Hebrew Heroes: A Tale Founded on Jewish History

Many years now flowed on, with little to disturb their even tenor. Miriam, the only daughter of Hadassah, was married to Abishai; Abner was united to a fair maiden whom his mother could receive love as a daughter indeed.

The Hebrew widow lived her early days over again in her children, and life was sweet to her still.

Then came blow upon blow in fearful succession, each inflicting a deep wound on the heart of Hadassah. Both the young wives were taken in the prime of their days, within a few weeks of each other – Miriam dying childless, Naomi leaving but one little daughter behind. But the heaviest, most crushing stroke was to come!

When Seleucus, King of Pergamos, with the concurrence of the Romans, had placed Antiochus on the throne of Syria, the new monarch had speedily shown himself an active enemy of the faith held by his subjects in Judaea. Onias, their venerable High Priest, was deposed, and the traitor Jason raised to hold an office which he disgraced. A gymnasium was built by him in Jerusalem; reverence for Mosaic rites was discouraged. Both by his example and his active exertions, Jason, the unworthy successor of Aaron, sought to obliterate the distinction between Jew and Gentile, and bring all to one uniformity of worldliness and irreligion. In the words of the historian:19 "The example of a person in his commanding position drew forth and gave full scope to the more lax dispositions which existed among the people, especially among the younger class, who were enchanted with the ease and freedom of the Grecian customs, and weary of the restraints and limitations of their own. Such as these abandoned themselves with all the frenzy of a new excitement, from which all restraint had been withdrawn, to the license which was offered to them. The exercises of the gymnasium seem to have taken their minds with the force of fascination."

To temptations such as these, a disposition like that of Abner was peculiarly accessible. His religion had never been the religion of the heart; his patriotism was cold, he prided himself upon being a citizen of the world. Unhappily, after the death of his wife, Abner had become weary of Bethsura, and had gone up to Jerusalem to divert his mind from painful associations. He there came under the influence of Jason, and plunged into amusement in a too successful effort to divert his mind from sorrow.

Ambition soon added its powerful lure to that of pleasure. Abner met the newly-made king shortly after his accession, and at once attracted the attention and won the favour of the monarch. There was nothing but the Hebrew's faith between him and the highest distinctions which a royal friend could bestow. Abner yielded to the brilliant temptation; he parted with his religion (more than nominal it never had been), changed his name to that of Pollux, abandoned all his former friends and pursuits, and attached himself entirely to the Syrian court, then usually residing at Antioch.

Abner, or, as we have called him, Pollux, dared not face his mother after he had turned his back upon all which she had taught him to revere. The apostate never went near Bethsura again; he kept far away from the place where he had passed his innocent childhood, the place where slept the relics of his young Jewish wife. Abner wrote to Hadassah to inform her of what he termed the change in his opinions; told her that he had given up an antiquated faith, commended his little daughter to her care, and asked her to forget that she herself had ever given birth to a son.

Hadassah, after receiving this epistle, lay for weeks at the point of death, and fears were at first entertained for her reason. She arose at last from her sick-bed a changed, almost broken-hearted woman. As soon as it was possible for her to travel, the widow left Bethsura for ever. She could not endure the sight of aught to remind her of happier days; she could not bear to meet any one who might speak to her of her son. Hadassah's first object was to seek out Abner, and, with all the persuasions which a mother could use, to try to draw him back from a course which must end in eternal destruction. But Abner was not to be found in Jerusalem, nor in any part of the country around it. He had carefully concealed from his mother his new name – the Hebrew was lost in the Syrian – Abner was dead indeed to his family and to his country – and to Hadassah the courtier Pollux was utterly a stranger.

It was long, very long, before Hadassah gave up her search for Abner, and she never gave up either her love or her hope for her son. Affection with her was like the vein in the marble, a part of itself, which nought can wash out or remove. There was scarcely a waking hour in which the mother did not pray for her wanderer; he was often present to her mind in dreams. And the character of Hadassah was elevated and purified by the grief which she silently endured. The dross of ambition and pride was burned away in the furnace of affliction; the impetuous high-spirited woman refined into the saint. Exquisitely beautiful is the remark made by a gifted writer:20 "Everything of moment which befalls us in this life, which occasions us some great sorrow for which in this life we see not the uses, has nevertheless its definite object… It may seem but a barren grief in the history of a life, it may prove a fruitful joy in the history of a soul."

Hadassah's intense, undying affection for her unworthy son, led her to regard with peculiar affection the child whom he had left to her care. She loved Zarah both for his sake and her own. Zarah was the one flower left in the desert over which the simoom had swept; her smile was to the bereaved mother as the bright smile of hope. Hadassah, as she watched the opening virtues of Abner's daughter, could not, would not believe that the parent of Zarah could ever be finally lost. God would surely hear a mother's prayers, and save Abner from the fate of an apostate. All that Hadassah asked of Heaven was to see her son once again in the path of duty, and then she would die happy. The love for Abner which still lived in the widow's bosom, was like the unseen fires that glow unseen beneath the surface of the earth, only known by the warmth of the springs that gush up into light. Even as those springs was the love of the widow for Abner's daughter.

CHAPTER XXVI.

WEARY WANDERINGS

Hadassah had believed years previously that she had suffered to the extreme limits of human endurance – that there were no deeper depths of misery to which she could descend; but the news brought on that fatal night by Salathiel showed her that she had been mistaken. The idea of her Zarah, her tender loving Zarah, in the hands of the Syrians, brought almost intolerable woe. So carefully had the maiden been nurtured, watched over, shielded from every wrong, like an unfledged bird that has always been kept under the warm, soft, protecting wing, that the utter defencelessness of her present position struck Hadassah with terror.

And how – the widow could not help asking herself – how could one so timid and sensitive stand the test of persecution from which the boldest might shrink? Zarah would weep at a tale of suffering, turn faint at the sight of blood. She was not any means courageous, and her young cousins, Solomona's sons, had been wont to make mirth of her terror when a centipede had once been found nestling under a cushion near her. Could such a soft silken thread bear the strain of a blast which might snap the strongest cable? Hadassah trembled for her darling, and would willingly have consented to bear any torture, to have been able to exchange places with one so little fitted, as she thought, to endure. Sorely tried was the faith of the Hebrew lady; how little could she imagine that the prayers of many years were being answered by means of the very misfortune which was rending the cords of her heart.

In the misery of her soul, all Hadassah's physical weakness and pain seemed forgotten. Before morning she had dragged her feeble steps to the gate of the prison which held her child, with the faithful Anna for her only attendant. In vain Hadassah implored for admission; in vain offered to share the captivity of Zarah, if she might be but permitted to see her. She was driven away by the guards, with insolent taunts, only to return again and again, like a bird to its plundered nest! But no complaining word, no murmuring against the decree of Him who had appointed her sore trial, was heard from Hadassah; only that sublime expression of unshaken faith, Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.

Then the widow thought of Lycidas the Greek. She had a claim upon his gratitude, and she knew that Zarah had a place in his affections. With his wealth, his talent, his eloquence, might he not help to save her child?

"Anna," said Hadassah to her handmaid, "could we but find the Greek stranger, he might afford us aid and advice in this our sore need. But I know not where he abides."

"Joab would know," observed the Jewess, "and I know the quarter of the town in which he dwells with his mother's sister, Hephzibah; for I have dealt with her for olives and melons. But, lady, you are weary, the heat of the sun is now great; seek some place of shelter and rest while I go in search of Joab."

"There is no rest for me till I find my Zarah; and what care I for shelter when she has but that of a prison!" cried Hadassah.

The two women then proceeded on their quest to a quarter of Jerusalem inhabited only by the poorest of the people. Simple as were the garments worn by the widow lady, she carried with her so unmistakably the stamp of a person of distinction, that her appearance there excited surprise amongst the half-clad, half-starved children that stared at her as she passed along. The street was so narrow that the women, meeting a loaded camel in it, had to stand close to the wall on one side, to suffer the unwieldy beast to pass on the other. Hungry lean dogs were growling over well-picked bones cast forth in the way, evil odours rendered the stifling air more oppressive. But Hadassah went forward as if insensible of any outward annoyance.

Hephzibah, a miserable-looking old woman, with eyes disfigured and half blinded by ophthalmia, was standing in her doorway, throwing forth the refuse of vegetables, in which she dealt. Anna had frequently seen her before, and no introduction was needed.

"Where is Joab?" asked the handmaid, at the bidding of Hadassah.

The old crone through her bleared eyes peered curiously at the lady, as she replied to the maid, "Joab has gone forth, as he always goes at cockcrow, to lade his mule with leeks, and melons, and other vegetables and fruits. He will not be back till night-fall."

Hadassah pressed her burning brow in thought, and then herself addressed the old woman.

"Have you heard from Joab where dwells a week – an Athenian – Lycidas is his name?"

"Lycidas? no; there be none of that name in our quarters," was the slowly mumbled reply.

"Has Joab never spoken to you of a stranger, very goodly in person and graceful in mien?" persisted Hadassah, grasping at the hope that the singular beauty of Lycidas might make it less difficult to trace him.

Hephzibah shook her head, and showed her few remaining teeth in a grin. "Were he goodly as David, I should hear and care nothing about it," said she.

"The stranger has a very open hand, he gives freely," observed Anna.

The words had an instant effect in improving the memory of the old

Jewess.

"Ay, ay," she said, brightening up; "I mind me of a stranger who gave Joab gold when another would have given him silver. He! he! he! Our mule is as strong a beast as any in the city, but it never brought us such a day's hire before."

"When was that?" asked Hadassah.

"Two days since, when Joab had taken the youth to his home."

"Can you tell me where that home is?" inquired Hadassah with eagerness.

"Wait – let me think," mumbled Hephzibah.

Hadassah thrust a coin into the hand of seller of fruit. Hephzibah turned it round and round, looking at it as if she thought that the examination of the money would help her in giving her answer. It came at last, but slowly: "Ay, I mind me that Joab said that he took the stranger to the large house, with a court, on the left side of the west gate, which Apollonius" (she muttered a curse) "broke down."

This was clue sufficient; and thankful at having gained one, Hadassah with her attendant left the stifling precincts of Hephzibah's dwelling to find out that of the Greek. Terrible were the glare and heat of the noonday sun, and long appeared the distance to be traversed, yet Hadassah did not even slacken her steps till she approached the gymnasium erected by the renegade high-priest Jason. With difficulty she made her way through crowds of Syrians and others hastening to the place of amusement.

Hadassah groaned, but it was not from weariness; she turned away her eyes from the building which had been to so many of her people as the gate of perdition, and the merry voices of the pleasure-seekers sounded sadder to her ears than a wail uttered over the dead. Precious souls had been murdered in that gymnasium; the Hebrew mother thought of her own lost son!

Almost dropping from fatigue, Hadassah reached at last the place which Hephzibah had described. It was an inn of the better sort, kept by an Athenian named Cimon, who had established himself in Jerusalem. Hadassah had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with the host, who received her with the courtesy befitting a citizen of one of the most polished cities then to be found in the world. Cimon offered the lady a seat under the shadow of the massive gateway leading into his courtyard.

"Dwells the Lord Lycidas here?" asked Hadassah faintly. She could hardly speak; her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth from heat, fatigue, and excitement.

"The Lord Lycidas left this place yesterday lady," said the Greek.

"Whither has he gone?" gasped Hadassah.

"I know not – he told me not whither," answered Cimon, surveying his questioner with compassion and curiosity. "Months have elapsed since the Athenian lord, after honouring this roof by his sojourn under it, suddenly disappeared. Search was made for him in vain. I feared that evil had happened to my guest, and as time rolled on and brought no tidings, I sent word to his friends in Athens, asking what should be done with property left under my charge by him who, as I deemed, had met an untimely end. Ere the answer arrived, the Lord Lycidas himself appeared at my door, but in evil plight, weak in body and troubled in mind. He would give no account of the past; he said not where he had sojourned; and yester-morn, though scarcely strong enough to keep the saddle, he mounted his horse, and rode off – I know not whither; nor said he when he would return. If the lady be a friend of the Lord Lycidas," continued the Athenian, whose curiosity was strongly excited, "perhaps she may favour me by throwing light upon the mystery which attends his movements."

But Hadassah had come to gain information, not to impart it. "I cannot linger here," she said, "but if Lycidas return tell him, I earnestly charge you, that the child of one who nursed him in sickness is now the prisoner of the Syrian king!"

Grievously disappointed and disheartened by her failure, Hadassah then turned away from the dwelling of the Greek.

"Oh, lady, rest, or you will sink from fatigue!" cried Anna, whose own sturdy frame was suffering from the effect of efforts of half of which, a day before, she would have dreamed her mistress utterly incapable.

Hadassah made no reply; she sank rather than seated herself under the narrow strip of shade afforded by a dead wall. The lady covered her face; Anna knew from the slight movement of her bowed head that Hadassah was praying.

Presently the Hebrew lady raised her head; she was deadly pale, but calm.

"I cannot stay here," she murmured. "I must know the fate of my child. Anna, let us return to the prison." Even with the aid of her handmaid, the lady was scarcely able to rise.

The twain reached the gate of the prison. A group of Syrian guards kept watch there. The appearance of the venerable sufferer, bowed down under such a weight of affliction, moved one of the soldiers to pity.

"You come on a fruitless errand, lady," he said, "the maiden whom you seek is not here."

"Dead?" faintly gasped forth Hadassah.

"No, no; not dead," answered the Syrian promptly. "I know not all that has happened, but the young girl was certainly brought before the king."

"Before him who murdered Solomona and her boys – the ruthless fiend!" was the scathing thought that passed through the brain of Hadassah. "And what followed?" she asked with her eyes, for her lips could not frame the question.

"Belikes the king thought it shame to kill such a pretty bird, so kept it to make music for him in his gardens of joy," said the guard. "All that I can say is, that the maiden was not sent back to prison, but remains in the palace."

"The palace!" ejaculated Hadassah; more distressed than reassured by such information.

"Of course," cried another soldier, with a brutal jest; "the girl was not going to commit the folly of dying for her superstitions like a bigoted fanatic old woman, with no more sense than the staff she leans on! Of course, the maid did what any woman in her senses would do, – worshipped whatever the king bade her worship, the Muses, the Graces, or the Furies. Converts are easily made at her age, with all kinds of torments on the one side, all kinds of delights on the other."

Hadassah turned slowly away from the spot. Could the soldier's words be true? had Zarah forsworn her faith as her father had done, though under circumstances so different?

"Oh! God will forgive her – He will forgive my poor lost child, if she have failed under such an awful trial!" murmured the Hebrew lady, pressing her hand to her side, as if to keep her heart from bursting. But Hadassah was by no means sure that Zarah's resolution had indeed given way. She determined at all events and at any hazard to see the maiden; and, collecting all her strength, proceded at once to the palace. The unhappy lady ought have guessed beforehand that it would be a hopeless attempt to gain admittance into that magnificent abode of luxury, cruelty, and crime. The guards only mocked at her prayer to be permitted to see the captive Hebrew maiden.

"Then I must speak to the king himself!" cried Hadassah. "I will watch till he leave the gate."

"The king goes not forth to-day," said a Syrian noble who was quitting the palace, and who was struck by the earnestness of the aged widow, and, the anguish depicted on her noble features. "But Antiochus rides forth to-morrow, soon after sunrise."

"Then," thought Hadassah, "daybreak shall find me here. I will cling to the stirrup of Antiochus. I will constrain the tyrant to listen. God will inspire my lips with eloquence. He will touch the heart of the king. I may yet persuade the tyrant to accept one life instead of another. Oh! my Zarah, child of my heart, it were bliss to suffer for you!"

Clinging to this last forlorn hope, Hadassah allowed herself at last to be persuaded by Anna to seek the residence of a Hebrew family, with whom she was slightly acquainted; there to partake of a little food, lie down and attempt to sleep. Snatches of slumber came at last to the widow, slumber filled with dreams. Hadassah thought that she saw her son, her Abner, bright, joyous, and happy as he had been in his youth. Then the scene changed to own home. Hadassah fancied that Zarah had unexpectedly returned; in delight she clasped the rescued maid to her heart, and then, to her astonishment, found that it was not Zarah, but Zarah's father, whom she clasped in her arms! It was strange that dreams of joy should come in the midst of so much anguish, so that a smile should actually play on the grief-worn features of Hadassah. Was some good spirit whispering in her ear, "While you are sleeping your son is praying. Your supplications for him are answered at last?"

But Hadassah lost little time in sleep. While the stars yet gleamed in the sky, the lady aroused Anna, who was slumbering heavily at her feet. The handmaid arose, and without awakening the household, Hadassah and her attendant noiselessly quitted the hospitable dwelling which had afforded them shelter, and turned their steps again in the direction of the stately palace of Antiochus Epiphanes.

As the two women traversed the silent, narrow, deserted streets, they suddenly, at the angle formed by a transverse road, came upon a young man, whose rapid step indicated impatience or fear. He was moving with such eager speed that he almost struck against Hadassah, before he could arrest his quick movements.

"Ha! Hadassah!"

"Lycidas! Heaven be praised!" were the exclamations uttered in a breath by the Greek and the Hebrew.

"Is it – can it be true – Zarah – captive – in peril?" cried the young man, whom the tidings of the attack on Salathiel's dwelling, and the capture of a maiden, had casually reached that night at Bethlehem, where he was sojourning, and whom these tidings had brought in all speed to Jerusalem. Lycidas had ridden first to the house of Cimon, where the message left by Hadassah had confirmed his worst fears. Leaving his horse, which had fallen lame on the rocky road, he had hurried off on foot to the palace, with no definite plan of action before him, but resolved at any rate to seek an interview with the king.

"Zarah is prisoner in yon palace," said Hadassah, "you will do all in your power to save her?"

"I would die for her!" was the reply,

Hadassah in few words made known to the young Athenian her own intention to await at the palace gate the going forth of Antiochus, and plead with the Syrian king for the life and freedom of Zarah. The lady was thankful to accept the eager offer of Lycidas to remain beside her, and support her petition with the weight of any influence which he might have with the tyrant, small as he judged that influence to be. Hadassah, thankful at having found a zealous friend to aid her, leant on the arm of Lycidas as she might have done on that of a son. Difference in nation and creed was for awhile forgotten; the two were united by one great love and one great fear, and the Gentile could, with the soul's deepest fervour, say "Amen" to the Hebrew's prayer.

CHAPTER XXVII.

FLIGHT

It was with a strange sense of happiness mingling with fear that Zarah followed her father out of the apartment which had been her place of confinement. The blessing of Abner lay so warm at the heart of his daughter! Zarah was no longer like one peering into depths of darkness to catch a glimpse of some terrible object below; she had discovered what she had sought, and by the cords of love was, as it were, drawing up a perishing parent into security and light. It was rapture to Zarah to reflect on what would be the joy of Hadassah on the restoration of her son. The maiden could rejoice in past perils, and, with a courage which surprised herself, confront those before her; so clearly could she now perceive that her sufferings had been made a means of blessing to those whom she loved.

With a light, noiseless step, Zarah, obeying the directions of her newly-found parent, and keeping his form in sight, crossed the first court which they had to traverse. It was paved, surrounded by pillars, and open to the sky, of which the deep azure was paling into morning. The place was perfectly silent. Zarah observed that her father glanced up anxiously towards the building which formed the south side of the court, where marble pillars, with wreathed columns and richly carved capitals, supported a magnificent frieze. Antiochus himself occupied that part of the palace. But no eye peered forth at that early hour on the forms that glided over the marble-paved court below.

Under the shadow of the colonnade now reached, Pollux awaited his daughter; – the first point of danger was happily passed. Pollux now pointed to a broad, covered passage to the right, lighted by lamps, of which some had already burnt out, and others were flickering. Zarah saw at the further end forms of men dimly visible. The guards, weary with the long night-watch, were apparently sleeping; for they appeared to be half sitting, half reclining on the pavement, and perfectly still.

Zarah had now to go first, and with a throbbing heart the maiden approached the soldiers, breathing an inaudible prayer, for she felt the peril to be very great. The passage at the end of which the guards kept ward opened into one of the small gardens which adorned the interior of the extensive edifice, with a tank in the centre, from which a graceful fountain usually rose from a statuary group of marble, representing Niobe and her children. The fountain was not playing at this hour, and there was not light sufficient to throw the shadow of the statues upon the still water below.