AND now ye angels who love Mary, weep, and L come nearer to her, to sustain and fortify her. Her joys have been, and are, infinite. But behold the immense, the inexpressible sorrows which are about to fall upon her one by one, and altogether. Behold the Woman full of tenderness as a mother, full of adoration as a humble creature—about to resign herself, not to her own sufferings—such a task would be far too easy—but to the sufferings of her blessed Son, whom she ardently loves; to the sufferings of that God whom she adores more than any intelligent being because beyond all she under-stands the immensity, beauty, bounty, and power of God.

Angels of heaven, descend to the heart of this Mother, and bear her up in her great anguish.

Returning from Cana to her home at Nazareth, through the roads that led across the mountains, Mary's uneasiness was most evident. She could not take her eyes from her beloved Son, fearing at every moment to see Him disappear. She had checked the pace of the little animal on which she was riding, and separated herself from her companions in order to remain beside Him. She listened to every word that fell from His lips, and treasured it in her heart with a tenderness and mournfulness that knew no bounds.

Well did she realize that these few hours she was passing in His company were among the last she would enjoy upon this earth. Her heart ached at the thought. He accompanied her to Nazareth, and their conversation was filled with ineffable joy and sublimity. Happy in the presence of her dearly-beloved, nevertheless, now that He was about to separate Himself from her to enter the most perilous dangers, she felt her soul grow weak within her. She knew how these dangers were to end. Tears flowed from her eyes, even though in spite of this realization, she comprehended the mysteries of the Redemption.

"Am I not to unite the hearts of the fathers unto the children, and the incredulous to the wisdom of the just, to prepare unto the Lord a perfect people?" Such were the words of Jesus: "For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost." And raising His eyes to heaven, He added, "Father, the hour is come. Glorify Thy Son, that Thy Son may glorify Thee!"

"Thou art about to leave me," said His Mother, in mournful tones. "Thou wilt suffer, and I shall not be near to help or sorrow with Thee. Why is it no longer the time in which I carried Thee in my arms, in which my tenderness would have defended Thee, in which I could have placed myself between Thee and danger? Then, at least, I could share Thy pain—a consolation which mothers only, perhaps, can understand."

She fixed her eyes upon her Son, and as He bent His gaze toward her, she realized the divine tenderness of His heart, for His own eyes were filled with tears.

He regarded her with ineffable love. She knew she could obtain anything, everything, from Him. She cast herself at His feet, trembling. Nature was smitten with fear in her, but she conquered Nature with superior strength. And Jesus, gazing at this sublime woman, so humble and so tender, so strong and so docile, read her very thoughts. But He permitted her to utter them. On her knees before her Son—it was to her God that she addressed herself— she offered this prayer:

"Wherever Thou mayest be, near me, or at a distance from me, may I suffer with Thee? May I feel all Thy sorrows with Thee—as much as my feeble and infirm nature will permit?"

Jesus gazed upon her with that look of Son and Father which penetrated the depths of her soul. He blessed her, and granted her request. When He lifted her from the ground, she felt an all-consuming joy. It was in this wise that they bade each other farewell, and Mary retired to her chamber to calm her heart in prayer.

But she followed her Son: through Capharnaum and into the Holy City itself, for the first Pasch— over Judea, Bethlehem, Hebron, and Juttah. She witnessed the miracles by which Jesus manifested His power, and her soul still experienced some moments of joy, for she saw the people follow Our Lord in crowds and bless Him, saying:

"A great prophet has arisen up among us and Christ has visited His people!"

And the Virgin wept for happiness. She was able to show a calmer face, during these times, to the women, who, since the departure of Jesus, were accustomed to come and pray with her.

* * * * *

Among this number was Magdalen. After the marriage feast at Cana, and the miracle which had been performed there, this sinful woman was entirely altered. Vainly did Servilius, softened but not changed by the sight of Jesus, strive to remove the strong impression which the Lord had made upon her. Vainly did the pleasure-lovers about her endeavor to entice her into new enjoyments.

"What are these pleasures?" she asked. "Oh, I have been disgusted with them so long! I pity the world that can offer no other joys than those of dissipation and dishonor. Do you not feel the nothingness, the shamefulness of everything? If you can not, your misery is even greater than I think it. But you must, you do feel even as I! Habit entices you; luxury has .enchained you. Ah, let us believe! Let us follow Jesus of Nazareth. He has the words of life. My dead soul has become alive within me. My heart throbs in my bosom now that I have heard His voice."

So Magdalen bade them adieu. She doffed her splendid garments, and covered her long and beautiful hair—not with the modest veil of the virgins of Israel, but with the veil of mourning. Shortly after the departure of Jesus she came to Mary's dwelling.

The sinner stopped, trembling, on the threshold of that house. But Mary extended her arms toward her:

"Approach, my child; I have been awaiting you."

At these words of mercy and pity, Magdalen cast herself upon the ground, and hid her face in the garments of the Blessed Virgin. For a long time she could not gain control of her emotion, but wept as if her heart would break. Finally, through her sobs, she was able to make known the thoughts which were surging within her.

"Oh, you who are sinless, speak to my misguided and repentant soul! Until this hour, my life has been most miserable. All things for me have been empty and full of bitterness. My burning heart consumed itself without being able to reach the happiness it craved. Had I loved deeply, truly, I might not have been cast into the abyss of shame and regret. But all who approached me were as frivolous and unhappy as myself, seeking that which they could not find. I felt that my love must be admiration, adoration. I would love God. It is God whom I love today. He alone merits our love! He alone can fill the heart of His creature! I belong to Him! I belong to you! Dispose of me until death. I will follow you wheresoever you go, happy if I can kiss your feet."

And Magdalen embraced the knees of the Queen of Virgins. Mary smiled at her in kindness, for she saw in her that profound and sincere repentance which rejoices heaven itself. In her sweet, pure voice she reassured the unfortunate, whose eyes were changed into two fountains of tears, so great was her grief for the days she had spent in ignoring the laws of God.

* * * * *

But suddenly Mary is silent. She hears the multitudes crying out around Jesus. Is it triumph? Is it scorn?

"Ah, I see Him!" she exclaimed. "Yes, it is He, my beloved Son. His face is bright as though the sun were upon it; He is satisfied; He smiles; He raises His eyes to heaven. Ah! He is offering to His heavenly Father all this great crowd which follows Him, and in which He sees upright hearts and men of good will.

"Behold Him advancing along the shores of Lake Tiberias. Behold the accomplishment of the prophecy of Isaias: 'Land of Zabulon, and Land of Nephthali . . . the way of the sea beyond the Jordan of the Galilee of the Gentiltes. The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; to therti that dwelt in the region of the shadow of death, light is risen.' (Isaias ix, 1, 2.)

"Happy people! At least these havfe come to salute their Saviour. How they crowd about Him! He wduld speak, but can not. Men and women are pressing upon Him. In vain the sons of Zebedee, and those of my sister Mary strive to clear a space. All are too eager to hear Him. Simon has taker! Up a boat that has been hidden in the weeds. Jesus goes out in it, a little distance from the shore. Ah! . . . Now He speaks, and His voice is heard by all. The earth is attentive, the wind is hushed, the echoes are silent, the heavens listen. . . ."

And the voice of the Virgin ceased, and she knelt as if wrapt in some wondrous vision.

Magdalen the sinner saw nothing but the narrow walls of Mary's dwelling; heard nothing but the sighing of the winds in the mountains. She bowed her head in humility.

And the hours passed.

* * * * *

"He standeth in a plain place. His disciples are with Him and a great multitude of people from all Judea and Jerusalem. . . .

"Can you not hear the words that come from His mouth? Would that I could repeat them so that all the world would listen! But is not a single soul as precious to this divine Heart as the whole world ?

"Blessed are ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.

"Blessed are ye that hunger now: for you shall be filled.

"Blessed are ye that weep now: for you shall laugh." (St. Luke vi, 20,21.)

"Woe to you that are filled: for you shall hunger.

"Woe to you that now laugh: for you shall mourn and weep."

Magdalen heard eagerly, understanding that these beautiful precepts, falling so sweetly from the lips of the Virgin, alluded to a spiritual life.

"Ah!" she thought within her own soul. "I have been rich and in joy, and now my eyes weep bitter tears. But I have left all. My soul has hungered and thirsted, and behold God Himself comes to quench my thirst and appease my hunger! Blessed be so good a God!"

After a short silence the Virgin continued:

"Love your enemies ... do good to those that hate you."

Magdalen had never heard such doctrine.

"Bless them that curse you, and pray for them that calumniate you.

"And to him that striketh thee on the one cheek, offer also the other,

"And him that taketh away thy cloak, forbid not to take thy coat also,

"Give to every one that asketh thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods, ask them not again.

"And as you would that men should do to you, do you also to them in like manner.

"If you love them that love you what thanks are to you? For sinners also love those that love them.

"And if you do good to them who do good to you, what thanks are to you ? For sinners also do this." (St. Luke vi, 28-33.)

"Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful."  (St. Luke vi, 36.)

At this repetition of Christ's divine word, Magdalen knelt and kissed the robe of the Virgin.

"It is the God of mercy who has reclaimed me, the vilest of His creatures. He alone understands, He alone can hold out salvation."

During the days that followed, the Blessed Virgin could indeed attend in spirit on her divine Son. He cured a great many sick; He appeased the angry waves. He commanded the winds and the tempest. The multitude, ever-increasing in numbers, followed Him. His disciples wondered, asking themselves the question:

"What manner of Man is this? for the winds and the seas obey Him?" (St. Matthew viii, 27.)

He spoke and the sick were healed. He cast a look upon the sinner and his soul was transformed.

Yet some there were to attribute these miracles to demons. These were the ones who expected and desired the Messias to come as a conqueror, an earthly king, surrounded by the pomp of an earthly monarch.

"This Man is poor," they said. "He is followed only by the poor. What power can He ever obtain ? What can we hope to gain from Him or through Him? Away with Him! He is a false prophet!"

These murmurs, however, could not prevent the poor from following Him, and the astonished crowds from flocking about Him.

The humble Virgin comprehended all.

No hope entered her soul. She knew too well that nothing could save this voluntary Victim.

But her joy was in those redeemed souls who gathered close to Him, believing in Him. Those for whom her Son had come upon earth to suffer would indeed profit by the Redemption. They would be saved!

"Oh!" she exclaimed, often, raising her pure hands to heaven. "May this precious blood, at least, be not shed in vain."

And Mary, with those holy women about her who believed in the divinity of her Son, and who came
to unite with her in her prayer, remained in long ecstasies. She beheld her Son, she understood His mission, she saw Him sowing broadcast over the world the seeds of a doctrine so sublime as to con* found the human mind.

Or, when He came to that part of the country in which she dwelt, she, in company with the holy women, followed Him, hidden in the crowd.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 27.

CHAPTER XXV  - THE CHANGING OF THE WATER INTO WINE

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo's 1672 painting of Christ's first miracle

THE noon-hour feast had been prepared under the tents. The young girls, their large dark eyes sparkling, and their luxuriant dark tresses now concealing, now revealing the rosy hue of their blushing cheeks, prepared the tables, strewing them first with fresh flowers gathered from the banks of the near-by rivulet. They occupied themselves, also, in making garlands for the guests, and, in sport were trying them on their own lovely heads, when suddenly a numerous troop of travelers, mounted on camels, appeared at the extremity of the plain, on the side nearest the lake. Soon one whom the camels had until then concealed from view, advanced rapidly on a mettlesome steed.

The sports ceased at once. All eyes were fixed upon the rider. Horses were little used in Judea at that time—they were a luxury known only to the very wealthy. While the horseman was approaching, several of those who surrounded Jesus watched the graceful movements of the noble animal, and another, an elderly man, repeated, slowly, the words of Job:

"Wilt Thou give strength to the horse, or clothe his neck with neighing? Wilt Thou lift him up like the locusts? The glory of his nostrils is terror.

"He breaketh up the earth with his hoof, he pranceth boldly: he goeth forth to meet armed men. He despiseth fear, he turneth not his back to the sword.

"Above him shall the quiver rattle, the spear and ' the shield shall glitter. Chafing and raging he swalloweth the ground, neither doth he make account when the noise of the trumpet soundeth.

"When he heareth the trumpet, he saith, Ha, ha! he smelleth the battle afar off, the encouraging of the captains, and the shouting of the army." (Job xxxix, 19-25.)

The horseman continued to advance. Having come to a slight obstacle he caused his animal to clear it, and then patting its neck arrived at the first tent, and stopped. The bridegroom, Ananias, detaching himself from the group of the young men, went to meet him, saluted him according to custom, and conducted him to the elders, who were seated under the trees near by. Here, in the name of hospitality, the stranger demanded rest and refreshment for his companions, male and female, whom he indicated by a nod.

He who spoke was clothed after the Roman fashion, but his handsome patrician features presented a mixture of arrogance and disdain that displeased the old and prudent parents of the modest Rachel. Moreover, he looked too boldly at the young girls gathered under the sycamore-tree close at hand. The grandparents and elders remained silent while he cast these appraising glances about him and caressed his steed in silence. Gladly would they have refused his request, but this the laws of hospitality forbade, and they replied, in grave and serious tones:

"Thy companions, male and female, and thyself, are welcome under the tents of our people."

Servilius, for it was he, saluted the group of elders haughtily, and then, throwing himself upon his beautiful horse, he pressed its flanks, and with the speed of a dart covered the distance that intervened between him and his cavalcade, followed by the wondering, and in some cases uneasy, looks of many.

Magdalen awaited him with restless impatience.

"Your ivory lyre is mine!" exclaimed Servilius, triumphantly, as he approached her. "I wish that you could give me the art that you possess of playing it."

But Magdalen frowned.

"You are about to see Jesus," he added hastily, noting her displeasure, which he dreaded.

"You are certain He is among these people?" she asked, with eagerness.

"I am certain of it. For the last few days He has been present at a marriage festival here in Cana.

I have found this out and conducted you here because of it. They now await you in the tents. Come."

But Magdalen grew so pale, and shuddered so violently, that a secret uneasiness suddenly took possession of Servilius. He loved her ardently, and it was because of this love that his soul felt the change that was about to occur in her.

The women alighted from their litters, the men from their animals, and, forming a brilliant and striking group, they advanced toward the tents. Magdalen led the way, leaning on Servilius' arm, and followed by those of her train, men of elegant attire, women gayly costumed. Magdalen's striking beauty was heightened by the garb she wore. The daughters of Judea, especially when traveling, covered themselves with a thick veil. But Magdalen alighted from her litter with head, arms, and shoulders bare, and ornamented with priceless jewels. She wore a tunic fringed with gold; a flowing robe of silver tissue, richly embroidered, hung loosely from her, and fell in graceful folds about her body.

In astonishment and awe the young girls paid this wonderful apparition the respect due to a queen. But the elders shook their heads, and the matrons blushed as she passed. Beautiful she was, indeed, but her whole air denoted the character of her life. Loud her speech, louder her laugh; her garments and her hair shed forth an intoxicating perfume such as the women of Israel never used.

Yet her voice trembled when, approaching the elders, she said, according to custom: "Peace be with you."

"And with you wisdom," replied the grandfather, in a grave tone.

She was conducted to the tent where the table of honor was laid out, her seat not far removed from the young couple. Servilius was placed next to her, and near by all their companions.

Two young girls, the sisters of the bride, approached the strangers before the repast, and offered them water in earthen vessels, to wash their hands. The maidens performed this duty to each in turn, with a modesty that rendered them lovely and interesting. Magdalen took from her finger a ring set with costly sapphires, and presented it to them. But, blushing, they refused to accept it, and one of the old men spoke.

"Our maidens adorn themselves only to please their husbands. Nor do they accept gifts save from the hands of a friend."

The ablution of the strangers was completed in silence. Magdalen smiled cheerfully; she laughed frequently. But her heart was beating with violence in her breast. The cold welcome of the elders froze her. There was an atmosphere of modesty and sweet innocence all about her, in which she felt out of place.

"What has brought me here?" she asked herself, in vexation. "Is it to allow these men to gaze upon my beauty, who love only the women whose charms are concealed by veils? To display my riches to people whose pleasures are simple, whose tables have no ornaments other than the flowers gathered from the meadows, and who partake of their food from earthen vessels?"

She was extremely restless and timid, but overcame, as best she could, these unusual sensations.

"No matter. I have come and I will stay," she told herself, boldly.

Her eyes sought Jesus in the crowd, for she wished to single Him out in the midst of the young men who surrounded Him. He was conversing with John, whose fairness of face deceived her for a few moments, and she watched him, waiting for his words. John was too engrossed in his divine Master to observe her. He was absorbed in Jesus.

The gayety of the feast—the preceding days of which had passed so happily—was chilled by the presence of the strangers. Constraint obtruded where, until now, the utmost cordiality had reigned.

And the young couple, at the head of the table, seemed uneasy. The holy Virgin, seated near them, first perceived their embarrassment. The servant to whose care the provisions and wine had been committed came several times to his master, and now Mary overheard his words:

"I did not calculate upon this increase of guests. Master, the wine fails."

To receive strangers at one's table without being able to offer them the cup of welcome was, in those days of hospitality, a great disgrace. Trouble and shame were depicted on the countenance of Ananias. Mary well understood the nature of his plight. Addressing herself to her Son, she said, in a low voice: "They have no wine." (St. John ii, 3.)

At the voice of Mary, Jesus turned. His face shone with divine splendor, for He had just finished a long and earnest talk with John upon the things of heaven. His whole head seemed aureoled in light, as did Mount Sinai when Jehovah reposed upon it. Magdalen, beholding Him thus, drew back with a little cry and covered her face with her hands. But He addressed Himself to Mary,

"Woman, what is this to Me and to thee? My hour is not yet come." (St. John ii, 4.)

His voice vibrated through every heart, His countenance dazzled the eyes of all. Mary lowered her head. She could not look unmoved upon the splendor of her Son, but crossing her arms upon her breast, she remained silent a moment. She understood the spiritual meaning of those divine words and knew the tender sympathy of His heart. Then, turning to the waiters, she said:

"Whatsoever He shall say to you, do ye." (St. John ii, 5.)

There were in the tent six large stone urns, which were used for ordinary purification, and each of these held two or three measures.

"Fill the water-pots with water/* said Jesus to the waiters, and they did as He bade them, upon which He added:

"Draw out now and carry to the chief steward of the feast."

And they carried it.

Magdalen kept her face hidden in the folds of her robe. Servilius, terrified, would have taken her away, but she had to see the end of this wonderful Man's words. It came when the steward tasted this water made wine, and not knowing its source, approached the bridegroom.

"Every man at first setteth forth good wine," he said. "But thou hast kept the good wine until now."

Terrified at this strange happening, the companions of Magdalen, both men and women, rose to depart from the tents at once; to fly and drag her with them. But she resisted. Servilius, too, implored her to leave this spot which was rendering her so unhappy.

But she shook them off. Tearing herself from their hands, she ran forward and cast herself at the feet of the Saviour, saying no word, but weeping bitter tears. He did not speak to the poor sinner at His feet, only looked down at her, gravely and mildly. All were stirred at this scene. Servilius himself was deeply moved. Perhaps, if pride had not prevented him, he, too, would have thrown himself on the ground as Magdalen did, at the feet of God. Good inspirations are not so rare as our obedience to them. We blush sooner at the good which is new to us than at the evil which we have known so long.

The holy Virgin had withdrawn. The dreaded hour was at last at hand, and now there was no doubt. She knew that with the working of His first public miracle the mission of her Son would commence.

Her soul marveled at the condescension of God; but her heart was sick with fear and sorrow for her beloved Son.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 24.

CHAPTER XXII. A SINNER

WHILE Mary praised God in the silence of Nazareth, and her beloved Son prepared Himself for the mission which was to save the world, that world delivered itself more and more to shameful and culpable passions. Never had unbridled license gone such lengths; never had manners been so depraved. Rome, the proud, looked up to by all nations, was plunged into every species of iniquity and vice. The empire of the gods had fallen. Man was without belief, without any restraint save that which tyranny imposed upon him, without any hope here or hereafter. From nothing he came, to nothing would he go—let Pleasure reign, therefore, the sole and only object of existence!

So infamous debauchery degenerated, on the part of the rich, into atrocious cruelty, and on the part of the poor into frightful brutishness.

"The gods have indeed deserted us," cried some of the elders, terrified at the scenes which were taking place around them. For since the world's imperial city had given welcome to the gods of every nation, the people no longer believed in any. If they paid them homage it was more as a flimsy excuse for immodest festivals, disgusting saturnalias—proving, by a rigorous logic, tested by every age, to what the abolition of belief infallibly leads.

The women also—those Roman women who had for so long a time given examples of virtues the most rigid—threw off restraint. They paraded the most frightful depravity, imitating and surpassing that which Greece had first shown to the world. Corruption the most barefaced reached its climax in this sex upon which rests the hope of every nation, to whom nature and nature's laws prescribe modesty and chastity.

This dreadful pestilence of evil gained ground more and more, and threatened to spread itself into Judea —since this unfortunate country had been subjected to foreign kings, the crowned slaves of wealth whose eyes were ever fastened on the imperial city in order, by a servile imitation of the master, to set the pace for their own evil conduct.

Cruelty and corruption reigned in the palace of Herod Antipas, effeminate successor of Herod the Great. Encircled by a set of dissolute Roman youths, every luxury, every pleasure, was enjoyed* imitating, at a distance, the expensive caprices of Rome. He endeavored to gain the affection of the people by enervating feasts, so that, little by little, the ancient manners of the cities of the kings of Judea disappeared, and the flood of evil threatened to swamp even the believers in the true God.

The hatred which many nourished for the Tetrarch was their safeguard against the vices he strove to introduce, and the expectation of the coming God was the secret hope of many others. At the court of the governor alone the giddy mass of the people, the strangers without a country, the haughty and pampered crowd which abounds always in great cities, gave themselves to those dangerous pleasures which religion and right living forbid. Intoxicating feasts, scenic games, all that might excite the senses, had but lately been introduced into Jerusalem. Extreme civilization and extreme depravity are akin—they reach the same point by opposite roads, but their end is pleasure and carnal enjoyment. Herodias and Salome, her daughter, surnamed the Dancer, had introduced the manners of the Roman court into the ancient palace of David, polluting it. And some women of Jerusalem, forgetting the Lord and His Laws, as well as His promises, had deserted the touching ceremonies of the worship of the Hebrews. Their feet were set in the path of the wicked, and they lived in the midst of these disorders, drinking iniquity like water, and exulting in their sins.

One day, however, the most sought after and most beautiful of these women, who was surrounded by the profound homage of the court of the Tetrarch, abandoned these feasts, these mad joys and tumultuous pleasures, and retired into Galilee, near the Lake of Tiberias, upon whose verdant shores she possessed a delightful villa called Magdala.

It may have been caprice, or disgust, or ennui. For she was beautiful, of illustrious birth, and the possessor of great wealth. She had never married, nor would she, knowing no other master than her own whim. She had great intelligence; her knowledge of the arts, and her poetical talent—so rare in those days—equaled her physical charms.

Naturally, a crowd of idle young gallants followed her into Galilee, and here she led a luxurious life, far different from that of the other daughters of Israel. The strangers, especially the Romans, made her a sort of goddess, because she alone in this land, where manners were still chaste and humble, recalled to their minds the luxury, the light and elegant customs of their own city.

But all were alike unfortunate. For whether she listened to their flatteries or spurned them, whether she accepted or repulsed them, no one found a moment's peace in her society. Her caprice and her inconstancy gave them no rest. She had adopted, all believed, the sect of Epicurus, represented in Judea by that of the Sadducees. Often she would exclaim:

"Life is short! Life is uncertain! Let us make life as happy as we can."

So she spent her days in seeking new pleasures, in inventing new sports. And none reached the satisfaction she had planned. She was tired too soon. Fatigue, ennui, disquietude, shattered her enjoyment. Obstacles, difficulties, unattainable desires rose before her, attracting her by their remoteness. No matter what she obtained, no matter at what cost, the charm which distance had lent was lost, and so she ever craved something new.

This vague and mysterious unrest, this purposeless agitation, this disease of the soul, had disgusted her with the palace of Herod. Even license had become monotonous, therefore had she fled.

Now, under the lovely heaven of Galilee, in a garden of delight, whose beauties were reflected in the silvery waves that caressed the shores, she rested, amid followers who were obedient to her every nod. She had gathered all that might flatter the senses or charm the mind, and yet . . . she was not satisfied.

Stretched on soft cushions, clothed in light tissues of silk and gold, with arms, head, and neck ornamented in the Roman style, she sang to those who were her slaves and courtiers, accompanied by the sweet strain of the seven-stringed lyre but recently introduced from Greece. Or at evening she rendered the dances of Ionia, with a languishing softness that ravished the eyes. Those who beheld her in these exquisite poses acclaimed her loudly, praising her, and declaring her to be the most beautiful and charming of all women. Without doubt they believed her to be so, and thought her happy. Perhaps there were many who really envied her.

Yet, letting fall the sistrum, the lyre, and the sambuca, despising the joys that had just delighted her, disgusted with the vain applause of these flatterers, she hastily broke from them, and whole days elapsed before she again appeared, tormented anew by her desire for the unattainable, for pleasure, joy, satisfaction.

Nothing light or frivolous would then please her. She would seek out the most austere men, and begin, and keep up, a discussion, serious and intelligent, to which even profound minds would listen with attention. Thus were her charms so varied and so capable of attracting people of every age that she was actually worshiped. All adored her, all desired to be loved by her.

But she formed no attachments. At one time she was gay, even foolish; at others sedate, even melancholy. Her desires were immense, and nothing could satisfy them. Her soul sought everything and found everything void. She might have loved, indeed, had she found a being that could hold her interest. But of those whom she met none understood her heart—a heart which she did not understand herself. Man wishes to find life in that which he loves. This woman, drawn into the turmoil of a corrupt world, found death and death only in these degraded souls.

Seeking the happiness that fled from her, she plunged into the excesses of the Roman women. These Romans feigned to honor Venus and her impure mysteries. They could invoke this deceitful apology for all their lewdness, but this woman of Magdala had no such excuse. She believed in nothing. She lived without any God. She jeered at fate.

"Everything is false. Men are false. Women are false. Heaven is empty. Life is empty. So with my heart. It, too, is false and empty."

Thus lived Mary of Magdala, the most beautiful woman of her times. Thus was she when she first heard of Jesus.

His rigid morality, His virtues, His superhuman beauty, His sublime knowledge—all were topics broached to interest this tired creature. Report had it that in His infancy He had confounded the Doctors by His wisdom, and that the people were following Him from afar to hear His words. Those who told her were young men, who laughed at the severity of His morals, and who endeavored to turn them into ridicule.

But Mary of Magdala did not laugh with them. This singular virtue impressed her. An innate taste for the sublime, which all her immoralities could not efface, compelled her to admire that which she could not understand.

She listened to the story of His solitary life, His unrivaled beauty, His unalterable mildness, His gentle indulgence, His supreme kindness, His tender compassion for the sufferings of humanity. Several - of His wonderful sayings were repeated to her. They touched her to tears.

"If virtue exists upon this earth there must be a God in heaven, for only He can be its recompense," she said.

"And I ... I have believed in nothing," she went on, with disdain that dried the tears. "It is of no consequence. But I must see this Man. I must meet Him who seems, out of all the world, the only One who understands that Life needs consolation."

Those to whom she spoke were accustomed to her vagaries. That she should desire to see Jesus did not surprise them.

"But in what way can you become acquainted with the Nazarene?" they asked. "He lives in the desert, surrounded by poor, obscure people. How can you reach Him?"

The flush of impatience rose to Magdalen's cheek. Obstacles irritated her, opposition rendered her Stubborn. After a moment of silence she held up the ivory lyre, an exquisite and costly instrument, across which her fingers had been idly wandering.

"This lyre, which you have praised so greatly, shall be the reward of him who procures for me the means of seeing this Man."

They endeavored to dissuade her. Servilius, a young Roman, the one of all her admirers who loved her with the greatest ardor, endeavored to win her away from this madness. In his secret heart he dreaded the result.

But nothing availed. She must see this wonderful Man, whose language seemed so different from that of other men, whose morals were so pure; to whom every woman was either a mother or a sister. It was absolutely necessary. It was a new sensation, and as such possessed her heart. She was tormented by it night and day. It had to be realized. She must see Jesus of Nazareth. Those who listened to her did not understand, or put it down to passing fancy. Uneasiness had seized upon her soul—an uneasiness that could not be satisfied save in listening to the words of the Prophet from His own lips.

Ah, Mary of Magdala! What hidden means God employs to bring a soul to Himself! The longing which this spoiled beauty felt was the grace of heaven knocking at her heart. In the pursuit of evil she had heard the voice that called her from the pleasures of this world. God wanted her for Himself — and this God, whose very name caused her to tremble, was the Master to whom her soul was turning even then as the heliotrope turns to the sun. Soon would that soul be penetrated with new and wonderful and imperishable joys!

INTERLUDE

Angel of Heaven

Come, brethren, let us rejoice. The Lord will arise and manifest His power. Behold Him as a giant who cometh from his repose. His career hath begun.

Angel of Earth

Let us rejoice. Christ the Lord is about to display His might, to show forth His grandeur. The earth is in expectation. The sun, the water, the flowers, the heart of man, so often rebellious, listen in silence and will obey—for to Him and to Him only belong the sun, the water, the flowers, and man's heart. In His hand He turns them as He pleases. Whatsoever He would change is changed forthwith, for He is God the Almighty.

Angel of Heaven

O love! O bounty! O mercy! How can we sufficiently adore Thee! What are we, to offer praises worthy of Thee! The human race, redeemed by its God, may in the future offer Thee homage worthy of Thy greatness. For it will have cost the blood of a God! And the greatness of that ransom will give the praise of men inestimable value. Happy human race! The Redemption raises thee even to the throne of Jehovah, and the angels hide themselves in their wings, and sing the destinies of man, restored to a higher place than was his before the Fall.

Angel of Earth

Silence! Peace! The earth salutes its Saviour. He advances into the solitudes, and the solitudes bound with joy. He is beautiful as the day-dawn; the stars tremble to see Him pass, clothed in mortal flesh which can not conceal His divinity.

Let us adore Him!

And the angels followed afar the steps of the Saviour.

The Lily Of Israel By The Abbe Gerbet. Part 21.

CHAPTER XIX. JESUS IS LOST AND FOUND

JESUS had just completed His twelfth year, and the Feast of the Passover was near at hand.

Accompanied by their friends and relatives, Joseph and Mary set out for Jerusalem, taking their Son with them for the first time—and this in order to comply with the rules which ordained that, when he attained the age of twelve the young Israelite became a son of the Law. He could share in the ceremonies of worship, and had to go up to Jerusalem three times a year.

These voyages across Judea were frequent. The Passover and other obligatory festivals could only be celebrated in the Holy City, so that every Hebrew had to journey there. Those who dwelt in the confines of the land of Israel were no more exempt than those who lived in the suburbs of Jerusalem. Performed on foot or on slow-moving beasts of burden, a voyage of this sort was extremely long. But what mattered it in these beautiful climates where life was spent more or less under the vaults of heaven? Did not the charming feasts of nature, ever rich and fruitful, form part of the celebrations to which God invited His people?

The Israelites left their homes in the springtime; when the sun made the days magnificent without rendering them scorching; when the nights were sown with stars, and when the balmy meadows clothed themselves in beauty to meet their Creator. Setting out amid such loveliness, the pilgrims started from all points of Judea, and marched in troops to Jerusalem. The caravans often met when they halted near the fountains; and the people, exchanging the kiss of peace, would set up their tents for the night. The 'young men, going to the well, raised the stone that covered it, and filled the pitchers of the maidens, whose grave and mild deportment eminently befitted the traditions of their race. Beautiful as Rebecca and modest as Ruth, they returned to their mothers without having, apparently, listened to the flattering speech of the young strangers. Nevertheless, both parties met again at the same fountain, and when these meetings were renewed several times it almost invariably happened that the parents were induced to talk of and arrange a marriage.

Under the tents the conversation was mote serious. The topics there were the oppression of the people, the libertinism of the governor's court; the harassing taxes and sufferings under which the God of Israel allowed His chosen to suffer. The old men spoke of the approaching harvest, expressing their fears that it would be bad, or talked of a probable war, and other subjects of uneasiness. Old age is prone to see calamities that never occur.

Presently the voices of the young girls would sound forth in the evening hymn. From a distance the young men responded to it. Little by little the fears, the predictions of disaster, the perils and fatigues of the day, as well as the hopes and aspirations of the young men, and the timid emotions of the maidens, were softened and lulled in the last prayer, to which repose succeeded. On the following morning both parties separated, and in the evening exchanged the same kindness and courtesy with other strangers.

Thus it was that the Hebrew people formed but one vast family, united under a beautiful sky, and singing the praises of God even in the deserts. At last they would arrive at the Temple, and however great might be its splendor, with whatever beauty it might shine, they had seen far greater pomps and a more beautiful spectacle among the mountains. They had seen the glorious sun plunging into the sea, its rays sparkling on an ocean of flame. They had seen the moon cast a shimmering veil of silver over the solitudes of Gerara; or again they had watched, awestruck, the lightning flashing about the top of Mount Hermon.

Oh, how small, how weak, how trivial is man, when he strives to compare his poor splendors with those of the Most High! The only value they possess is the intention with which they are greeted.

On approaching the Temple, the travelers found its porch, its porticoes, its courts, filled with an immense multitude, who had come to Jerusalem from all parts of Judea. There an entire nation, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, the happy and the miserable, were united with one sole thought —that of adoration.

The year in which Jesus accompanied Mary and Joseph to Jerusalem, saw a greater crowd of people than had ever before attended one of the Hebrew feasts. The cause of this was the rumor that had spread and died away and spread again, concerning the birth of the Messias. Many Israelites hoped to gain some news of Him during these solemnities.

Many, in fact, said, "The Christ is here, the Christ is there!" Some even added that shepherds had saluted Him at His birth: others that kings had come from the East to adore Him. But as they expected a glorious and triumphant Christ, whose breath alone would serve to reduce their oppressors, the Romans, to the dust, they would never have been able to recognize Him in His obscurity, hidden in the throng with Joseph and Mary, who had come, not to boast of the glory which God had bestowed upon them, but in silent humility to pay homage to the Most High.

After the seven days of the solemnity, when they had offered a sheaf of barley, the first produce of the new harvest; when they had eaten the unleavened bread, as a symbol of the purity of their hearts; when the lamb without blemish had bees immolated, and they had partaken of it standing, among their friends and neighbors, with their loins girt like travelers—then did Mary and Joseph and those of their town who had accompanied them, set out for Nazareth, going by the gate of Ephraim and the high road, which was filled with crowds of people returning to their homes.

They formed a numerous troop—so numerous that Joseph and Mary were separated by a caravan returning to Jaser, beyond the Jordan. These boorish people passed through and dispersed the band with a lack of civility very uncommon in those days of festival, in which the Hebrews lived like brothers. Mary was in front with Salome, Cleophas, and others of her neighbors. Jesus was not with them, and noting the fact, Mary was uneasy about Him until Cleophas assured her that He was with Joseph. She believed him, and continued her journey.

The stars were so bright and the air so fresh that the travelers were determined to cover as much ground as possible, so they did not stop at the usual hour. At last they halted near the springs of Galaad. What, however, was Mary's consternation when, on seeing Joseph, who now joined her, she found that Jesus was not with him. She called Him, she sought Him all through the assembled troop, but in vain.

"Has no one seen my Son?" she cried.

Nobody had seen Him. She waited until the day-dawn, and then she and Joseph examined every group, visited every tent.

"Has no one seen my Son? Can no one tell me where is Jesus ?"

No one had seen Him, no one could give them any tidings. A mortal terror seized upon the Mother, and Joseph shared it.

"What can have become of Him?" exclaimed the bystanders one to another in real anxiety, and Mary grew pale as she murmured:

"Has the hour arrived?"

The mission of the Saviour! Its perils were already in her mind. She trembled, and her soul was shaken to its depths with dread.

They went back to Jerusalem. What a journey that was, filled with anguish for father and mother! They inquired for Jesus along the road, knocked at every cottage, spoke to every one they met: Jesus, a young Child, the most lovely of all children . . . such was He whom they sought. Some had remarked Him on His arrival, and recognizing Him from the description given of Him by His parents, exclaimed:

"That beautiful boy? Oh, what a pity if any misfortune has befallen him!"

One or two spoke of a furious bull that had broken loose in the city the preceding evening, and had injured several before he had been killed—so prone is man, by a secret instinct of misfortune, to seize the worst side of every event and magnify its dangers.

They took a day, a night, and the half of another day to return to Jerusalem across the shelving roads which they had descended with such rapidity. What unhappiness preyed upon the minds of Joseph and Mary during these uneasy hours!

At last they arrived. But where were they to seek for the Child? They inquired for Him from the guards, from the gatekeeper, from all they encountered. None had seen Him. None could give any tidings of Him. They went to the house in which they had lodged during the festival. All remembered Jesus too well to have forgotten Him, but none had caught a single glimpse of Him.

Then Mary, so filled with sorrow that she could not speak, motioned to Joseph that they should turn toward the Temple. And there they went, afraid, and dreading the denials which they felt awaited them. With palpitating hearts they entered. The vast galleries were deserted. No sound was heard save that of their footsteps upon the pavement. They passed through the porch of the Gentiles, and advanced under the open porticoes of the Israelites. Everywhere the same silence reigned.

They were about to penetrate farther, in order to interrogate the priests, when, from the bottom of the immense and magnificent porch of the Hebrews, they heard a voice! O voice a thousand times blessed! A thousand times delightful to the ears of that Mother! It is the voice of her Son, of her Beloved! Trembling, Mary sank upon her knees.

Returning thanks to God, and regaining strength in prayer, Mary rose, after a while, and she and Joseph approached nearer the spot from which the tones of Jesus issued. Concealed by a pillar of porphyry inlaid with gold, which hid her from the sight of all, she contemplated her Son.

The divine Child, far more beautiful than are the angels of God when they are permitted to take human form in order to appear to man, clothed in a simple white tunic, His head crowned with the glory of His golden hair, His countenance calm, His appearance inspired, was standing in the midst of the Doctors of the Law. Those who listened were seated in attitudes of rapt attention. He questioned and spoke with such force and such authority that they were confounded with admiration.

The Virgin heard Him interrogate Malaleel, surnamed the Ram, on account of the elevation of his genius; Tobias, so called for his benevolence; Joseph of Arimathea, styled the good rich man; Nicodemus the Pharisee, and a great many others. They seemed lost in amazement, comprehending for the first time how weak were their ideals, how imperfect their virtue compared with the high ideals and sublime virtue which this Child required: "Be ye therefore perfect as also your heavenly Father is perfect." (St. Matthew v, 48.) They were silent before Him.

How filled with grace the Son of God, whose glance penetrated the secrets of highest heaven! Joseph and Mary listened with holy recollection.

The Blessed Virgin had indeed heard such words in the secret recesses of her own pure soul, but never had they been expounded in human speech.

And then, when He had finished, He turned and left the Doctors so quietly that they did not note His departure. They sat meditating upon the truths which He had laid before them, speaking as one in authority. The divine seal was upon Him and His countenance glowed with superhuman intelligence. Mary and Joseph left the pillar and advanced to meet Him, amazed, feeling their own nothingness in the presence of His majesty. With humble tenderness Mary spoke to Him:

"Son, why hast Thou done so to us ? Behold, Thy father and I have sought Thee sorrowing."(St. Luke ii, 48.)

Joseph, too, gazed on that lovely countenance with questioning eyes.

"How is it that you sought Me? Did you not know that I must be about My Father's business ?" (Ibid., 49.)

Mary felt a curious trembling seize upon all her limbs. For the first time it was her God who spoke. The ties of earth had disappeared. He had spoken of His Father . . . His heavenly Father. Mary and Joseph were filled with wonder. The Virgin Mother looked at Joseph.

"They understood not the word that He spoke unto them. . . . And His Mother kept all these words in her heart." (Ibid., 50, 51.)