The City of Delight

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.