A woman came to them with wine and food, for the midday had come, but
neither noticed it. In his fervor to enlighten this tender soul, the
old man forgot his weariness; in her wonder at the strangely gentle
doctrine which had contradicted all the world's previous usage, the
girl forgot her prejudice. She listened; and with such signs as change
of expression, flushes of emotion, movements of surprise and
brightenings of interest to encourage him, the old Christian talked.
When he had progressed sufficiently to round out the theory of
Christianity, she had grasped a new standard. The contrast between the
old and the new made itself instantly felt. On one hand was the simple
and logical; on the other the complex and dogmatic. The Christian was
able to measure proportionately how much should be laid upon her mind
for study at once and while she still waited, he rose from his place.
"There is more; yet there are other days," he said.
But she caught his hand as he rose and with a sudden yearning in her
eyes whispered: "O Rabbi, what said He of love?"
"Love?" he repeated, with a softening about his lips. "The Master
blessed love between man and woman."
"But, but--" she faltered, "if one love another than one's wedded
spouse, then what?"
His face grew grave.
"That is not lawful even among you, who are still of the old faith."
"But suppose--"
He laid a kindly hand on the one that held his.
"Suffer but sin not. He that endureth unto the end shall be saved."
"What end?"
"Death."
She was silent while she gazed at him with change showing on her
gradually paling face.
"Then--then what is in thy faith for the forlorn in love?" she
exclaimed.
"Peace, and the consciousness of the joy of Christ in your
steadfastness," he said.
She rose. How much longer had she to live?
"And thou sayest we die?"
"Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the
soul," he said gently.
Fear Hesper, then, but not the Roman. While she stood in the immense
debate of heart and conscience he laid a tender hand on her head.
"Perchance in His mercy thou shalt be welcomed there first by thy
father, whom I buried, and by thy mother."
The sudden recurrence to that past tragedy and the unfolding of his
recognition fairly swept Laodice off her feet with shock and alarm. If
he noted her feeling, he was sorry he had not succeeded in comforting
her with a promise of reunion with her beloved in that other land. He
took away his tremulous hand from her hair.
Leaving her transfixed with all he had said, he moved painfully away,
stiffened by long sitting while he discoursed.