..•• 
 
 *
 
 REVELATION
 
 REVELATION 
 
 BY 
 
 DULCIE DEAMER 
 
 f* 
 
 BONI and LIVERIGHT 
 Publishers : New York
 
 REVELATION 
 
 Cop's-* : by 
 
 Bom <& LivnaoHTj I 
 
 I'nntcd in the UniUd States of America 
 
 (All rights reserved)
 
 Loon 
 
 £>3M3r 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PART I 
 
 PACB 
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 7 
 
 PART II 
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 99 
 
 PART III 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL, AND A GARDEN - 169 
 
 2135152
 
 PART I 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN
 
 REVELATION 
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 
 
 The time, the nineteenth year of the reign of Tiberius 
 Caesar, Master of the World. The place, Jerusalem, 
 a city in the Roman province of Palestine adminis- 
 tered by Pontius Pilate. In the houses the women 
 scold, talk, and give place to the ensteeled soldiers 
 of Rome. Beggars pester for alms, blind men 
 whine, lepers rot by the roadside, children play 
 noisily together, men who pray look superciliously 
 upon those who do not, harlots wait in their houses, 
 girls envy each other and watch young men, shep- 
 herds, labourers, smiths, fishermen, weavers, tax- 
 collectors, potters, and money-changers ply their 
 trades ; and the son of a Galiloean carpenter, who is 
 reputed to cure sickness and teach heresy, goes 
 from village to village, fed by charity, and followed 
 by a few fishers. 
 
 The hinged palm-wood shutter of the square window 
 hung open, and the neutral first-light, mingling with 
 the dusk of the chamber, leavened it increasingly. 
 A round, flattish basket of woven grasses sat on 
 the matted floor. The lid of the basket had been 
 set on it unevenly, and at the chink between lid and 
 rim something moved. It was the diamond-shape 
 head of a serpent. 
 
 9
 
 io REVELATION 
 
 There was the faintest craping rustic. The -erpent, 
 low as whipcord and green a^ young g: 
 rain, slid from the basket. It moved cur 
 the malting, passed athwart a rounded outliung arm, 
 and came to rest upon the warm bosom ui a girl. 
 
 The girl sighed. A slight stretching shudder fli 
 along her limbs. She crooked th< 
 hind her head. She yawned. The i- 
 the small grass-green I flickered like a point 
 
 flame. 
 
 The girl's eyes opened. 
 
 "Oh, A ten," si. eepy \ 
 
 mer" 
 
 She sat up, placing her right hand o\<r the >nakc 
 as she did so. Then stretched out her arm, at>out 
 which it had twined bi hion. 
 
 The girl was of mingled I .n blood, 
 
 and had seen the pa 
 
 fore she was a woman. Her l a 
 
 magnolia flower — a warm cream-white, 
 
 , with smooth and subtir 
 into each like the mi flowing honey. Her 
 
 low, oval bn ugh lull, w< 1 linn. Her 
 
 red-golden hair resembled the tai: 
 stallion when it has been dyed with henna 
 of festival, and was of an equally handsome length. 
 Night was in her eyes — warm night, in which 
 the melting Syrian moon, the Lady of Love. 
 
 "Kiss me!" she said in a laughing half-whisper, and 
 the tiny, cold nui. where its quick 
 
 tongue flickered, touched her mouth. 
 
 She stood up, yawning, stretching with wide-flu 
 
 arms, her young, unused body taut as the cord of a
 
 REVELATION i i 
 
 drawn bow. The ends of her unbound, down-hanging 
 hair touched her heels. 
 
 There was a sound — half -sigh, half -groan. A wom- 
 an, sleeping on a mattress laid alongside that from 
 which the girl had risen, turned over on to the flat 
 of her back. 
 
 "Astarte! Daughter of the Devil, what are you 
 doing? Is one to be permitted no sleep at all? As 
 soon as a girl turns twelve years she's as fidgety as 
 a cat in the spring." 
 
 She heaved herself up into a sitting position, sag- 
 ging forward slumped shoulders, her feet crossed, her 
 plump knees apart. She was a fleshy woman with 
 the short, straight features of a beauty, and an aging, 
 yellowish skin, much creased at the neck. Her sulk} 
 eyes were those of a wanton. They were darkened 
 with kohl in such a manner that it seemed as though 
 a soot-smudge surrounded each, and her chin was tat- 
 tooed — a beauty-mark. 
 
 "My mother, it is morning," said the girl, Astarte, 
 who stood now with hands locked behind her uptilted 
 head. 
 
 The chamber had lightened, and a little silver stat- 
 uette of the composite Diana of Ephesus glimmered 
 dully in a niche. 
 
 "Oh — morning is it? My head aches. ... I feel 
 old — as old as though I'd borne and suckled you my- 
 self in very truth. ... I hate this town — it sickens 
 me like a sepulchre. It stinks worse than Sidon, and 
 the men are like hired mourners at a funeral — all of 
 them ! . . . When Bel-Namri said to me, Tn five days 
 we go up to Jerusalem,' my stomach turned as though 
 I had eaten sour curds." 
 
 She shut her mouth with a snap. Her eyes criti-
 
 12 REVELATION 
 
 cised the girl — an expert, appraising scrutiny. 
 
 "Come here to me, child." 
 
 Astarte moved to her, looking down 
 
 "Child did i call you? a're i 
 
 than 1 am these days. A piece oi perfc 
 pearl! A sweet almond to be cracked between 
 man's teeth!" 
 
 She pulled the girl down beside her. 
 
 Astarte, crouching on her heels, a, en- 
 
 dure passively, with drooping shoulders. 
 
 "Vou"ll letch a priee, my beaut) . 
 kept you carefully. No man has laid so much 
 the tip of his linger on \ ou since you readied eight 
 years of age You're as ignorant of ti. of 
 
 a city as a babe, and 1 : I have trained you 
 
 everything. Stand up now and postu. ie — 
 
 it is good to practise when the muscles 
 from sleep." 
 
 Still passive, the girl ruse. 1 he I woman 
 
 reached up and patted her — much as one patl a 
 
 favourite, eleg.. haped animal. 
 
 "There 1 Posture for me, there's a darl. 
 . . . You fill the eyes like a goddc .d and 
 
 ivory." 
 
 Astarte sighed, straightened her back, and moved 
 languidly into the cent I the chamber. 
 
 The sun . e the hoi: w. Me: 
 
 objects caught lire, and colours were revivified. 
 The multiple breasts of the Ephesian Diana g 
 tened like clustered silver I The patterned 
 
 red and black of the round snake-basket * 
 arresting as a spoken word, and light filtei I 
 through the large red carnehan that rested on the 
 bosom oi the elder woman.
 
 REVELATION 13 
 
 Astarte's arms were at her sides, her down- 
 turned palms very stiffly at right angles to them. 
 A sort of shudder went over her, and then the 
 wonderful play of the muscles began. Every inch 
 of the girl's body seemed to vibrate with life. It 
 was marvellous, alluring — a wonder and an excita- 
 tion. 
 
 "Now — the stomach dance. As I showed you 
 yesterday." 
 
 The voice held something of the sharp staccato 
 of the beast trainer. The even breathing of the 
 girl, standing relaxed, was audible in the quiet of 
 the chamber. It seemed a place apart — as far re- 
 moved from the workaday wholesomeness of life 
 as a potted iris set in the corner of a harlot's dark- 
 ened room is distant from a similar iris flowering 
 by a pool where the village women wash their gar- 
 ments, chattering shrilly as they kneel in the mud. 
 
 "Oh, my mother — I am tired. ... It is an ugly 
 dance.' 
 
 "What What? Am I deaf? Be quick! Dance 
 
 for me — and keep your mouth shut, or I'll teach 
 you to open it wider than you wish !" 
 
 There was no answer. The girl stood like a 
 planted post, her head inclined, her eyes veiled. 
 
 "Dance !" screamed the woman. "Dance, you 
 daughter of perdition! Your father was a devil, 
 your mother was " 
 
 Astarte whipped round, facing her. Her teeth 
 were bared like an animal's, her eyes had widened 
 with the reckless fury of a Maenad's. 
 
 "Be silent ! ... or I'll kill you ! May your father's 
 grave be dishonoured ! May you be smitten with
 
 i 4 REVELATION 
 
 lerosy ! May the dogs devour you! I hate you — I 
 
 spit on you I" 
 Iler voice rose a- shrilly as the othei 
 There wa a breath! pau 
 
 An inarticulate, strangling sound of ra. nc 
 
 from the woman. With a sudden mo t — 
 
 wonderfully quick for one of her bulk — 
 right up. 
 
 "Your mother was a harlot! rl, 
 
 and even as Che ith she 
 
 turned and fled, 
 ducked t< 
 
 ut l*er 
 ears like irrn of d 
 
 an extcr: 
 
 < hamber to the fi irt. 
 
 This ourt i i ill in cold sha A hunting' 
 
 leopard. t\\ o-thirds gTOW n, 
 
 to a staple. I l>"h upi like a 
 
 chained d< »g. There W ei 
 
 live I jiarr. r l"ur 
 
 fragile -1( ■ 
 
 frighteni de] 
 
 hung with a striped woollen curtain. 
 
 Astarte made straight for thi -way. Her feet 
 
 were stained with the unclean moisture 
 court, that smelt as musl 
 plunged past the curtail fell with 
 
 the arms of an old ne -a shrunken 1 
 
 lxmcs hung with half en necklace 
 
 bea 
 
 "Dido — she is furious! She cast a slipper 
 and would have whipped me. ... I hate her! I 
 wish I could kill her!"'
 
 REVELATION 1 5 
 
 "Oh, hush! oh, hush! . . . She shall not whip 
 my princess — my lady of beauty — Dido will not let 
 her." 
 
 With skinny hands she put a blanket of camel's 
 hair about the naked girl. The lobes of her ears 
 were drawn right down by the weight of many 
 tarnished ear-ornaments. She had the face of an 
 old monkey, but the eyes were human, and they 
 were the windows of a soul that had suffered. 
 
 Astarte crouched down at the knees of the old 
 woman. 
 
 "Oh, Dido— I hate her so!" 
 
 Her teeth gritted, and a shiver went through her. 
 
 "If they would only sell me! . . . She spoke this 
 morning of what I was worth. They are keeping 
 me for a price. . . . Day after day I offer a date or 
 fig and a spoonful of wine to the silver goddess, 
 but she does nothing for me. I do not believe that 
 there are any gods, Dido. . . . Oh, I wish they 
 would sell me !" 
 
 She rose up, clad in the blanket of camel's hair, 
 and crossed daintily to where the cheetah was 
 chained. Putting her arms about it she fondled it, 
 kissing the space between its small round ears. 
 
 "Presently they will sell you," she said, "and the 
 gazelles, and the peacocks, and the doves. But I 
 shall remain — I am always left." 
 
 She stood up, and the camel's hair covering 
 slipped from her shoulders. She resembled a tiger- 
 lily breaking from a dark sheath, every fibre of her 
 thirsty for life as an unfurled flower for rain. 
 
 "Dido, I want to see fine marble houses, and 
 streets full of people, and all the things they sell 
 in the streets. I want to stain my fingers with
 
 i6 REVELATION 
 
 henna, and have a lapful of gold and silver orna- 
 ments — and see wrestling bouts, and beast fights, 
 and a chariot race. I want to talk to girls, and 
 dance before great men in a wonderful room with 
 a vermilion ceiling and a marble floor that looks like 
 running water. I want to smell roses, and hear 
 harp music, and taste wine with honey in it. . . .'* 
 
 Her head was tilted a little back. The whole 
 pose of her eager, breathing body was that of one 
 whose mouth is about to be kissed. 
 
 II 
 
 The morning whose neutral first light had leavened 
 the dusk of the chamber where was enshrined the 
 Ephesian Diana was now hued as tenderly as a 
 pink sea-shell drawn from the blue Mediterranean. 
 The air was as fresh as the water that gushed when 
 Moses struck the rock, and upon many housetops 
 just-risen women sat opposite to each other grind- 
 ing corn. 
 
 Under the fugitive pink and saffron of the sun- 
 rise a young man standing upon a roof where he 
 had passed the night recited the prescribed prayers 
 that were his racial heritage. Upon his forehead 
 was bound a tiny square parchment box, no larger 
 than an amulet. It contained a folded strip of 
 vellum, upon which was minute writing: "Hear, O 
 Israel: The Lord thy God is one Lord: And thou 
 shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and 
 with all thy soul, and with all thy might. . . ." 
 
 As he prayed his left arm was outstretched, and 
 with his right hand he bound it about with thongs 
 of leather. And the manner of this binding re- 
 vealed the word Shaddai, which is, in Hebrew, 
 Almighty.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 17 
 
 Thirteen hundred years before, the words that 
 were written upon the strip of vellum had been 
 delivered to the forefathers of this young man in 
 the stark and terrible, waterless country about 
 Mount Sinai, a mountain of Arabia. They had been 
 delivered by a man named Moses while thunder 
 darkened the brows of the mountain and intermit- 
 tent lightning flickered, and the men and women 
 who listened — a horde of nomad Arab blood, wear- 
 ing the golden armlets of Egypt — had fallen upon 
 their faces as the dry thunder rolled among the 
 peaks. . . . 
 
 The young man who prayed was not less than 
 seventeen, perhaps eighteen years of age. He was 
 tall, straight as a palm, and would have stripped 
 for a wrestling match as creditably as a trained 
 Greek athlete. His face was beautiful, with that 
 fine, Semitic beauty that seems, as it were, steeped 
 to the lips in subtle, incommunicable melancholy 
 and in the dignity of an exiled king — burdened with 
 a thousand years of dreams and desert thought, yet 
 lit with smouldering fires. A white cloth covered 
 his head as he prayed. On one side was the rolled- 
 up mattress he had slept upon. 
 
 A cry of trumpets rang out across the quicken- 
 ing hill city — the trumpets of the Roman garrison. 
 
 The prayer ended. The roof on which the young 
 .man had stood, and whose level was broken by the 
 round blister of a low dome, was empty. . . . 
 
 Below, in the slimy house-court that was com- 
 mon to half a dozen families, and down whose 
 centre ran a stream of liquid filth, three women 
 were talking. Beyond a low-browed stone arch, 
 like a short tunnel, the traffic of a street, narrow
 
 18 REVELATION 
 
 and deep as a torrent-channel, passed and repassed. 
 
 "When he was no higher than my hip he could 
 quote Scripture like a Rabbi. It would have brought 
 the tears to your eyes to hear him ! Such a dot as 
 he was, with a head of curly hair as black a 
 goat's. The prettiest boy you ever saw, though 
 I'm his mother that says so." 
 
 It was the eldest woman speaking, shrivelled 
 somewhat, and very yellow, with the narrow fore- 
 head of a congenital fool. Crescent-shaped and 
 circular bits of metal, strung together, hung down 
 on each side of her face. 
 
 The woman to whom she spoke nodded her head. 
 She was young, and regarded life with eyes that 
 were like those of a sick marc, standing stolidly on 
 flat, brown feet. 
 
 "And such a figure of a man !" went on the other. 
 "Is it not so, Dinah? Manv's the time I say to 
 myself: 'The girl that calls him husband will be a 
 lucky one!' There's mighty few girls in Jerusalem 
 good enough for him, Dinah. ... His father was 
 fit to sit with any of them. Id have had 
 
 his seat in the Sanhedrin if right were right. A 
 man of family — none better born in all Judaea. 
 If it hadn't been that he was taken with a 
 dropsy when my David was scarce weaned, sweet 
 lamb ! . . . " 
 
 "Yes . . .," said Dinah. And then, with extreme 
 and sudden sharpness: "Rama! Fetch Tobias back 
 — he's in the street ! . . . Tobias!" 
 
 Under the arch a toddler of perhaps two years, 
 wearing a short yellow shirt, had been playing, 
 poking about in a slush of semi-liquid refuse with 
 a stick. Now he had dropped the stick and was
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 19 
 
 standing at the edge of the traffic-channel. Asses 
 with drooping heads, and carrying mountainous 
 bulging sacks balanced across their backs, passed 
 by, their hoofs slipping on the cobble-stones. 
 
 Rama, a girl of thirteen, with sad, doe-like eyes, 
 darted forward, seized the toddler, and bore him 
 back to his mother astride of her slight hip. His 
 cherub face was unwholesomely pallid, very dirty, 
 and a resting-place for flies. 
 
 "The little darling!" said the eldest woman. 
 "What a blessing you have there, Dinah." 
 
 A two-leaved door at the head of a flight of 
 steps, protected by a crazy wooden balustrade, 
 opened, and the young man who had recited the 
 morning prayer upon the housetop came out. 
 
 The two women and the girl with the unsavoury 
 child athwart her hip regarded him. He went down 
 the steps without seeing them, moving with a cer- 
 tain innate, unconscious dignity and aloofness. He 
 had upon him a knee-length tunic, girt about his 
 middle with a belt of leather, and lying open from 
 the throat almost to the belt. Upon his feet were 
 sandals, and his head was uncovered. Still igno- 
 rant of the three who watched him, he passed to a 
 doorway masked by a ragged curtain of dark stuff, 
 and entered. 
 
 "There he goes !" said Naomi, her face wrinkled 
 with maternal pride, her eyes glittering like black 
 beads. "My David! Handsome as Absalom, and 
 the best son a mother ever had. . . . The way the 
 girls watch him, Dinah — the hussies ! But he pays 
 no more attention to them than if they were a row 
 of stones. ... I hope he makes his choice soon — 
 I'm not getting younger, and I pray morning and
 
 20 REVELATION 
 
 evening that I may see my grandchildren. ... A 
 queen's daughter would not be too good for him, 
 but if he brings me a decent, obedient girl of an 
 honest family who can cook and sweep and doesn't 
 sulk when she's spoken to I won't complain." 
 
 There was a pause. Tobias, still astride 
 Rama's hip, began to squirm like a puppy, whining 
 to be set down. The girl humoured him, put: 
 him upon his feet, and then squatted down by him, 
 talking to him and rallying him with laughter like 
 a mother of ten years' experience. 
 
 "Rama's a good girl," said Dinah, without appar- 
 ent reference to anything that had been said. "She's 
 as sensible as a grandmother. She bakes bread 
 better than I do — I'll bring you a loaf. . . . Yes- 
 terday we had a dish of :id raisins steeped 
 in vinegar, and my man said it was the best he'd 
 ever tasted. . . . She doesn't wa • much i 
 pinch of flour or a di oil either 
 
 Xaomi made a clicking sound with her I i _;ue 
 — a wordless expre amiable assent. 
 
 "She'll ma! <■ man a fine wif id Dinah 
 
 in a dreary voice. "I shall miss her: my mother 
 bore only she and I. But she's ripe already for a 
 son of her own." 
 
 There was a silence. Each understood the other, 
 but nothing further v. d. The girl. Rama, had 
 
 risen and stood with lax-hanging hands, her c 
 Still on Tobias. To bear such children was her ap- 
 pointed destiny. She waited, passive, dutiful, re- 
 ceptive. At the rear of the house-court a cluster 
 three and four year olds were playing at marriag 
 
 In the darkened den of a room that was masked 
 by the ragged curtain David, the son of Naomi, the
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 21 
 
 widow of a ne'er-do-well in whose veins had run 
 the coveted blood of David, the poet-king, sat on 
 the edge of a raised floor that ran the length of 
 the wall and was laid with a couple of frayed mat- 
 tresses. His strong and supple body was bent for- 
 ward, his hands were clasped between his knees, his 
 eyes and the fine line of his mouth were those of a 
 visionary, for he was gazing with all his soul upon 
 a picture of the mind that was dearer to him than 
 the hot breath of life. . . . He saw, as from the 
 summit of a high mountain, the country of his peo- 
 ple — Judaea, Galilee, Samaria — now the subjugated 
 province of an Empire, governed by its conquerors. 
 The wonderful, enduring roads of Rome, undeviat- 
 ing as the flight of an arrow, traversed it from 
 north to south. The collectors of the Roman taxes 
 sat in its gates, the coinage of its tribute, stamped 
 with the image of Tiberius Caesar, passed famili- 
 arly from hand to hand. The people had bread, and 
 wine, and oil, but liberty had departed from them 
 like a raven to a hilltop ; the promises uttered to 
 their fathers by a line of fierce and splendid 
 prophets had been made void, and the glory of their 
 God had passed like golden light from a long 
 cloud. . . . 
 
 The mind picture changed. To the watcher upon 
 the summit of the high mountain the swarms of 
 men choking the formal channels of life in the 
 cities and villages below seethed suddenly like an- 
 gel-troubled waters. There was the flash of swords, 
 the windy wailing of sacred ram's-horn trumpets, 
 the mighty effort of a manacled nation that in one 
 strong convulsion bursts its bonds. . . . Again the 
 mind picture changed. Jerusalem, the gray city,
 
 22 REVELATION 
 
 situate on the clenched fist of a mountain height, 
 rang with the mellow clash of cymbals. Its streets 
 were strewn with palm branches ; the trumpets of 
 the priests cried like the strange voices of angels; 
 smoke sweetened with incense and the fat savour 
 of the roast flesh of rams and bullocks rose lik 
 pillar from the great altar in the court of the tem- 
 ple of God. The golden eagle standards me 
 were prostrate, for the Messiah, the Deliverer, the 
 Desire of the Everlasting Hills had come, and an 
 empire mightier than that of Solomon, the L 
 of Wisdom, was the portion of Israel, and the veiled 
 words of the prophets were fulfill- Endless 
 strings of dromedaries from the farth< ist, 
 bearing the gifts of kings and of the sons of kings, 
 choked the narrow g; the city, and the daugh- 
 ters of the city cast roses from the housetops into 
 the way before them. The Deliverer sat in the 
 gate of the Temple; and He was a conquerer. and a 
 judge, and a young king mightier than Solomon. 
 Incense rose about Him. and the hot blood of heif- 
 ers was sprinkled. And David, the son of Naomi, 
 the widow, standing- with a thousand others who 
 had fought for the kingdom of God. raised his 
 sword — smoking with the blood of the Roman — in 
 acclamation and passionate allegiance, while music 
 rent the heavens and the roses rained. . . . 
 
 "Oh. what a world! I'm full of rheumatism this 
 morning, but that's the spring. . . . Jonah's uncle 
 is bad with boils. David. Dinah told me of it. If it 
 isn't one thing it's another. ..." 
 
 Glory and valour and worship broke like a mist 
 and vanished. There was a rattle of metal ware. 
 The widow stooped over the hearth, where some
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 23 
 
 coals glowed, and her unmodulated voice was 
 pitched in its usual complaining key. The mat- 
 tresses upon the raised floor were worn so thin 
 that the stuffing was visible. A row of broken 
 earthen jars crowded a shelf, and the gritty stone 
 flags had not yet been swept. But the inner flame 
 of David's faith remained unshaken. He had never 
 handled a sword or felt the weight of steel harness, 
 but his boy's spirit was that of a warrior, ardent 
 as a bridegroom — self-dedicated to the cause of 
 Israel and of the Deliverer, who must surely come. 
 This was his dearest dream, the secret garden of 
 Jiis soul. He saw himself a captain clothed in the 
 armour of God, fighting lion-like. . . . 
 
 "Did you hear, David? Jonah's uncle is bad with 
 boils, poor man." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 He stood up, still a trifle abstracted. 
 
 "Eh, dear ! no oil in the jar. . . . Dinah's young 
 sister, Rama, is a good girl, and as quiet as a mouse. 
 She can cook, too, and she's as pretty as any girl 
 needs to be." 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "David, my jewel, you're a man now. It's time 
 you brought me a daughter. Leave it to me, and 
 I'll find you a girl who'll make you as good a wife 
 as any in Jerusalem." 
 
 "Mother— not yet." 
 
 It was useless to utter anything further; she 
 would not have understood. He desired no woman. 
 He had set all things aside from him, seeking to 
 remain immaculate as a stripped sword ready at 
 any instant for the service of which he dreamed. 
 Marriage meant a girl whose mind was divided be-
 
 24 REVELATION 
 
 tween the food vendors' 1 and the worne 
 
 gallery at the Synagogue; who would prepare vari- 
 ous dishes over the fire of coals, and wl 
 petual presence would invade even his sle 
 
 "Oh, there you go again! Obstinate as Balaam's 
 . . . . Do you want your father's name 
 perish? Rizpah has twin grandsons already — 
 her son your elder only by a year. . . . David, my 
 el, listen to your mother." 
 
 David's mouth, firm, yet sensitive as a woman 1 
 in whose clean lines were united th< . the man 
 
 and the idealist, remain- i <!. A -light furr 
 
 was visible between his bf which he had un- 
 
 consciously drawn together. Still silent, he turned 
 from his mother, raised the r;. curtain and 
 
 passed out. . . . 
 
 A crazy projecting window of weather-stained 
 wooden lattice-work overhung the ! 
 hinged pane w n, and the apcrtu med a 
 
 face, shadowed, soft, indefinably pathetic. It v 
 Rama, the thirteen-year-old sister of Dinah. Her 
 lustreless black hair hung list her oval olive 
 
 cheeks. In the half-dark room behind her Dinah 
 was scolding Tobias. She knelt, li g thro-,: 
 
 the opening, though there was nothing I seen. 
 
 A ragged curtain was raised and David came out 
 into the house-court. Without turning his head, he 
 crossed to the arch that gave upon thi ind 
 
 disappeared. The eves of the girl who I I down 
 
 from the hanging window had followed him. She 
 remained kneeling, looking at vacancy. . . . The 
 discoloured stone walls melted. She saw a cluster 
 of young virgin girls carrying little bridal lamps 
 and with branches of myrtle in their hands ; and a
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 25 
 
 figure like herself, crowned with gilded myrtle 
 leaves, was in the midst of them, enshrouded in a 
 milk-white veil whose ends touched the ground; 
 and it was evening — the threshold of a night more 
 wonderful than a miracle. . . . 
 
 "Rama— Rama !" 
 
 The voice was Dinah's. 
 
 "Yes! — I am coming. ..." Rama withdrew 
 quickly from the hanging window. There was 
 soiled clothing to be washed, and the day's corn 
 to be ground, and Tobias had fallen down three 
 steps and was wailing as though he had been half 
 killed. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile David was taking his way through 
 the bazaar quarter. Stray fingers of sunlight 
 touched the dark green rinds of cucumbers and 
 gourds. Grain sellers sat in semi-obscurity behind 
 their heaps of corn, a round sieve hanging within 
 reach. There was an odour of sandalwood, green 
 vegetables, and fermenting refuse. Men passed 
 astride of small, burdened asses, their bare, cal- 
 loused feet almost touching the damp cobblestones. 
 Other men bore upon their backs unsightly goat- 
 skins, distended with water, which they sold to the 
 thirsty. Tattered awnings, scarlet, russet, or dark 
 blue, protected the open-fronted shop niches, 
 though the bales of a passing camel almost brushed 
 the opposite sides of the sunless street-passage. 
 Here and there the way was solidly roofed over 
 and became a tunnel of partial darkness for twelve 
 or fifteen paces. 
 
 As he went the young man was now in pungent 
 shadow, now in rare sunlight. He paid no atten- 
 tion to those who bought and sold, or to the clat-
 
 26 REV LIGATION 
 
 clat of ass hooves, the whine of cripples, the sing- 
 song minor melody of a young Syrian with a sprig 
 of orange blossom behind his ear. lie carried him- 
 self like an equal of kings, his handsome head 
 clean-cut as a profile on a Greek gem; the skin 
 clear olive, the hair cut i ide 
 
 in Roman fashion, thick and n< Mack. 
 
 Girls shrouded in white or dark blue drap<. 
 glanced at him, turned their heads, and 
 him with their eyes. But David regarded women 
 with a mixture of ignorance, awe and also a spe< 
 of detached, in. oal contempt. They were at 
 
 on< e a mystery, a I mental cmj 
 
 s. He kept care full) i — aln 
 
 angrily aloof at times when a certain quickening of 
 the blood shamed and harassed him. H<- had never 
 even so much as laid his hand upon 1 in a 
 
 caress. The ardent spirit d! him was 
 and impatiently set upon other ma 
 
 The whinii e of the young Syrian au- 
 
 dible above the clatter of tongues and ho 
 
 s of love, naked and ui 
 sweeter than honey, and fulfilled desire. The 
 stank like a midden, though the perfume of orar. 
 tlower water touched the nostrils. A v. 
 ing girl, peering through a high- 
 spoke over her bare shoulder to anoth< 
 
 "Oh! What a handsome fellow! Look. Zillah — 
 quick! I'd love to kiss him — he's so serious! . . . 
 He won't look up." 
 
 Where the street was intersected by another an 
 elderly man of the strict sect of the Pharisees stood 
 at the street corner praying rously aloud. The 
 
 ends of the fringed prayer-shawl that covered bis
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 27 
 
 head fell to the hem of his long- garment. To these 
 ends were sewn wide strips of parchment display- 
 ing texts from the sacred Hebrew writings. As he 
 prayed he seemed — with the narrow white beard 
 hanging nearly to his middle — endowed with the 
 saturnine superciliousness of an old he-goat. The 
 passing Jews regarded him with respect, and a 
 child or two stared solemnly. But David's eyes 
 avoided him. In the abstract he was a Jew of 
 Jews, living in the past and in the future of his 
 race, praying daily with an ardour that was pas- 
 sionate — almost pitiful — but in the concrete the 
 people of his race, as he saw them from day to day, 
 were an exasperation and a thorn in his flesh. In 
 a sort of angry defiance — the defiance of a boy who 
 was very much in earnest — he had adopted the 
 dress of the Gentile Greeks who swarmed in the 
 city, and went with his head uncovered, save at the 
 times of prayer. 
 
 He entered an open market. A covered colon- 
 nade in the Greek style closed one side of it. Be- 
 tween two of the cream marble Corinthian col- 
 umns, on the second of the three shallow steps that 
 led up to it from the market, sat a young man in a 
 dark tunic, shod with dilapidated sandals that had 
 been mended with string. One leg was thrust out 
 before him, the other was drawn up so that he 
 rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his 
 palm. He was a Greek. His light, close-cut hair 
 had a thick, hyacinthine wave in it. His eyes — 
 brilliant as the eyes of one with fever — were sap- 
 phire blue. 
 
 David crossed the market to the colonnade. The
 
 28 REVELATION' 
 
 young - fellow sitting at ease upon the steps k 
 him and stood up. 
 
 "David!" he said. 
 
 "Cymon !" said David. 
 
 "I've been here more than an hour . . . watchr 
 the faces. It won't buy bread and olives, but it's 
 instructive. You're late. ' 
 
 "Yes . . . my mother spoke to me this morning. 
 She wants me ... to choose a wif< 
 
 He paused, and then spoke rapidly: 
 
 "She can't understand — none <»f them under- 
 stand, Cymon! There are worthier things than the 
 begetting of children . . . Look at all these — 1< 
 at them!" — he made a quick gesture towards the 
 if buyers and Bellers — "'' t and drink 
 
 and trade, take virgins in marriage and 1" 
 sacrifice according to the Law. and recite certain 
 formula- every time they wash their m 
 their nails. . . . Then they die. They're a flocl 
 goats, going where they're led or driven, and pulling 
 grass by the way. ... I cannol id and 
 
 content myself. T thirst. ..." 
 
 He broke off. Regarding his dream and purpose 
 he had opened his lips to neither man nor woman. 
 
 Cymon was leaning against the marble column. 
 whose capital imitated curled acanthus leaves. 
 
 "Oh. they'll pester you to marry." he said. 
 "Women's minds are set on nothing save begetting 
 and bearing. They're animals — just animals. . . . 
 But a bitch is faithful and a woman isn't. I made 
 a fool of myself over a girl once." He sp 
 though he had seen half a century. "It was at 
 Tyre. I met her in the market. ... I gave her 
 all I had — I'd been working for three months with
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 29 
 
 a silversmith — every coin of it. ... I was in Ely- 
 sium. We were god and goddess. I lay with m\ 
 head on her breast and watched the full moon ris- 
 ing over myrtles. Our love was immortal — I felt 
 that it would outlast our lives. . . . Next day I 
 found that she was a girl of the temple of Ashotreth 
 — common property. ... I wasn't the first she'd 
 fleeced that way, either. ... I haven't touched a 
 woman since. Even if they don't rob you, they de- 
 grade a man L" 
 
 His boyish jaw was rather more angular than it 
 should have been from hardship and lean days. The 
 nails of his tapering, nervous fingers were un- 
 trimmed and black, and the set of his mouth very 
 bitter. 
 
 David remained silent for about a minute. His 
 nostrils had dilated when Cymon spoke of the tem- 
 ple girl. . . . Habitually he was reserved almost to 
 taciturnity, carrying an unconscious dignity as a 
 king's stallion carries gold trappings. He was 
 vaguely ashamed already that he had spoken so 
 openly to Cymon. In general he was the listener 
 while the other spoke. They had been friends for 
 some months. Deliberately he had chosen the 
 Greek, for Cymon was touched with a rare fire of 
 the spirit that flared gustily like a torch in a 
 draught. In the house-court of his lodging and in 
 the market where his work lay men spoke of the 
 saving of money, of the taxes, of shrewd dealing in 
 business, of So-and-so who neglected the tithes 
 commanded in the Law. . . . Already he knew the 
 bleakness of the spiritual isolation that goes with 
 sensitive and passionate enthusiasm, but his un-
 
 30 REVELATION 
 
 spoken ideal lay beyond the range of Cymon's sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 "I shall not choose a wife," he said. 
 
 "That's good," said C\ m 
 
 Nearby, an old woman selling vegetables haggled 
 shrilly with a girl whose hip was straddle . 
 pot-bellied child. Sparrows twittered ab ut the 
 roof of the colonnade, and a few mongrel 
 hideous with scabs and the patchy baldness of 
 mange, lay here and there on the steps or 1 
 agely for liens. 
 
 David sat down on the secon i where Cym 
 
 had sat. The young Greek v. :de him. leaned 
 
 on his shoulder, and began to speak in a 1 
 rapid voice, jerkily, fiercely. 
 
 "You're not like the rest. Y<u see and think, and 
 I can trust you as 1 trust my own hand. . . . ] 
 all wrong — wrong from first to last. The no 
 
 gods. XI of Asht< >reth arc pi . 
 
 titution, and I saw a grape festival at ( da. 
 
 Everyone was drunk — drunk and ... But 
 
 that's not the worst — it's the injustice. A few — 
 governors, courtezans high priests, patrician 
 have their hands on tlv the world and 
 
 wallow like swine in a slough of mud. They live in 
 hou E marble, eat nightingales 1 tongues, buv 
 
 Arabian horses, massage their bodies, tickle their 
 senses with perfect women more valuable than ped- 
 igree desert mares. . . . They've everything. 
 They're a sort of imitation demigod-. Even their 
 finger-nails are polished like :> And the rest 
 
 — the others, here, and in Tyre and in Castabala, 
 everywhere — you know how they live, and I know. 
 They sweat, and suffer, and toil in an endless circle
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 31 
 
 like slaves turning mill-stones. And it's the work 
 of their hands — the work of their million coarse, 
 bruised hands, with work-scars and broken nails — 
 that these others squander and wanton with ! They 
 cut the gems, cast the metals, dress the stones, 
 build the palaces — and they get a handful of dates 
 and olives and a little bread. . . . Their work bows 
 them and twists them; they contract repulsive dis- 
 eases; they are sold as slaves, struck and beaten, 
 sometimes branded — and always they work for 
 those who have never worked. . . . It's monstrous 
 — it's insane ! A hundred millions sweat and strain 
 like helots chained to galley benches, and a hand- 
 ful — prefects and courtezans — set the crown of life 
 upon their brows and laugh lightly like immortals. 
 . . . Birth, life-long slavery, and then — night. 
 Nothingness, the cold gulf where all sensations and 
 their joys are lost like the flame of a lamp that is 
 blown out. . . . David, if they weren't stupid as 
 oxen from overwork they'd rise like the sea — over- 
 throw and enjoy — suck life as one sucks a sweet 
 orange — live to the full ! Or if that should prove 
 impossible, end everything. . . . I'd open my veins 
 to-day if I was tied to labour without hope like 
 some of these. . . . Why should one drudge and 
 cringe for three-score years with no payment save 
 oblivion at the end of it? A man, if he be a man, 
 should leap straight into the dark sooner than 
 that. ..." 
 
 His eager, rapid voice that had gone on half 
 breathlessly with scarcely a break had dropped to 
 a sombre note, and ended on it. 
 
 After a moment David spoke. 
 
 "Would you open your veins, Cymon?''
 
 32 REVELATION 
 
 "To-day! — if I was without hope. Why not? 
 . . . But I don't r — it makes me i<j<j angry 
 
 for that. They threw my father into prison and 
 kept him there till he died oi gaol fever for saying 
 the things that I .say, and they confiscated all that 
 he had. I've kept myself afloat since 1 was thirteen 
 — I won't go under. I've been a groom, a chai 
 tier, a silversmith's apprentice — and now I'm a 
 porter hen- in Jerusalem. . . . David, 1 see it all 
 it should be — no sla\ r-, no palaces or 
 
 temples. Pleasure and beauty for everyone. Public 
 gardens and tin . . If I starve for it I'll be 
 
 no man's servant. When a ; es I turn 
 
 my head ami spit on the ground.' 
 
 David put his arm about the Oth I 
 
 "Cymon, my friend, you mu 
 crce' as a muzzled ox. . . . We're <>f one mind — we 
 want no women, you and I; and the I a 
 
 Roman governor offends me as much i 
 you." 
 
 "Rome!" -aid Cymon 1 *i his teeth, 
 
 with a si it of concent: 
 
 "Porter!" bawled out a man down in the mar! 
 who had ju-t bought a pair of knee-high earthen 
 water-jar 
 
 Roth the young men rose. 
 
 "Your turn next," said Cymon. He caught up a 
 porter's basket and went down the 
 
 David remain ' ling by the cream marble 
 
 column. He folded his arms. He was aware- 
 unaware — of the motley market, the unea<:v. twitch- 
 ing sleep of mangy dogs, the turquoise spring 
 sky. . . . 
 
 "Make way! Way!"
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 33 
 
 It was the hoarse voice of a servant crying a 
 passage through the market for some person of 
 consequence. Pigeons rose into the air with noisy 
 wings. 
 
 David's abstraction was pierced. It vanished. 
 He was conscious of the coldness of the marble col- 
 umn that his right shoulder was in contact with, of 
 form, and colour, and movement, and — suddenly — 
 of the eyes of a girl that were raised to him. They 
 were dark as night — warm night, in which swam 
 the melting Syrian moon, the Lady of Love. Vir- 
 ginal eyes, but their virginity was as eager for 
 knowledge as the quickened blood in spring. Beau- 
 tiful eyes, frank as an animal's ; the eyes of a child, 
 of an unawakened woman, of a potential Circe — the 
 eyes of the undying Eve. . . . 
 
 The young man's pulses leapt like a horse struck 
 with a whip — a horse that up to this moment had 
 paced evenly along a measured course, obedient to 
 heel and rein, schooled and trammeled. Now it 
 quivered, and sprang forward like a stag. An emo- 
 tion that was also an impulse, sweeter than wild 
 honey, stronger than wine, took hold of him, pos- 
 sessed him as the subtle fire of fermented golden 
 liquor possesses a man who has drunk deeply. . . . 
 
 As automatically as a sleep-walker he stepped 
 down into the market. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "Sir, you can see for yourself that she is perfect — 
 not a blemish, not a birth-mark. She's worth three 
 times the .money, and I've kept her as the pupil of 
 my eye. I've educated her since she was a slip five
 
 34 REVELATION 
 
 years old — she knows the stomach dance, the dance 
 of the bee, the dance of the vt .uscle dance. 
 
 But that we are poor people ;. ed the mom 
 
 could never have brought myself to part with her. 
 She is more than a daughter to me — sweet-tem- 
 pered, quick as a cat, and healthy a.s a breast-fed 
 babe." 
 
 It was the woman who had thrown her slip; 
 at Astarte who rely an hour had claj 
 
 since that incident. Morninj ittered 
 
 outside the bright 1 the wi: [Tie Ephe- 
 
 sian Diana gh in her niche. An 
 
 quisite squat .Ik carpet had I Upon 
 
 it, near the ed te her, 
 
 with the width of a yel- 
 
 low old Syrian, with h 
 
 red, and a fleshy, I much with negroid 
 
 and \ox\l. re neither male 
 
 nor female. I with rings, 
 
 and from both his pi< ling a tear-shaped 
 
 rl. 
 
 On the carpel squat r cloth- 
 
 ing lay near her feet. Her hair hung down to the 
 carpet in tv blinked, swallowing in 
 
 her throat, for she much excited, and her 
 
 heart had qui : ke th I of hoofs that pass 
 
 from car • A door was opening with 
 
 every delicious ibility beyond it, for she was 
 
 being sold. 
 
 "Dekert aid the old Syrian with the d 
 
 beard, speaking shortly to the woman who faced 
 him. "you are too talkative. Let the gentleman 
 speak. What d U think of her. sir?"' 
 
 There was a moment or two of silence.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 35 
 
 "She is very fair — very fair indeed. . . . The 
 colouring is good. She has no noticeable blemish. 
 ... I will give you the sum I mentioned." 
 
 The eunuch spoke with the careful choice ot 
 words and the dispassionate inflection of a con- 
 noisseur. His repellent eyes had been studying the 
 girl deliberately. 
 
 Immediately he alluded to the price a pattering 
 shower of words deluged him. Bel-Namri, the 
 dealer in slaves, ornamental birds and foreign ani- 
 mals, expostulated, whined, argued and entreated, 
 became indignant, melted into lamentations, ad- 
 dressed the eunuch as his father and mother. 
 
 "Astarte," said Dekerto in a brisk undertone, 
 "get your clothes on — there's a darling." 
 
 She heaved herself up. 
 
 A thrill of delicious excitement, keener than joy, 
 shot through the girl. It was settled — she was 
 about to go. 
 
 Events followed each other as rapidly as inci- 
 dents in a dream. She was draped in clinging white 
 and shod with sandal's whose bleached leather 
 thongs were embossed with silver. She stood now 
 in the court where the cheetah was, and the ga- 
 zelles. The iron-bound door of this court was open. 
 Dekerto was near her, too satisfied even to simulate 
 grief at parting. . . . The cheetah crouched flat, 
 watching. The gazelles moved nervously. Be- 
 yond the half-open door, in shadow and strong sun- 
 shine, life waited. 
 
 "My Honey-flower — my Lady of Beauty!" 
 
 It was Dido, the old shrunken negress. She 
 came across the court, her head thrust forward like 
 a tortoise's.
 
 36 REVELATION 
 
 "They are taking my Lady of Beauty away. 
 They are taking her Honey-flower away from 
 Dido!" 
 
 Her hands were upon the girl. Her voice ended 
 on a high-pitched moan which resembled the wail- 
 ing of a hired mourner at a funeral. 
 
 "Oh, Dido " said Astarte. "Don't Dido. . . . 
 
 I'm going to the house of the Tetrarch, Herod. I 
 shall have all the things I told you about this morn- 
 ing. . . . Oh, Dido, I wish you were coming too." 
 
 Her throat hurt her. She wanted with all her 
 strength to comfort Dido, but could think of noth- 
 ing to say. 
 
 "Come along now! Dido! ( '•<■' out of the w. 
 you old fool !'* 
 
 A flare of rage lit the damped spirit of the girl, 
 who had momentarily forgotten Dekerto. 
 
 "Dido's not a fool, and you're a^ ugly as an old 
 cow-camel — and I hate you !" 
 
 And with that she scurried through the openii 
 where the door of the court d ajar. Behind her 
 
 rose the keening of Dido, wonderfully pathetic. It 
 seemed to stab her. Her eyes swam with tear-, and 
 through them she saw the sunshine of the street. 
 
 The eunuch was already reclining in his open 
 litter. A negro stood on either side of Astarte. 
 Four tall Nubians, ebony black, but straight-fea- 
 tured as Arabs and with beautifully proportioned 
 bodies, lifted the little poles to their shoulders. The 
 negroes stationed on the right and left of the girl 
 moved forward and she moved with them. The 
 house of Bel-Namri, the slave dealer, was behind 
 them. . . . Now the street turned and it was out 
 of sight. The unknown encompassed her.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 37 
 
 Astarte had never once in her fifteen years of life 
 gone on foot through the streets of a city. She 
 had been borne from place to place in a curtained 
 litter along with Dekerto, who had not permitted 
 her even to look out. She was acquainted only 
 with interior courts and with rooms whose open- 
 ings overlooked interior courts. She had slept, 
 eaten, bathed, practiced dancing and posturing for 
 hours at a time ; acted as a sulky handmaid to De- 
 kerto; listened to Dido's interminable stories of 
 love, and magic, and talking animals ; played at 
 ball, idled, dreamed, chafed under delicious restless- 
 ness. She was virgin soil, ignorant as the child- 
 woman, Eve, standing beneath the tree of the 
 knowledge of good and evil. 
 
 She blinked the tears from her eyes, allowed the 
 clinging shroud that covered her head to slip a 
 little back, and opened the arms of her eager being 
 to sight, and sound, and smell. 
 
 There was noise — a wonderful variety of noise — 
 and splashes of sunshine like raw gold, and faces — 
 one following another so that it was impossible to 
 remember any of them clearly. Everyone seemed 
 either excited or inhumanly impassive. It was all 
 new — new as the five senses to a just-born infant. 
 
 Now they were crossing an open place encum- 
 bered with vegetables, baskets of eggs, and fowls 
 tied together by the legs in bunches and squawking 
 raucously. A range of cream marble columns rose 
 against the turquoise sky. Astarte raised her de- 
 lighted eyes to them.. A step or two above her, and 
 leaning against one of the columns, was a young 
 man, very dark, well-set, and wearing only a tunic,
 
 38 REVELATION 
 
 which lay open on his chest, revealing the hairless 
 olive skin. Their eyes met. 
 
 An extraordinarily new thrill struck through As- 
 tarte. The eyes that had encountered hers wen 
 an indescribable maleness, strange as those of a 
 dweller upon another planet. They baffled her, yet 
 she wanted to cover her face with her hands as 
 though convicted of something forbidden. 
 
 Squawk-squa-awk ! 
 
 Baa-a-a ! 
 
 "Make way — way !" 
 
 The litter-bearing Nubians, keeping step like ma- 
 chines, had not slackened for an instant. Astarte 
 was aware that the young man was aire, 
 behind her — receding from her like the marble col- 
 onnade. She wanted to to turn round, to go 
 back towards the place where he stood. And she 
 wanted to do tl vehemently, urgently. 
 But it was quite impossible. . . . She turned her 
 head, looking back over her shoulder in the direction 
 from which she had come. 
 
 He was there — ten behind. They were 
 
 traversing another street now, but she was hardly 
 conscious of it. The knowledge that he was i 
 lowing them obsessed her to the exc! of all 
 
 other perceptions. Tt was a great, glowing fact. 
 
 As though by merest chance she glanced acain 
 over her shoulder. . . . His eyes were dark as 
 onyx and steady as those of an archer drawing 
 his bow against a lion. 
 
 Ahead a gateway rose, square and massive as an 
 Egyptian pylon. The Nubian litter-bearers slack- 
 ened. Astarte understood that she was about to 
 enter the house of Herod, the Tetrarch. . . . For
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 39 
 
 the third time she glanced backward across her 
 shoulder, turning- her head as far as she could. 
 
 A shadow fell on her — the shadow of the gate. 
 
 The litter-bearers halted, lowering the litter until 
 it rested upon its four gilt legs, each of which ter- 
 minated in a claw clutching a pomegranate. Wall 
 surfaces of marble rose on three sides, topped by 
 semi-Egyptian cornices, red, green and gilt. 
 
 "Follow me — girl." 
 
 It was the first time the eunuch had spoken to 
 Astarte. Already she disliked him instinctively. 
 
 She obeyed mutely, her eyes busy with every- 
 thing, and a bland warmth caressing her. They as- 
 cended an exterior staircase, traversed an open gal- 
 lery which overlooked the boskage of garden courts 
 and were admitted by a door of cedar-wood to a 
 rather wide, low-ceilinged hall, the ivory pallor of 
 whose marble was emphasized by regularly spaced 
 inlet squares of sea-green malachite. The farther 
 end was open, save for a pair of peacock-blue cur- 
 tains suspended from a silver rod. Between and 
 above these curtains indirect daylight entered. The 
 dim place was very cool. Half a dozen girls lay 
 negligently on a great square of carpet. 
 
 "You are to remain here," said the eunuch. 
 
 Then, without paying any further attention to 
 Astarte, he went on down the hall, walking very 
 deliberately, and with the sleek and fleshy self-suf- 
 ficiency — the feminine arrogance — of an emascu- 
 lated priest of Cybele, and passed out between the 
 curtains. 
 
 The moment he was out of sight all the girls 
 lounging upon the square of carpet sprang up. They 
 mobbed Astarte without a shadow of diffidence.
 
 40 REVELATION 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "What can you do?" 
 
 "Look at her hair, Iris — it's henna-colour." 
 
 "1 low old are 
 
 "Old Importance b re — didn't i. 
 
 We alv all him [mporta hen he isn't 
 
 ing, because he think- the sun rises j u -t for him." 
 
 Astartc was delighn Hands touched her, 
 
 voices question* ered the q 
 
 in their order. 
 
 "I am calk tarte. . . . 1 d ■ • ... I an 
 
 fifteen." 
 
 "Come and sit down with inc -1 think you're 
 darling 1 the girl n mg 
 
 her arm about A 
 
 . micfdl d, trai lently feminine hi, 
 
 Iding I | in flu 
 
 Men t 1 r turquoi 
 
 a - 1 li >"k ' b tt I • il< >1 a in mineral i »] 
 
 They seemed tl i I a child, but tl 
 
 es '>f a snake. 
 
 She drew Astarte down 1 
 carpet, and the r : round, loui 
 
 squatting, in a half-circle. There was Helen. 
 other Greek; very statu< There \\a~ !! I 
 
 narow-loined Egyptian; and Semla, ,irl. 
 
 plump as a pigeon, who seemed half asl< tnd 
 
 \mytis, a thirteen -year-old Persian as wh 
 milk, with hair as Mack as the goats dead. 
 
 Vstarte's white clinging shroud was unwound 
 from her by deft hands. She sat upright <>n the 
 carpet clnd in a narrow garment of fine, semi- 
 transparent linen that left her arms hare and was 
 kept in place by two strings of flat, greenish-blue
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 41 
 
 Egyptian beads that passed over her nude 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Now tell us about yourself. We're all as dull 
 as bats this morning and dying for some news. 
 Aren't we, girls?" 
 
 "Oh, gods — yes ! 1 want to hear someone 
 
 talk '' said the flawless Helen, throwing wide 
 
 her arms. 
 
 Astarte was the centre of interest. She felt al- 
 ready as though she had known these girls for a 
 year. 
 
 "I don't know what to tell you — really I don't. 
 ... I have seen nothing. They kept me shut up 
 as though I were a bird in a cage. . . . There was 
 Bel-Namri — he sells gazelles and peacocks and 
 hunting dogs and leopards. I suppose he must have 
 bought me when I was very small. He is old, and 
 dyes his beard with henna. I didn't like him. And 
 there was Dekerto — whom I hated. She used to 
 beat me and call me bad names. She taught me to 
 dance, for she herself has been a stomach dancei 
 and a posturer, though now she is as fat as a calv- 
 ing cow. ... I saw only those two — and Dido. I 
 loved Dido. She is a negress, and very old, but she 
 used to call me her Honey-flower, and hide me from 
 Dekerto, and steal almonds and grapes for me. . . ." 
 Her voice paused. She blinked her eyes, for they 
 were wet. 
 
 "I am so glad I was sold this morning and have 
 come here. This is a very beautiful place." 
 
 "Oh, listen to her! Isn't she a darling?" cried 
 the fair and fluffy Iris. She flung her arms about 
 Astarte. "Then you've never been in love? Has 
 no man ever kissed you?"
 
 42 REVELATION 
 
 Astarte shook her head. 
 
 "Oh, you unborn babe! You little pigeon! . . . 
 You're as wonderful as a miracle." 
 
 Astarte twisted a little round to see the fair 
 laughing face and the turquoise eyes. 
 
 "Have you been in love?" she said. 
 
 She was very interested, and it was delightful to 
 have the smooth arms of a girl about her. 
 
 Iris did not answer — she threw back her golden 
 head and laughed as uncontrollably as though she 
 were being tickled with a feather. 
 
 "You are delicious!" she led when she had 
 
 done laughing. "Now ask Helen wl r she's in 
 
 love. She's crazy about one of the Nubians who 
 carry old Importance's litter. She can*t sleep fof 
 thinking of him." 
 
 "Faugh! He's black!" said Semla, the plump 
 Syrian girl. "I couldn't desire a man who looked 
 like ebony." 
 
 "That's just it — it's the novelty of him, dear. I'm 
 sick of white skins." 
 
 It was now near noon and had become very 
 warm. A palpable hush of midday sleep had fallen. 
 Iris drew Astarte down to lie with her. curving an 
 arm about her neck. As they lay together she whis- 
 pered to her, and her warm breath was pleasant and 
 her skin was perfumed like the petal of a flower. 
 
 "There is a feast to-night. Helen and I will pos- 
 ture for them, and Semla will dance, and you. too. I 
 suppose. If they've kept you as close as you say, 
 you'll have to open your eyes wide to-night. You'll 
 feel as though you were alive for the first time. . . . 
 Helen is anxious for her Nubian to see her — she 
 hopes he will be there as a torch-bearer. Semla is
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 43 
 
 in love with a Greek boy from Crete who boxes and 
 wrestles — I don't know whether he will be there. 
 If he sees you he may neglect her. . . . We call him 
 Adonis, and Semla says that he kisses as though a 
 girl's mouth were made of honey. ..." 
 
 Quiet reigned. In the dim hall the dancing girls 
 lay in a cluster, breathing evenly. Satin sides 
 pulsed regularly; large pearls encrusting the toe- 
 rings that garnished henna-stained feet cradled a 
 milky lustre. All sounds seemed remote, and the 
 motionless air was unquickened by any shaft of di- 
 rect light. 
 
 Astarte dozed like the others. She had a healthy 
 faculty for sleep or half-sleep at any time. Her 
 unquestioning consciousness, ignorant, yet a poten- 
 tial vehicle for all quickening or devastating emo- 
 tion, was immersed in sweet semi-oblivion like a 
 floating bather in tepid water. The fragrant whis- 
 pers of Iris still seemed to dwell in her ears. She 
 had spoken of love, and again of love. . . . The 
 young man who had stood by the cream marble 
 column overlooking the market was more satisfy- 
 ing to the sight than any splendid Nubian could 
 possibly be. Would he kiss as Iris had said that 
 the Greek boxer kissed — as though a girl's mouth 
 were made of honey? ... A bland sense-warmth 
 suffused and coloured the dreaming semi-oblivion. 
 The partially drugged consciousness dwelt upon a 
 memory of steady onyx eyes, unswerving as the 
 eyes of an archer who draws his bow against a lion. 
 ... A mind-picture shaped itself and moved, tak- 
 ing blurred colour. The young man of the market 
 stood face to face with Astarte and so near that he 
 could touch her if he raised his hand. His eyes
 
 44 REVELATIOl 
 
 were concentrated upon her as they had been when 
 she turned her head and saw him behind her in 
 street. She freed herself from her clinging white 
 shroud and shook her hair so that the long tresses 
 fell down her back and ac: -r bared should 
 
 almost to her sandaled feet. Then she raided her 
 eyes to hi-, and he drew suddenly cl her . . . 
 
 and the manner of his though her 
 
 mouth were made of honey. . . . 
 
 Perhaps an hour had passed. A had d 
 
 dreamed and slipped for a little while into dream- 
 le - sleep. Now she sighed, and wa ake. S 
 
 sat up. 
 
 Iris, who had lain beside her, " 
 
 other dancing girls lay had I en them, 
 
 sleeping like children. She herself ntly 
 
 Her young ! with life. A de- 
 
 sire for quick movent 
 
 her. She rose up, but without ma'' 
 
 I door by which she had enl 
 ever so slightly ajar — a for 
 sunlight lay upon the marble floor. Iris must h 
 
 -ed out that way. leaving the door 
 Curiosity, hungry vital' 1 a venturing spirit, 
 
 fearless as a kitten's — these three p' 
 tarte. She picked her way between the sleej 
 p'rls, stepping delicately, and so off the car- 
 square and across the cool floor to the unfa 
 door and the line of light. Hesitating only for I 
 breath she put out her hand and drew the door to- 
 wards her. widening the opening. In a moment 
 more — using the utmost instinctive precaution — 
 she had slipped out. drawing it almost to behind 
 her.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 45 
 
 The noon sun was in her eyes, dazzling her. It 
 was as though she had stepped into a thrice-heated 
 hath. She stood blinking with puckered eyebrows. 
 Beneath her was the mingled foliage of orange 
 and myrtle, and a staircase led down to the thatch 
 of glossy leaves. The shade of these leaves was as 
 inviting as a fountain set in palms to a desert trav- 
 eler. Astarte's feet, from which she had removed 
 the sandals an hour before, made no noise, as she 
 descended the stair. 
 
 The tessellated pavement was flecked here and 
 there with fallen leaves. The murmur of water 
 was audible as she went towards it, looking right 
 and left, with parted lips that seemed equally ready 
 to laugh breathlessly or to utter a sharp cry of de- 
 lightful fear. From the crown of her alert, red- 
 golden head to the soles of her naked feet she was 
 happy. 
 
 At the exact centre of this precinct was a wheel- 
 shaped sheet of water murmurously replenished 
 from the mouth of a marble fish. Beyond it a 
 carved bench was set back among the myrtles and 
 so lay in shadow. Upon this bench a man was ex- 
 tended, asleep. He was about twenty-five — per- 
 haps a year older or younger — and a Roman. His 
 handsome head rested on his bent arm, which was 
 as muscular as a gladiator's. 
 
 By the circular sheet of water stood a girl — Iris. 
 Both her dexterous hands were at her head, adjust- 
 ing the fluffy hair with little pats and pulls. For 
 some moments she continued to preen herself, then 
 skirted the pool, cat-footed, and paused by the 
 sleeper. Deliberately she bent herself, leaning over 
 him. Her pink, rather pulpy mouth, perfect in
 
 46 REVELATION 
 
 form as the bow of Cupid, and therefore purely ani- 
 mal, approached his. Lower she leant and her lips 
 came on the lips of the sleeping man in a slow, 
 closely-pressed kiss. 
 
 Her pose was that of the blond moon goddess 
 who leaned down out of the young night to the 
 mouth of Endymion, but the naked noon sun of 
 Syria was above her, and the perfume with which 
 she had anointed her breast and shoulders mingled 
 with her even breath, and the lips on which she 
 dwelt deliberately were cynical even in sleep. . . . 
 
 What was it? What had she heard? Her bent 
 head lifted with a jerk. She glance r her 
 
 scented shoulder, took four or five quick, soft steps 
 and melted into the myrtle bushes that passed 
 closely about the marble bench where Cupids in 
 low-relief were linked with rose garlands and 
 either end was finished with a blunt bull's head. 
 
 Astarte stood at the edge of the open space. Her 
 eyes were upon the fish from whose mouth the 
 fountain water flowed. She had seen nothing like 
 it before. What a marvelous thing it was! 
 went forward to the circular fountain, kneeli-d 
 down, and tilted her head sideways to look into the 
 fish's mouth, which was coat ide with dark- 
 
 green slime. The little unceasing ripple^ wimpled 
 at the circular margin, and bubbles transient as the 
 glint of a half-remembered dream floated and bw 
 floated and burst. . . . 
 
 The soles of a pair of sandals smote the pavement 
 with a metallic sound as the man who had been 
 asleep turned over upon the bench and sat up. 
 
 Astarte, who had been unaware both of Iris and 
 of the sleeper whom she had kissed on the lips,
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 47 
 
 lifted startled eyes. She saw a man clad in a red 
 tunic whose deep gold fringe fell about his strong, 
 bare knees. He sat forward, regarding her. The 
 hair of his square, close-clipped head was a lightish 
 brown. His eyes were grey. His mouth, which 
 had been that of a strong-willed, selfish materialist 
 to start with — a typical masculine mouth — had a 
 cynical twist in it which was more than a little 
 cruel. He was noticeably handsome, and as com- 
 pactly and unmistakably dominant as a clenched 
 fist. 
 
 "Who are you?" he said. 
 
 "I am called Astarte. I dance. I was brought 
 to this place a little before noon. . . . Who are 
 you?" 
 
 Astarte was quite unperturbed. Men had never 
 beaten her or thrown slippers at her. She was 
 vastly interested in them, being acquainted only 
 with Bel-Namri, who had always appealed to her 
 as a shriveled and unsatisfactory representative of 
 his sex. 
 
 "I am called Valerius. ... I am captain of the 
 guard here and a Roman citizen. . . . Why did you 
 kiss me?" 
 
 He had answered her almost as she had answered 
 him. His close-set lips were amused, but his nar- 
 rowed grey eyes regarded her as he regarded all 
 women who were trim in the body, and whose faces 
 were smooth and oval-cheeked. 
 
 "I didn't kiss you. I didn't see you until you sat 
 up. ... I came to look at the fish the water comes 
 from." 
 
 "Someone kissed me. ... If it wasn't you it 
 ought to have been. You've got a perfect mouth."
 
 48 REVEL >N 
 
 Ambushed in the myrtle.-, Ir :ied, absol 
 
 still. A subtle fire of pure r n in h 
 
 Her bosom and narrow, exquisitely Eemini ai- 
 
 ders were sweet as Merited lilies; an 
 jewel of lapis lazuli, the 
 
 a thread of gold from the golden i and u 
 
 the middle finger of her rig 
 ingly careless, had :en arranged in such a □ 
 as to halo the pale flower of 
 
 tO foot she Was pi 
 
 had gone out cat 
 
 found the man s} : | plani 
 
 find him, and had ki jsed hi- 
 
 from sleep by the 
 
 mouth — and he had -d a 
 
 henna-headed g' r l kii \ right 
 
 and ai ng him qu< 
 
 self-confident boy. . . . 
 
 Valerius rose to 1 feet. 
 
 "There's ai I tie thi 
 
 :." he said. "I'll I'll ki 
 
 whether you kissed mi 
 mouth- are alii 
 
 \-tarte Stood Up 
 
 It was all wonderfully novel, pi 
 
 She did not want this mail actually I 
 
 the know' that he desired to do ; - like 
 
 wine. 
 
 "I didn't ki- you And you can't catch me!" 
 she said. 
 
 "Can't i 1 Valerius. 
 
 The circular [ in was between them. The 
 
 was a loud splash. Astarte stood knee-deep in the 
 agitated water, laughing.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 49 
 
 "You'll have to get a net to catch me now!" 
 
 There was another louder splash. In the middle 
 of the fountain Valerius held the girl in his arms. 
 
 "You shouldn't challenge me — it's foolish,'' he 
 said. 
 
 Astarte's thin, drenched linen garment clung to 
 her body. The ends of her ankle-length red-gold 
 hair floated on the water. 
 
 "Child, you're the loveliest girl in the palace." 
 said Valerius, and there was a deeper note in his 
 voice. 
 
 Astarte ducked her head just in time to avoid his 
 lips. 
 
 "Let me go! I don't want to be kissed!" 
 
 She writhed like an eel. 
 
 "You're going to be kissed. When I want any- 
 thing I take it." 
 
 Suddenly Astarte was wildly angry. She was 
 not a horse or an ass to submit instantly to the 
 will of any man who shouted at her. Her mouth 
 was her own. 
 
 "Let me go — or I'll bite you!" 
 
 But she could not stir — could not free her hands. 
 He held her as rigidly as though she were in the 
 arms of a stone god. A feeling of powerlessness 
 came over her in spite of her resentment. 
 
 Valerius laughed. 
 
 "Now I am going to kiss you," he said. 
 
 He bent his head, setting his lips on hers. . . . 
 
 The fountain water murmured from the mouth 
 of the marble fish. "Coo-coo-o, coo-coo-o," said a 
 plump white dove sitting on some cornice or cop- 
 ing.
 
 50 REVELATION 
 
 Valerius raised his head. The kiss had lasted 
 about ten seconds. 
 
 "I told you that I take what I want," he said. 
 "Your mouth tastes as though it had the dew 
 it still." 
 
 He lifted her suddenly of! her feet, stepped up 
 out of the shallow fountain basin, and >et her down 
 00 the tessellated pavement. Water dripped from 
 her, and one of her shoulder-Strap I Egypl 
 beads had given way. She was rumpled like a kit- 
 ten that a dog has muzzled. 
 
 "You won't make such a fa .t time 1 
 
 to kiss you, will \ -aid Valerius. 
 
 Astarte raised her i ..im, drawing s: 
 
 breath. 
 
 "You shan't touch me again — I'd stab you 
 sooner ! Take that !" 
 
 Quick as tl * she struck him across the face 
 
 — so smartly that her hand tingled. Then whij 
 round and fled like the wind, through the i 
 and orange bushes, up tl "id in 
 
 the cedar door was still ajar, shutting it behind her 
 with a snap. 
 
 IV 
 
 When the eunuch, borne by his Nubians and fol- 
 lowed by Astarte and the two negro slave 
 under the heavy gateway of the house of He: 
 David, who had followed them from the market, 
 stood in the shadow of a wall, watching. 
 
 About a minute elapsed. Then he went across 
 and spoke to the negroid mercenary, leaning on 
 his ebony-hafted spear at the right-hand side of the 
 gate.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 51 
 
 "Who was . . . the girl who went in just now?" 
 
 The man grinned amiably at him. 
 
 "How should I know? I never sighted her be- 
 fore. But she's a new dancer, as like as not. There's 
 a feast to-night — a devil of a good time for some. 
 Girls and wine. ..." 
 
 He spat, 
 
 David turned from him, skirted the blank wall he 
 had passed beside, and went on blindly, walking at 
 random. His state of mind might be compared to 
 that of one who has received the sudden and incon- 
 ceivable gift of sight after darkness from birth. 
 Spiritually he groped, blinded with throbbing 
 colour. . . . 
 
 Three times the girl had turned her head to look 
 at him. Three times those wonderful, ignorant eyes 
 that wanted knowledge had encountered his. 
 Every vein in his body was athrill with singing 
 blood. A consciousness of his poised and supple 
 strength seemed to have come to him for the first 
 time, and with it manhood. He felt that he could 
 laugh in the face of the world and hold it at bay 
 like a young lion. 
 
 Presently he found that he was at a gate of the 
 city. Beyond it light-coloured, waterless hillsides 
 lay under the sun, which was approaching the 
 zenith. An inner need of space, and isolation, and 
 a falling away of sounds drew him, and he passed 
 under the gate. 
 
 From the outer edge of the road that skirted the 
 city wall the barren hillside fell steeply to where, 
 at the bottom of the valley, water ran among 
 stones. David took his way downhill, following a 
 goat-path — a solitary figure. The bleached rubbish
 
 52 REVELATION 
 
 of centuries cumbered the slopes — the rubble of 
 shattered masonry, potsherds, bones. At some 
 points sluggish liquid filth, black as pitch, oozed out 
 — the filtering drainage of the hill city. David 
 walked like a demigod wrapt in a golden cloud, con- 
 scious only of the song of his pulses. . . . 
 
 At the foot of the hill two men — hairy and vil- 
 lainous camel drivers — were quarreling. One 
 threw the other, pinned him down — kicking, and 
 cursing obscenely — and drew a knife. But before 
 he could strike he was plucked suddenly backward 
 and cast sideways, falling heavily. After a moment 
 or two he scrambled up, his face bloody, divided 
 between truculence and fear. His companion had 
 also regained his feet, dust-whitened and scowling. 
 
 David, who had interfered with the scuffle, faced 
 them, weaponless. 
 
 "Strike me blind!" said the man with the knife. 
 "A cub — a hairless cub! I'll learn you to meddle 
 with your betters, you puppy — may your guts rot 
 for it!" 
 
 "Yes, learn him!" said the other. 
 
 As the man with the knife came at him David 
 met him half-way, clinched with him. lifted him 
 clean off the ground, and hurled him back so that 
 his body encountered that of his companion and 
 they fell together. The knife fell with a rattle on 
 the stones. David stooped quickly and caught it 
 up. It was longish, ugly-looking, well weighted. A.s 
 the two camel drivers rose from the dust he spoke 
 to them. 
 
 "I have the knife. Go quickly — both of you — or 
 you shall join your fathers and be bridegrooms to 
 the worms."
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 53 
 
 They saw that he meant it, and went, halting at a 
 distance to turn and curse him. Then they disap- 
 peared. 
 
 David laughed. He cast the knife from him so 
 that it fell point downwards and stuck quivering in 
 the ground. His muscles tingled from the bracing 
 shock of the encounter, and his eyes were alight. 
 
 Keeping on down the slope he crossed the stony 
 water-bed, went a little way farther, and seated 
 himself on an ancient squared block of hewn stone 
 among stunted, grey-green olive trees. The black 
 goat-hair tent, low and ramshackle, of a nomad 
 from the Judaean desert, had been pitched nearby. 
 Bright rags to ward off bad spirits and avert the 
 Evil Eye hung at the tent entrance, which was 
 barely half the height of a man. Goats moved 
 among the olive-trees and boulders. Here and 
 there, in patches of shadow where the grass throve, 
 were sparse wild violets, for it was the spring. 
 
 Before David, out in the hot noon sunlight, mir- 
 age-like, a figure seemed to stand — a young girl 
 closely draped in white. She was of middle height. 
 The braided hair that framed her face was a bright 
 auburn — golden-red. Under delicate, narrow, 
 arched brows her dark eyes swam like a deer's. 
 Her mouth was a red flower where will and pas- 
 sion, lack of self-control and a quick, sensitive 
 perception met. David's gaze did not swerve from 
 her. In spirit he went down upon his knees before 
 her and kissed her feet, for she was immaculate as 
 the snow upon the summits of far mountains. In- 
 wardly he glowed as though his heart were a burn- 
 ing coal, yielding himself wholly to the bland flame
 
 54 REVELATIO 
 
 of reverence and worship that lapped him lik< 
 tangible, soft lire. . . . 
 
 The sun moved. The pulse of life beat evenly, 
 inexorably, neither swift nor Blow, and every beat 
 was a vanished minute. Single figures came and 
 went on the goat-paths that cris-crossed the lepr 
 hill slope below the city. The browsing goats 
 moved higher among the gnarled and stunted oli\ 
 lay down, then brov. in. A young woman 
 
 came stooping out of the nomad's tent. She called, 
 coaxing, and a dimpled, naked child, yellow: 
 brown, tottered out after her, rarely 
 
 able to keep erect. The womai •■ n CT< 
 
 legged in the light shadow of the ashen-lea ■ 
 olive-trees, played with the child, took him i 
 her lap, and gave him the breast. Close by a - 
 goat stood patiently while her two tiny, straddle- 
 legged kids sucked vigorously at her full udder. 
 
 David had turned his head when the woman call 
 to the child. He watched her, at fir ently. . . . 
 
 That child, pushing against the uncovered '' 
 had been begotten by a man who had chosen the 
 mother of the child from among all other women, 
 
 holding her lovely and desirable \s he 
 
 watched his mind seemed, as it were, to leap a gap. 
 . . . He drew a quick breath. ... It was like a 
 sacrilege, shameful, forbidden — yet of a fearful, un- 
 imaginable sweetnes 
 
 "Behold, thou art fair, my love. Thy two brea 
 are like two young roses that are twins, which 
 feed among the lilies. ..." The words of the 
 Song of Solomon, which he had read when he w^ 
 a boy of thirteen, came to his mind. He stood up 
 suddenly, his nostrils dilated. . . .
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 55 
 
 It was now late afternoon, wanting - about an 
 hour to sunset, and the walls of the hill city had 
 taken on an ochre-coloured warmth. David remem- 
 bered Cymon — Cymon, his friend, who would 
 surely listen with quick understanding. . . . He 
 had eaten nothing since sunrise, but felt no need 
 of food. Recrossing the torrent bed he began to 
 climb the long ascent. 
 
 Cymon's lodging was above a potter's yard in a 
 wretched quarter of the town. The ancient mat- 
 tress he slept upon bided all day rolled up by the 
 parapet of the house roof. At night he unrolled it 
 and drew sacking over himself if the air were cold. 
 
 The brief spring sunset glowed like fire embers 
 in the west with a lucid greenish pallor above it 
 as David came to the potter's yard. The yard was 
 deserted, and he went up the unbalustraded, ex- 
 terior staircase that led to the roof. 
 
 Cymon was standing by the parapet, watching 
 the smouldering sunset. Save for his solitary fig- 
 ure, in whose pose there was a mute defiance, the 
 roof was empty. He turned, hearing David, and 
 came a little way forward. 
 
 "Where did you go?" he said. "I haven't seen 
 you since mid-morning." 
 
 David came right up to him before he answered, 
 looked at him, then away at the throbbing day's 
 embers in the west. 
 
 "I've been outside the city," he said. "Sit down, 
 Cymon. . . . Don't speak till I've finished. I want 
 you to understand. ..." 
 
 Cymon settled himself on the unrolled mattress 
 without a word, clasping his knees. David sat by
 
 56 REVELATION 
 
 him, his body bent forward and one knee drawn 
 up, looking always steadily into the fading west. 
 
 "It was just after you left me in the market 
 that I saw her," he said. "She looked up at me. 
 . . . She's young, Cymon, and her eyes are — as 
 though she had just opened them. She's as pale 
 as ivory, and her hair is wonderful. The way she 
 turns her head, the way -lie walks — no other 
 woman moves like she does. . . . She's perfect, and 
 more beautiful than anything one sees in a dream. 
 ... I followed her till she passed under the gate 
 of Herod's house, and then T went out of the city 
 . . . and afterwards came straight here. . . . 
 
 "It's as though T had gone down, suddenly, into 
 deep waters; and these waters are the thoughl 
 her — only of her. . . . T must see her again — it's 
 like hunger and thirst, but worse." 
 
 His lowered voice ceasod. He had spoken with 
 many pauses. 
 
 "What is she?'" said Cymon. He spoke without 
 a shade of expression one way or the other. 
 
 "I asked one of the guards at the gate. He said 
 she was a new dancer, brought there for the first 
 time. 
 
 "You're in love," said Cymon. "That's the length 
 and breadth of it. . . . It's no use saying anything 
 to you — I'd have killed anyone who spoke against 
 that temple girl in Tyre — the girl I told you of. 
 . . . You'll have to find out for yourself. I'm 
 sorrv. ..." 
 
 There was a pause of quite a minute. 
 
 "Cymon," said David, "I've — I've never touched 
 a woman — not once. They seemed — foolish, empty. 
 It would have been — a degradation. . . . But this
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 57 
 
 is different. She's pure — wonderful. ... I can't 
 put it into words." 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 "I feel that if I touched her it would be like 
 touching a consecrated thing. . . . You haven't 
 seen her — you don't understand." 
 
 "I do," said Cymon. "I'm very sorry, David. . . . 
 What are you going to do?" 
 
 "I don't know. ... I must see her again." 
 
 "She's a dancing girl?" 
 
 "The man at the gate said so." 
 
 Again a silence. 
 
 "Have you eaten anything since the morning?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then eat now. There's water in that jar, and 
 some bread and dried dates beside it." 
 
 "I want nothing. ... I wish you could under- 
 stand, Cymon." 
 
 "Oh, gods ! I can. Haven't I been through it 
 myself? That's why I don't want to see you make 
 a fool of yourself as I did. ... It hurts, David. 
 You're the only friend I've got." 
 
 David put his arms about the Greek's shoulders. 
 
 "That's nonsense. Why should it change our 
 friendship?" 
 
 "It may. And I don't want that." 
 
 "It won't. Nothing will. . . . But I cannot eat, 
 or drink, or sleep until I see her again." 
 
 He stood up, and the Greek rose with him. 
 
 Overhead the stars had begun to come out. The 
 smouldering sunset had left a feverish afterwarmth 
 in the air. 
 
 "I'm going to the palace of Herod," said David
 
 58 REVELATION 
 
 "I don't know yet what I shall do, but I must sec 
 her — I must see her to-night." 
 
 Cymon was silent. Then : 
 
 "Be careful," he said. "Shall I see you to-mor- 
 row?" 
 
 "Yes. Why not?" 
 
 "I don't know. . . . Well— good luck." 
 
 "I'll see you in the morning." said David. 
 
 He groped his way to the stairhead and so d 
 into the dark pit of the potter's yard. . . . Then 
 out into the black tangle of the crooked streets 
 that stank like an open sepulchre. 
 
 A single bronze lamp lit the long marble and mal- 
 achite chamber of the dancing girls. Under this 
 lamp and close to the peacock-blue, star r led 
 
 curtains which had been drawn wide apart the g 
 huddled, talking and giggli- 
 
 The sun had set barely half an hour 1 ty- 
 
 ing the west smouldering like a charcoal hearth: 
 but the Judrean hills were cold and neutral col- 
 oured now, and the first stars pricked the mild 
 night. 
 
 Iris sat apart from the others on the carpet 
 square, almost beyond the confines of the weak 
 light of the single lamp. Her face was bent over 
 an open box of olive-wood in which she kept vari- 
 ous small and intimate possessions. From this box 
 she took a ring, which she seemed to study, hold- 
 ing it in the palm of her hand. It was a silver band 
 on which was mounted a golden scarab of the size 
 of a man's thumb-nail. The fair, perfectly featured
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 59 
 
 face of the girl was intent upon this ring. ... It 
 had been given to her nearly a year before by a 
 Numidian archer of Herod's bodyguard who, a 
 month or two later, had been scourged to death for 
 poisoning his captain. . . . He had pleaded with her 
 one night with moist lips and eyes that glistened 
 like an animal's . . . and she had obtained the ring 
 from him and the secret of the ring. It was a ve- 
 hicle of death — unsuspected, subtle, certain. The 
 golden scarab was hollow, and in the cavity was 
 poison — the immemorial poison with which the 
 half-men of the African forests envenomed their 
 arrows. Among them it was known by the name 
 of kombe, and once it had entered the blood of 
 man or woman death was certain after the pas- 
 sage of a few hours — death without the slightest 
 warning or any antidote. 
 
 In the olive-wood box beside her knee was the 
 scrap of silk in which the ring was always hidden. 
 Iris wrapped the ring in it again, keeping it in 
 her lightly closed hand, shut the box, rose and 
 crossed over to where the other girls crouched on 
 their heels under the lamp that was set in a niche. 
 With them was Astarte, her auburn head filleted 
 with silver and crowned with a silver-white 
 aigrette. 
 
 "My joints seem so stiff to-night," complained 
 Helen, "and I rubbed myself with oil this morning 
 till my palms burned — positively burned, girls." 
 
 "You're getting old, dear — that's the trouble," 
 said Semla. "I hope Leander's there to wrestle for 
 them — I feel that I shall dance well to-night." 
 
 "Oh, Leander — that Greek colt! . . . May the 
 gods grant me my Nubian — he's a man if vou like !"
 
 60 REVELATION' 
 
 "Valerius is sure to be there," said Amytis, the 
 young Persian. "Whenever I think of As tart e 
 smacking his face in the myrtle court this morning 
 I want to laugh." 
 
 "Laugh!" said Helen. "It's the loveliest thing 
 that's happened for half a year! . . . Astarte, you 
 little devil! I could kiss you for it. Take care the 
 lion doesn't make a mouthful of you, child — noth- 
 ing rouses a man quicker than a .slap on the ja 
 
 Astarte laughed, rather breathlessly. She was 
 very excited. 
 
 "I'm not afraid of him !" she said. "I told him I'd 
 stab him if he touched me again." 
 
 "Oh, listen to her!" said Semla. "In a week 
 you'll be showing us the rin^s and armlet 
 given you." 
 
 "He's a fine figure of a man,*' said Helen. "You're 
 a lucky girl. . . . He'll be th<r<- to -night. Mind 
 you tell us all about it to-morrow." 
 
 Iris had joined them, slipping quietly down u 
 her knees between Amytis and Astarte. 
 
 A gust of harp-music came to them. T ne 
 
 listened. 
 
 "Is it time for us?" said one. 
 
 Iris drew closer to Astarte and slid a smooth 
 arm about her. 
 
 "You're nervous, aren't you?" -he said. "I kimw 
 you are. . . . Look, dear, I'll give you something 
 my own sister shouldn't have. It's an amulet. My 
 mother got it from an Egyptian woman whom she 
 hid in her house when they were looking for her 
 to stone her as a witch. You'll have nothing but 
 good luck as long as you wear it, but be careful
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 61 
 
 not to take it off. . . . Wear it to-night, dear. 
 I'll slip it on your hand." 
 
 From the scrap of silk she unrolled the scara- 
 baeus ring that the Numidian archer had given her 
 and fitted it deftly on to the forefinger of Astarte's 
 right hand. Keeping the hand in her own she 
 squeezed it, edging still closer to the other girl. . . . 
 
 As Iris pressed her hand, nestling up to her, 
 Astarte was barely conscious of the faintest, minut- 
 est prick. She was conscious of it, but her con- 
 sciousness paid no heed to it. . . . Under tjie pres- 
 sure of Iris's fondling hand a tiny needle point, 
 hollow like a serpent's tooth, had pierced the skin, 
 and the deadly African arrow-poison began, very 
 slowly, to filter into the puncture, mingling with 
 the blood. 
 
 "I wouldn't have given it to my own sister," 
 purred Iris. "It's a wonderful amulet." 
 
 ("She will not see another day. There is no 
 antidote." Thus her thoughts ran. "Valerius may 
 love her to-night, but it will not matter. To-mor- 
 row she will be dead, and the dead are forgotten 
 as quickly as a kiss given in the dark. When she 
 is gone he will desire me — there will be no one to 
 distract him. I shall have him all to myself, and he 
 will kiss me as he kissed her to-day. . . . No one 
 will know how she died, for there will be no mark 
 upon her.") 
 
 Astarte extended her right hand, on the fore- 
 finger of which was the gold and silver scarabseus 
 ring. She had never worn a ring before. The 
 oblong golden facsimile of the sacred Egyptian 
 beetle hid her finger to the first joint.
 
 62 REVELATION 
 
 "Oh— Iris!" she said, "It's beautiful. . . . I'll 
 never take it off !" 
 
 "Hush!" said Iris. "I've given it u because 
 
 I love you already. ... It will bring you luck, 
 dear." 
 
 The other girls had risen and were all leaning 
 over the alabaster balustrade of the gallery u; 
 which the chamber opened. 
 
 "Iris!" called one of them over her shoulder. 
 "We must go down now. Oh, it's a sight!" 
 
 Astarte's heart seemed to jump to her throat. 
 She was otl her feet now . . . and out in th< 
 gallery that overlooked an inner court of the palace. 
 A staircase led down into the court, half lit 1 
 lamp placed at the head of it and by another 
 I'm it. . . . Now she was on tl 
 ing, and Iris was with her. and Helen, 
 Semla. . . . She gazed straight 1 her with 
 
 widened eyes that did not blink, for it was m 
 wonderful than any dream. . . . 
 
 The court was in darkness, but behind six 
 fluted, vermilion columns, who ;irs 
 
 of gilded lions' head f the 
 
 softly nebulous with light. Veils of rosy gauze fell 
 from the vermilion ceiling to the pavement 
 marble, and behind them stood mass 
 branched candelabra like silver trees, a lighted wick 
 afloat in every cuplike socket. The tables were 
 arranged in the form of a horseshoe and set with 
 lamp-stands hung with little pipkin-shaped silver 
 lamps. These lamps were filled with olive-oil with 
 which was mingled oil of rose<. Garlands of 
 orange-blossom were suspended between the col- 
 umns, mingling a subtler fragrance with the per-
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 63 
 
 fume that the lamps burned. Negro and Syrian 
 slaves came and went barefooted. Little tripping 
 tame gazelles picked their way across the pure 
 white floor, or stood as though dazzled by the soft 
 glare of the innumerable, small, tongue-shaped 
 flames. 
 
 The four dancing girls mounted two shallow 
 steps, and passing between the vemilion columns 
 sank down upon a strip of carpet, waiting. . . . 
 
 Astarte sat bolt upright upon the carpet strip, 
 biting her underlip to control the trembling of over- 
 excitement. In the house of Bel-Namri, the slave 
 seller, she had appeared half sullen, and languid 
 with the langour of one upon whose limbs tedium 
 weighs like lead. Now she was awake, alive — a 
 kindled flame, a vibrant nerve ; clay hungry for the 
 hand of the moulder. 
 
 Someone was looking at her. . . . She turned 
 her head a trifle and encountered the gaze of 
 Valerius. His brows were bound with a gold fillet. 
 A broad golden armlet caught the light upon his 
 upper arm. She had already received a blurred im- 
 pression of men and women in cool white raiment 
 reclining on couches on either side of the tables 
 ... if she was afraid of him it was a pleasurable 
 fear. She was glad that he was there. Light, 
 perfume, the blatant colouring of the vermilion 
 columns, the strangeness, the sound of harps, 
 the cynical masculine grey eyes that seemed 
 to measure her, stimulated her senses like a species 
 of intoxication. 
 
 The harp music ceased. There was a clang of 
 cymbals. Astarte was aware that Iris and Helen 
 had risen, one splendid as a shapely goddess, the
 
 64 REVELATIO 
 
 other exquisite as an alabaster figurine. Their hair 
 elaborately dressed; their bodies, almond- 
 white, Beemed to reflect the light of the ma 
 lamp-flames behind t': . gau- ale 
 
 tatties reflect the colour of r With 
 
 the clean-cut precision of long practice th< ick 
 
 a mutual dramatic pose — <>ne crouching, the other 
 threatening — motionh '.hough frozen 
 
 stone. 
 
 VI 
 
 David emerged from the reeking hy-v. the 
 
 lower city. is in a reet. To right 
 
 :.nd left stretched the wall that encircled t 
 
 of Herod and it^ garden COUfl 
 
 low, strait door — a pOSteni for | busil 
 
 a living thing mo\ 
 
 The young man went right up ; r in the 
 
 wall, led by the indeterminat rlight There i 
 
 ound l>ut the muffled, heavy beating of hi 
 heart. He tried the door, pr< it. It hut 
 
 he d: '. it 
 
 with hi- shoulder, and with nterit :id the 
 
 tenings burst. . . David lung rward 
 
 through the narrow doorway in!.- the | hat 
 
 the wall enclosed. 
 
 Tie brought up short, conscious of his br 
 -boulder, hut ignoring it. . . . The fact that he 
 had broken like a thief into the 
 the Tetrarch. and ran a considerable risk "f being 
 taken by the gunrd and scourged did not occu- 
 him. . . . He stood upon a paved way. Its pallid 
 glimmer led straight on. and he went forward, 
 moving with discretion. The perfume of orange-
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 65 
 
 blossom touched his nostrils. The marble path 
 broadened, dividing to encircle an octagonal foun- 
 tain, bedded in iris and narcissus, whose central 
 jet resembled a trembling silver spear. The con- 
 tinuous, cool ripple of the water was delicious under 
 the starlight. Cypresses rose like black obelisks. 
 At their feet were set pale stone benches. 
 
 Ahead there was light, soft, yellow, like amber 
 or honey. The bacchic clang of cymbals rever- 
 berated. Beyond an open colonnade, whose pallid 
 pillar-shafts were like tall ghosts, a court lay, lit 
 only by a pair of lamps placed one at the head and 
 the other at the foot of a staircase that led down 
 from a gallery; but at the farther end of this court 
 the light flowed out between vermilion columns 
 linked with garlands. 
 
 The words of the half-breed mercenary at the 
 gate returned to David — "There's a feast to-night. 
 . . . Girls and wine." 
 
 Passing under the colonnade he entered the 
 court, crossed it with extreme caution, keeping 
 near the wall, and paused in the shadow of one 
 of the vermilion columns, standing by it. The light 
 of the feast streamed past him. As he stood he 
 could see without being seen by those within. . . . 
 
 A pair of stripped girls were posturing in the 
 midst of the floor. Nearer to the row of columns, 
 upon a length of carpet, two other girls sat. The 
 red-golden head of the nearest of these two was 
 filleted with silver. As she watched the posturers 
 the very poise of her body was instinct with the 
 breathless, thirsty interest of one to whose clear 
 eyes all things are new.
 
 66 REVELATION 
 
 David laid his hand OH the (luted column, leaning 
 against it, concentrating 1 upon thi- girl. 
 
 A- he regarded her he saw pur: it 
 
 in a newly opened lily, and I 1 him 
 
 in spirit before this purity. 
 
 ain the bacchic cymbals clang' Tin 
 tun •>)(] a moment like deer then they 
 
 ran hark to the carpet, laughing, pant:; 
 
 tr \ retan's here, Semla," ris- 
 
 ing ill a Strand of her ! h her 
 
 and thumb. "The him up at tl le in a 
 
 purple tunic, with gold armlc r than the one 
 
 Valerius wear-, and a wreath of myrtle. . . . 
 They'll spoil tl . if t: 
 
 of him — he'll think h< .... 1! >n- 
 
 how." 
 
 There was the throbbing thud ( a small 
 ;. hand I drum — like the : • of 
 
 desirou pulses— and the quick shak 
 tambouri] 
 
 Semla rose. She wore the short' 
 glove-fitting jacket of gfld t: 
 
 I . her 1 md from her 1 It fell strips 
 
 of white leather, sewu with I 
 
 ing a spe of skirt. There were bells at her 
 
 wrisN and ankle- al he ran out. tinklil 
 
 to the cleared floor, stan .nd flung herself with 
 
 wonderful zest and vitality into the stomach dance. 
 For the first time sine 
 
 had lighted on her in tlv her embellished with 
 
 malachite she seemed really awake. 
 
 David, leaning against the column in wh 
 shadow he stood, turned his e;. the dai
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 67 
 
 only for an instant. lie had glimpsed the stomach 
 dance many times through the open doors of disso- 
 lute houses where dancing girls were kept. When 
 he had paused to watch it — halted and held by an 
 undercurrent of the baser sort of curiosity — it had 
 revolted him even as he watched, though a lower 
 chord had vibrated, responsive, in defiance of his 
 will. ... A stinging flush of anger took him. If 
 he could, he would have interposed a curtain of 
 darkness between the auburn-headed girl with the 
 aigrette and the stamping, tinkling dancer who 
 stripped passion of all disguise, shredding from it 
 the beauty — the ardent spirit that is clean as lire. 
 She seemed to regard the dancer as a young child 
 might regard the graven symbols of a shrine, se- 
 renely, unspeculatively. This inviolate innocence 
 shamed him, inflaming him as the most exquisite 
 wantonness could not have done. . . . 
 
 Astarte contemplated Semla's stomach dance 
 with indifference. It was an ugly dance. She had 
 been accustomed to the sight of it since she was 
 five years old, and it woke neither interest, sex- 
 consciousness, nor active repulsion in her. She was 
 entirely ignorant of modesty, and therefore of im- 
 modesty. 
 
 Semla gave a final stamp ; she bowed herself be- 
 fore the guests, touching her forehead with the 
 tips of her lingers. Then crossed over to the car- 
 pet, walking easily and with the undulating move- 
 ment of a heifer. Pin-points of moisture showed 
 on her smooth forehead, and her lips were apart in 
 the laughing smile of one who has done well, and 
 is short of breath.
 
 68 REVELATI01 
 
 Then it was that Astarte turned her head, 1 
 ing towards the outer darkness beyond the col- 
 umns. She did not know what had caused her to 
 turn it; she simply looked aside — and her eyes en- 
 countered eye-, that were steady as those of an 
 archer who draws his bow against a lion. . . . 
 
 Pipes trilled and twittered, and the notes seemed 
 tremulous as a liquid-golden thread of rerle- 
 lamp-light upon a lake. 
 
 "It's you now, dear," said the soft, cool voice 
 Iris. "Don't be nervous. The ring's wonderfully 
 lucky. ..." 
 
 Astarte understood that her turn had come. She 
 rose up. . . . The young man of the market v. 
 here — watching her, and the I 
 were upon her. II irt. which had quieted 
 
 iewli.it since she entered the hall of the tt 
 quickened again. She must dance well. ()h. won- 
 derfully well! Better than she had ever danced for 
 Dekerto. 
 
 Now she was out on the bare marble, which 
 was polished so that it resembled running water. 
 She raided her hands, palm-outward, to her fore- 
 head, saluting the guests, but she saw only Va- 
 lerius, lie was reclining, leaning on hi- elbow: 
 steadily intent upon her. She was particularly 
 aware of his jaw. square as a conqueror's. In all 
 its contours his handsome head was ag I we. 
 
 The tambourines were shaken as they had been 
 for Semla — a breathless musical jingle. Astarte 
 began the Dance of the Ree. 
 
 The dance dealt with a maiden distracted by the 
 presence of a bee beneath her garment. The nude
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 69 
 
 and tapering arms of the dancer and her gesturing 
 hands expressed sudden pain, alarm, and then a 
 species of nervous frenzy. The tambourines rat- 
 tled louder and faster. Like one demented, with 
 drawn brows and darting hands, she freed herself 
 irom the first of the clinging transparencies that 
 swathed her. The second followed, and the third. 
 She stood with extended arms, seeming to wait, 
 breathless, with parted lips. . . . 
 
 From the shadow of the garlanded vermilion col- 
 umn David watched her. 
 
 Iris, the blond Greek posturer, watched her also. 
 Upon the forefinger of Astarte's right hand sat 
 the golden scarabseus of the death-ring. 
 
 The long moment of expectancy ended. The 
 dancer winced as though under the sting of the 
 still-concealed bee. With a movement swift as 
 thought she rent ofT the last veil, pretending to 
 snare the bee in a fold of it, and crush it between 
 her palms. 
 
 The maddening rattle of the tambourines ceased 
 as abruptly as it had begun. The pipes uttered a 
 long, tremulous, liquid note. 
 
 David still regarded her unswervingly. . . . 
 Stars, moons, lilies — nothing in all creation was 
 as beautiful as this girl. She was a fountain of 
 waters for the ideal thirst of the spirit, and his 
 spirit was thirsty — as a man lost in the wilderness. 
 He hated the assembled guests, the slaves and 
 servitors. If it had been in his power to do so, 
 he would have smitten them with blindness. The 
 frank innocence of the dancer shone like a lamp 
 embossed with naked cupids, but the eyes that
 
 70 REVELATION 
 
 watched her were unforgivable — a rank offence. 
 He burned and stiffened as he stood, drawing 
 breath through dilated nostrils, and the hand that 
 hung at his side contracted. He was divided be- 
 tween worship that glowed, thirsted, and I 
 ashamed, and furious resentment. 
 
 As the Grecian pipes quavered liquidly Astarte 
 was conscious of such triumphant happiness that 
 she could have laughed right out. She had done 
 well — she was about to do better. Her silver- 
 scaled and gauzy diaphanous trappings set her off 
 wonderfully. Valerius was present, seemingly en- 
 grossed with her, and the young man of the mar- 
 ket also, who had followed her that morning. S 
 extended her arms, tilted her head a little back, and 
 the trained muscles of her supple body began 
 twitch and creep and ripple as though gifted — in- 
 credibly — with independent life. . . . 
 
 The pipes twittered. All eyes were upon the girl 
 in the midst of the pale floor. The fingers of her 
 outstretched hands moved as though she were 
 plucking at invisible strings or beckoning mysti- 
 cally. It was unique, extraordinary, and she v. 
 very beautiful. 
 
 The display ended. The dancer drew a deep, re- 
 laxing breath. All radiant, conscious of success she 
 saluted the guests again. 
 
 At that moment a rain of roses descended upon 
 the feasters. Most of these were by this time 
 alted with wine. There were cries, hand-clap- 
 pings, and the high-pitched, immoderate laughter 
 of partly intoxicated women. Someone tossed a 
 rose at Astarte and immediately a dozen fell about
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 71 
 
 her. She stooped, laughing, and flung them back. 
 
 "Put out the lights !" commanded a man's voice. 
 
 Instantly the slaves stationed by the silver can- 
 delabra began to extinguish the lighted wicks. 
 The little lamps of the table lamp stands were 
 blown out. With a swiftness that was magical the 
 place darkened. Astarte stood on the spot where 
 she had danced, half-laughing, expectant. The 
 cymbals clashed, the tambourines rattled, and pan- 
 pipes were blown. A tinkle of little bells caused 
 her to turn her head, and she saw Semla, the Sy- 
 rian stomach dancer, with her arms about the neck 
 of a young blond Greek, handsome and half drunk. 
 She was hanging upon him as though he was the 
 very source of her life, and he was in the act of 
 bending his head to rind her lifted lips. . . . The 
 last lamp-flame went out like a snuffed star; the 
 smiting cymbals met in a final clang. The hall of 
 the feast was in complete darkness, but the court 
 before it was touched with uncertain light by the 
 two lamps at the head and foot of the staircase. 
 
 In the darkness a hand touched her arm. She 
 started as violently as if a knife had pricked her. 
 The hand closed on her — shifted with a sure and 
 instant quickness to her wrist, and tightened upon 
 it. At once, and with complete certainty, she 
 knew that this was Valerius. 
 
 She uttered nothing. His left hand came upon 
 her other wrist. She was held as firmly as a cap- 
 tive whose escape would be inadmissible. He spoke 
 from the darkness. 
 
 "You struck me this morning. . . . Children who 
 rebel are punished. I am going to punish you, 
 Astarte."
 
 72 REVELATION" 
 
 She seemed to yield, suddenly, to soundle.-s 
 laughter that shook her like hysteria. Her voice, 
 when she answered, laughed at him out of the 
 dark. 
 
 "How?'' she said. 
 
 "I'll show you!" 
 
 He held her now a> he had held her in the foun- 
 tain, but more mercilessly. His breath was 
 against her face, and she smelt wine. 
 
 "I want you!" he said. His speech was clean- 
 cut as in the morning, but something in his in- 
 tonation betrayed the drink that he had taken. 
 "And I take what 1 want. Astarte." 
 
 His arms crushed her. She felt that she must 
 gasp for breath. 
 
 "I take what I want!" he said again. 
 
 She was aware of his kisses. His mouth v. 
 pitiless as the hand of a despoiler. had been 
 
 instinct with warm excitement, eager, and fear- 
 lessly curio: w resentment sprang, full- 
 grown, into life. 
 
 "I hate you — I hate your kisse- 
 
 But it was not his kisses that she hated — it v. 
 his attitude of mastership that took and then would 
 throw aside. Her pride fought against him like 
 a frantic animal in a net. 
 
 "I don't care a fig whether you hate me or love 
 me — I want you !" 
 
 She began to struggle with all her strength, si- 
 lently, with clenched teeth. . . . 
 
 VII 
 
 As the lamps in the hall of the feast were extin- 
 guished one after another with wonderful rapidity,
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 73 
 
 David remained, motionless, by the garlanded col- 
 umn. He saw a young woman, her black hair 
 dressed in Greek fashion, discard her upper gar- 
 ment, and crush a cluster of roses against her 
 breasts, swaying with the giddiness of wine. Lit- 
 tle bells tinkled sweetly, and following the sound 
 with his eyes he saw the girl who had danced the 
 stomach dance offering her mouth to a young 
 drunken Greek. Then darkness came — warm 
 darkness, dense as back wool. There was a shuf- 
 fling — the bare feet of the retiring slaves and mu- 
 sicians. A girl laughed hysterically — ha-ha, ha-ha- 
 ha. Then something fell and there was the tinkling 
 sound of shivered glass. 
 
 "I hate you!" said a voice — a girl's voice, breath- 
 less, half-suppressed — carrying conviction. 
 
 A quiver ran through David's body. The voice 
 was strange to him, yet he was clutched by an in- 
 stinctive certainty. ... He felt the blood go to 
 his head, and it was a flood of pure, elemental rage. 
 Abandoning the column he went forward into the 
 hall of the feast. 
 
 He paused. He felt rather than heard the near- 
 ness of a locked, straining struggle. He groped. 
 . . . There was the crash of an overturned piece 
 of furniture — a couch or table. In the darkness 
 someone brushed against his outstretched hand — 
 checked, turned to him, clung. . . . He was con- 
 cious of contact with satin-smooth skin, moist as 
 though from exertion, of loose-falling hair, of a 
 body shaken with distressful breathing and pressed 
 against him. 
 
 "Don't let him " said a rapid, breathless 
 
 voice. "Don't. ..."
 
 74 REVELATION 
 
 It was the voice that had gasped, "I hate you! 
 
 For the first time in David's life the arms of a 
 girl were flung about him, clasping him. And he 
 knew her as though it were high noon for the girl 
 of the red-gold hair. 
 
 "No man shall touch you — I swear it bef< re 
 God!" 
 
 He hardly recognized his own voice. He had 
 spoken aloud, and as though he challenged the 
 glittering ramparts of the embattled world. As 
 he uttered the word "God" he half expected the 
 roof with its ropes of garlands to crumble and fall 
 inward revealing the remote, unsullied stars — leav- 
 ing him and the girl who held to him alone among 
 the ruins of the banquet hall under the high dome 
 of the night. 
 
 "Who in Hades are you?" said a man's voice 
 quite close to him. There was a curious intonation 
 that hinted at wine in it, and it was a trifle thick, 
 as though passion had taken the speaker by the 
 throat. 
 
 Instantly David saw red — blood-red, and his per- 
 ceptions blurred. . . . He was aware that the girl 
 had released him, and was now behind him. He 
 lunged forward and his shoulder struck the square 
 shoulder of a man. He was insane with rage — the 
 rage that kills with naked hands. . . . They 
 swayed to and fro, each seeking to throw the other, 
 with no breath for words. The man whom David 
 had grappled with was a shade heavier than him- 
 self, and had evidently been trained at one time 
 in the tricks and holds of wrestling; but he had 
 drunk without discretion, and furv had trebled
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 75 
 
 David's supple strength. They rocked this way 
 and that, straining. . . . 
 
 A few paces away Astarte stood, listening, try- 
 ing to see. Her lips were drawn back, wolf-fashion 
 from her even teeth. Her desert blood exulted 
 frankly in the struggle. . . . She wanted the young 
 man to ovecome Valerius. Valerius had attempted 
 to master her, and she had fought him with all her 
 strength, hating him for obliging her to fight. He 
 had not wooed, or flattered, or entreated her — he 
 had exerted his sheer physical force in order to 
 exhaust her. She was not afraid now, and the sense 
 of bitter, virile effort that seemed to set the em- 
 bracing darkness tingling excited her like the reck- 
 less clash of cymbals. 
 
 There was the thud of a fall. . . . David had 
 thrown his adversary — thrown him heavily. He 
 panted, relaxed, savagely triumphant. 
 
 Someone touched him. 
 
 "Come away quickly! Valerius is captain of the 
 guard. If they take you they will kill you !" 
 
 Hands fluttered about him, urgent, nervous. 
 
 The significance of the thing that he had done, 
 and its possibilities, dawned on David. He must 
 act quickly. . . . He caught the groping hands, 
 drew the girl to him, gathered her up, and turned 
 to the pair of flickering, beckoning lights that in- 
 dicated the staircase leading up out of the court. 
 The girl lay easily in his arms. He gained the row 
 of columns that fronted the court, descended the 
 two shallow steps, and paused a moment. 
 
 "Up the staircase !" 
 
 At the head of the stair he paused again.
 
 76 REVELATION 
 
 "Now to the left along the gallery, and between 
 the curtains." 
 
 In the long chamber that lay behind the cuta; 
 a single lamp burned in a niche. The plac< 
 empty. The girl whom David carried slipped 
 the floor. She gave herself a little shake like a cat 
 that has set its paw in spilt writer, caught I 
 wrist, and drew him to where a stri] 
 hung, its fringes just touching the marble. Be- 
 hind this carpet strip, completely hidden, was 
 deep alcove, its farther end inlet with a square pane 
 of lattice-work through which filtered milk-white 
 moonlight, for the full moon was rising over the 
 Mount of Olives. 
 
 "Don't speak!" said the girl, still in a half whis- 
 per. "Listen. ..." 
 
 She leaned toward- the hanging carpet strip, her 
 head inclined. The bland light of the moon, level 
 now with the lattice, sprinkled her. Her :ied 
 
 hair unfilleted now, showered down. David 
 watched her like a person wrapt in an incredible 
 dream. The possibility of capture. ging and 
 
 death, as far as his thought was concerned with 
 had receded to an immeasurable distance. It • 
 petty as the singing of a gnat; di. from all 
 
 vital matters. . . . 
 
 A sound came to them from below. The listen- 
 ing girl gave the young man one quick look — then 
 she was gone. He heard the pat-pat of her fl 
 bare feet. . . . 
 
 Springing from the screened alcove Astarte ran 
 across the empty chamber and out into the gallery. 
 A torch, held high above his head by a tall, sta- 
 tionary Nubian, lit up the court below. There were
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 77 
 
 soldiers, and in the midst, Valerius, gesturing, giv- 
 ing curt, savage orders. Astarte cowered down by 
 the parapet of alabaster screen work, peering 
 through it. Anxiety such as she had never felt 
 before set her heart hammering. The young man 
 who had wrestled with Valerius on her account 
 must not be taken by the soldiers — she must pre- 
 vent that by any means. . . . The armed guard in 
 the court separated, a number filing out into the 
 gardens carrying lanterns and accompanied by 
 Valerius and one of his officers, and the rest pour- 
 ing up the staircase that led to the gallery. 
 
 Astarte sprang up like a touched hare, ran to the 
 lamp that burned just inside the chamber of the 
 dancing girls, blew it out, drew the spangled cur- 
 tains together, and let herself lapse to the floor, 
 lying on her side like something cast down and 
 abandoned. 
 
 She heard the soldiers approach, pass within 
 three feet of the place where she was lying, and 
 go on along the gallery. As they passed she counted 
 them, taking note of the footsteps — one, two, three, 
 four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, 
 twelve. Then a little break, and then the footsteps 
 of the thirteenth. They approached, came level 
 with the drawn curtains, paused. Astarte held her 
 breath. . . . The curtains were jerked apart, the 
 yellow light of a lantern fell upon her face. In- 
 voluntarily she moved her head, looking upward. 
 A half-t>reed soldier in gilt trappings and with a 
 short Roman sword at his flank stood between the 
 parted curtains. 
 
 "Hullo !" he said, "are you the girl that the man 
 we're looking for carried off?"
 
 78 REVELATION 
 
 Astarte blinked at the lantern light. She mois- 
 tened her lips, which were a little dry. 
 
 "Yes. . . . He — he heard the guard coming and 
 he cast me down here. Then he escaped along the 
 gallery. I do not know which door he went 
 through — I was stunned." 
 
 The man raised his lantern, seeming to scrutinize 
 the place. 
 
 "Umph! I'll take a look round here all the same," 
 he said. 
 
 Astarte half raised herself suddenly from the 
 floor. 
 
 "He's not here. He went along the gallery." 
 
 In her voice there was an imperative, arresting 
 note. She had raised one hand as though to check 
 any advance. The light of the lifted lantern re- 
 vealed her fully. 
 
 There was a moment or two of silence. 
 
 "Strike me blind! I'd carry you off myself, 
 Venus, if I'd half a chance." 
 
 He set the lantern on the floor and went down 
 on one knee beside Astarte, bringing his face close 
 to hers. He was pock-marked, wide across the 
 jaws, and with evil black eyes that held a devil. 
 
 "Meet me to-morrow night an hour after sunset 
 behind the guard-room and I won't search this 
 place. But if you don't come I'll get even with 
 you. Venus — I'll get vou scourged. Will vou meet 
 me?" 
 
 "Yes " said Astarte. "Yes. ..." 
 
 "That's right. Play me fair and I'll do the same 
 by you." 
 
 His hand fell on her. closing upon her arm, tight- 
 ening so that she winced ever so slightly. She did
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 79 
 
 not shrink or lower her eyes. Obeying the subtle, 
 untaught instincts of her womanhood she raised 
 her face a trifle, giving him a half-veiled, liquid 
 look. In the next moment his mouth was upon 
 hers. 
 
 It was a brutal kiss, infinitely coarser than any 
 that she had received from Valerius. Her whole 
 being shrieked out against it, but she did not strain 
 away or seek to turn her face. . . . Footsteps 
 sounded in the gallery. Still holding her the man 
 raised his head. 
 
 "That was a good one, Venus. I'll tell 'em I've 
 beaten this covert through and through. We'll be 
 good friends, you and I." 
 
 He released her, picked up the lantern, stepped 
 out into the gallery, and drew the curtains. . . . 
 The sandaled feet of the soldiers made a measured 
 trampling upon the staircase as they descended. 
 
 Astarte lay prostrate upon the cold marble for 
 some moments. She writhed dumbly, rubbing her 
 clenched fists against her pillaged lips. Rage and 
 disgust possessed her. But she had achieved her 
 purpose. 
 
 Presently she rose up. The place was entirely 
 dark, ifor she had blown out the lamp. She went 
 carefully with outstretched arms down the length 
 of the long chamber, caught the glimmer of moon- 
 light at the edges of the hanging carpet, and re- 
 entered the alcove. 
 
 The young man was standing as she had left him. 
 He looked at her, but did not speak. Astarte leaned 
 against the wall, extending one arm along it, palm 
 downward. 
 
 "The soldiers have gone," she said. "They will
 
 80 REVELATION 
 
 not come here. . . . One of them spoke to me. I 
 had to promise that I would meet him to-n. 
 night or he would have 1 and 
 
 found you. Jiut I will not meet him ! 1 hate him 
 worse than Valerius! He kissed mi h!" 
 
 A twitching shud 
 
 "He— ki you?" 
 
 It was as though she had casually mentioned the 
 violation of a sanctuary. 
 
 Astarte had closed her eve- for an in as she 
 
 shuddered under her strong d 
 and encountered directly tl. 
 as those of an archer who di 
 a lion. . . . 
 
 In the diffused moonlight his face was clear 
 her. A peculiar thrill, hone tick through 
 
 the girl. Her sen urred by the excitemenl 
 
 the feast, and by the ; a of Valerius, panted 
 
 realization. The face in the moonlight mi ave 
 
 been that of a worshipper kneeling with exten 
 arms before an enshrined divinity. . . . "He : 
 handsome,'' said the quick whi rte's c 
 
 sciousness, and the honey-sweet thrill struck 
 through her. 
 
 "You are more beautiful than anything on earth 
 — more wonderful than a miracle. When I follow 
 you this morning it was as though I was draw i 
 cord. I came here to-night because I knew that it 
 would be impossible for me to sleep until I had seen 
 you again. The abominations of this place cannot 
 touch you — any more than the Philistines were | 
 mitted to violate the ark of God. If you should 
 come face to face with a lion in the wilderness he 
 would turn aside from the path and cringe before
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 81 
 
 you like a chastised dog. I have no right to be 
 here — to look at you, yet I cannot go." 
 
 There was a ring of utter sincerity in the rapid 
 words. The face in the moonlight was that of the 
 young worshipper upon his knees who is aware, in 
 spite of his passionate reverence, that his divinity 
 is capable — however remotely — of granting the un- 
 imaginable bliss of union. 
 
 Astarte uttered nothing. Her lips were a little 
 apart. Her eyes had mingled with the eyes of the 
 young man at the moment when she opened them 
 after her involuntary shudder. She seemed to be 
 drawn down a smooth, swift current to the lip of an 
 inevitable plunge — or was it that she was drawing 
 him as the white moon draws the depths of the 
 sea? 
 
 Neither was aware of any actual movement to- 
 wards the other, yet, in a breathless silence, their 
 lips met. . . . 
 
 Astarte's smooth arms were about David's neck. 
 They were locked together in the shattered moon- 
 light that looked with a level silver eye through 
 the cris-crossing lattice-work. 
 
 The inconceivable had happened, the miracle had 
 taken place — the divinity had descended from her 
 shrine and given herself to the arms of her devotee. 
 David had felt that if he could embrace her feet he 
 would touch the very summit of his desire, yet now 
 he held her as he had held no woman all his life, 
 taking the honey of her lips, that were cool as a 
 flower. ... It had been irresistible — involuntary. 
 
 Astarte clove to the young man instinctively, un- 
 questioning, thirsty for caresses. She had re-
 
 82 REVELATION 
 
 ceived and returned his kisses wordlessly for some 
 moments before he spoke. 
 
 "I should kiss your feet — yet you have given me 
 your lips." 
 
 His voice was unsteady, and it had deepened. 
 
 "You shall not kiss my feet — a dog might do 
 that ! . . . I am Astarte. I was only brought here 
 this morning. . . . What is your name?" 
 
 "I am called David. . . . Since I saw you this 
 morning I have neither eaten nor slept. You looked 
 at me three times when I followed you from the 
 market. Am I — am I anything to you?" 
 
 "Oh — yes, ..." said Astarte, her perfectly 
 curved lips close to his. "I am sure I love you." 
 
 David's arms tightened about her. He kissed her 
 mouth again. Then a barely perceptible pause, and 
 then — involuntarily as it seemed — he had twice 
 kissed her shoulder. 
 
 Astarte drew a quick, caught-back breath be- 
 tween her teeth. She was held now as closely as 
 Valerius had held her. 
 
 Passion swept through David as a wave of the 
 sea sweeps up a shelving beach to the highest tide- 
 mark, and beyond. 
 
 "I love you — I worship you ! . . . I — I want 
 
 you !" 
 
 His own voice was strange to him. It would 
 have sounded stranger to Cymon, to his mother, 
 
 to Rama. . . . 
 
 An inconsiderable human noise began and ended 
 somewhere near at hand — the clat-clat of a sandal, 
 the grounding of a spear butt, or perhaps the pro- 
 test of a turning hinge. 
 
 "You you must go," whispered Astarte. "You
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 83 
 
 must go now. They must not find you here. . . ., 
 If they find you they will kill you!" 
 
 "And you? Am I to leave you here?" 
 
 "I don't know. . . . I — I would rather go with 
 you." 
 
 "If you desire to go, I will go ; if you remain, I 
 will remain. . . . You are my life!" 
 
 Astarte clung to him. 
 
 "Let us go now. ... I know the best way." 
 
 She caught his hand and they passed from the 
 alcove into the pitch-dark, deserted chamber of 
 the dancing girls. Here Astarte tripped over a 
 dropped length of satin stuff, which she wrapped 
 deftly about herself, for there was nothing upon 
 her save a spangled loin belt and the almost trans- 
 parent skirt of silver gauze. She found the cedar- 
 wood door ; it opened readily, and they stood in the 
 moonlight on the exterior gallery whence the 
 flight of steps led down into the court of the 
 orange-trees and myrtles. 
 
 There was no sound here save the flutter of a 
 whispering night wind in the leaves, but the un- 
 clouded ivory moonlight seemed a flood of peril 
 to the girl. She was afraid — not coweringly, sick- 
 eningly afraid, but possessed by an alert and 
 breathless fear that put an exquisite edge on all 
 her senses. Very quickly and quietly they went 
 down the flight of steps, holding each other's 
 hands, and across the court of the myrtles ; and in 
 this manner, by flowering tree, and fountain, and 
 cypress, and lawn — pausing, and waiting, and 
 listening, and going softly forward — they gained 
 the small door in the outer wall that David had 
 forced a good two hours before.
 
 84 REVELATION 
 
 A soldier was stationed there. The head of the 
 lance on which he leaned gleamed in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 Astarte's quick-beating heart seemed to stop. 
 They were in the ebony shadow of a cypress, and 
 this shadow fell almost to the stationary soldier's 
 feet. 
 
 "Wait," said David beneath his breath. "Don't 
 scream. ... It will be all right." 
 
 He lowered himself until he was prostrate upon 
 the close-shorn grass, then crept forward snake- 
 like. Astarte followed him with widened eyes that 
 were fixed like those of a cat stalking a bird. . . . 
 When — having crawled to within a few yards of 
 him — David rose up out of the shadow and sprang 
 upon the soldier, grappling with him, she uttered 
 no sound. 
 
 The soldier's lance fell clattering upon the paved 
 path and the two rolled together. David's hands 
 were at the man's gullet, so there was no cry for 
 help. They seemed to struggle for many minutes, 
 thrashing this way and that, but actually the time 
 that elapsed before David rose from the pavement 
 where the other lay and came across the grass to 
 Astarte, breathing heavily, was verv short. 
 
 "It's all right." he said." "I don't 'think I've killed 
 him, but lie won't move for a while. . . . We must 
 go quickly." 
 
 "You're not hurt?" 
 
 "No. I could kill any man with my left hand 
 to-night.' , 
 
 Then they were through the door in the wall 
 and the tainted night smells of the city were in 
 their nostrils.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 85 
 
 "I will carry you," said David. "Your feet shall 
 not touch the stones of the streets." 
 
 He gathered her up, bearing her without effort. 
 ... It seemed to him that the desire of the whole 
 world, incarnate, lay in his arms. 
 
 "Let me walk. I am not a child ; I am too heavy 
 to be carried," said Astarte presently. 
 
 "Should a man separate himself from his own 
 heart?" said David, very low. "I have everything 
 that the world contains as long as I hold you." 
 
 The house-court where Naomi and Dinah had 
 stood and talked that morning while Rama bore 
 Tobias upon her hip was empty under the white 
 moonlight, save for a trio of mongrel dogs — scare- 
 crows of skin and bones — that slept in the corners. 
 The curiously twisted acacia-tree that grew at the 
 foot of the flight of stone steps leading up to the 
 two-leaved door cast a light, lace-like shadow. 
 
 David ascended the steps, pushed the door so that 
 it opened inward with scarcely any noise, and set 
 Astarte, very gently, upon her feet. Then he closed 
 the door, bringing the two leaves together carefully 
 so that there was no chink between them. 
 
 Moonlight entered through the lattice-work of a 
 single window. The room, of moderate size, was 
 bare save for a mattress upon the matted floor. 
 David came close to the girl and spoke. 
 
 "This is mine. ... I wish with all my soul that 
 I could have brought you to a house of gold with 
 rafters of cedar!" 
 
 Astarte did not answer him directly. 
 
 "Oh— you are hurt!" she said. "There is blood 
 on your hand 1"
 
 86 REVELATION 
 
 "It is nothing. The man I threw had a knife. 
 ... 
 
 "Nothing! See how much it has bled! It li 
 stained my arm where you held me." 
 
 "It is nothing," said David again in a lower voice. 
 "I would give all the blood that is in my body if 
 it was in your service — for you." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "You — you will need to sleep," said David. "I '' 
 
 He turned his face instinctively towards the door. 
 
 Astarte put out her hand quickly and touched him. 
 This place was strange; she did not want to be 
 alone . . . and she wished that he would kiss her 
 again. 
 
 "Do you love me?" she asked. 
 
 He turned his face to her like a flash. It was a 
 face of hunger — hunger of flesh and spirit. It was 
 evident that he held himself in check with difficulty 
 — like a rider fighting with an unschooled horse. 
 
 "I — I worship you!" 
 
 Astarte shivered slightly, for the night had be- 
 come colder, and the supple satin stuff that sheathed 
 her loosely slipped from her shoulders, and so down- 
 ward, lying about her feet. In the shattered moon- 
 light she seemed Beauty's very self in the flesh, 
 with hair like a cataract of red-gold. . . . She 
 looked at him without any coquetry, but with a 
 sort of breathless, childlike anticipation, for she 
 wanted his kisses and she felt, instinctively, that 
 she was irresistible. 
 
 "Oh, God! . . . You are a miracle!" 
 She was in his arms again, clinging to him. yield- 
 ing, love-hungry, simple as Nature in her desires —
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 87 
 
 the desires of the Spring — and equally innocent of 
 shame. 
 
 The rein broke — the unschooled horse threw up 
 its head and plunged forward, free. . . . 
 
 "You are mine !" said David, and it seemed to him 
 that golden fire ran in his veins and that flesh and 
 spirit drank from the cup of immortal — of supreme 
 — attainment. 
 
 VIII 
 
 It was morning. Early sunlight gilded the shabby 
 two-leaved door at the head of the flight of un- 
 swept stone steps. To the doorpost was affixed a 
 little metal cylinder containing a text from the Law 
 of Moses, written on a fragment of parchment. 
 
 The door opened and David stood on the thres- 
 hold. The young sunlight met him and he blinked 
 for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath, looking 
 directly into the level gold of the new day. He 
 was conscious of a sense of strength, of assurance, 
 of incommunicable, wine-like pride, such as a young 
 god might have experienced. . . . 
 
 A woman came out into the court from the 
 doorway where the ragged curtain hung — Naomi, 
 the widow. She turned her head and saw David. 
 
 "Oh — there you are ! I had fresh lettuce and 
 lentils ready for you last night. Where were you? 
 . . . It's not right to treat your mother so." 
 
 "I am sorry, mother," said David, speaking 
 quietly from the top of the steps. "You don't 
 understand. ..." 
 
 He came down towards her, invested with an in- 
 definable, settled assurance that was unmistakable. 
 Yesterday he had been a boy, to-day he was a man.
 
 88 REVELATION 
 
 "Mother," he said, "very much has happened 
 since I saw you. There are several things that you 
 must know. ..." 
 
 *J* *l* 1» 1* ff 
 
 Rama was on her knees putting a shirt upon the 
 toddler, Tobias. A tame pigeon pecked about the 
 floor of the half-lit, dishevelled room. Overhead a 
 cord was stretched from side to side, across which 
 hung various garments. Some outcry came to her 
 indistinctly from without, but she paid no attention 
 to it. . . . 
 
 "Rama !" 
 
 "Yes,'' said the girl, lifting her face. 
 
 Dinah had entered. She stood just within the 
 room. 
 
 "It's dreadful," she said. "Naomi's in a terrible 
 way. Didn't you hear her?" 
 
 "Hear what? What's happened?" 
 
 "David's brought home a Gentile dancing girl 
 and he's told his mother he's going to marry her. 
 . . . It's dreadful. ... I must go down again. 
 He won't listen to his mother, and she's taking on 
 so. ..." 
 
 Her dull voice had not brightened, nor hei sick 
 eyes. She turned slowly and went out. 
 
 Rama got up. For some moments she simply 
 stood looking towards the doorway where Dinah 
 had appeared. Tobias began to grizzle, tugging at 
 her garment. His brief shirt exposed his fat, bandy 
 legs which were marked with the tiny red punc- 
 tures of flea bites. She turned and picked him up 
 — automatically, as it seemed — setting him astride 
 her hip. ... A single lamp, burning a pure and 
 perfumed oil, had lit the narrow room of her life
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 89 
 
 shut right away from the warm' sun of joy ; and 
 that lamp had been suddenly extinguished. . . . 
 
 She went across to the doorway, bearing the child, 
 and down a gritty stair, descending carefully from 
 step to step with a sort of dazed solicitude. . . . 
 David had brought home a dancing girl and he was 
 going to take her for his wife. She believed it, but 
 she could not realize it yet. 
 
 At the bottom of the stair an open door gave 
 access to the house-court where the twisted acacia 
 grew, and the drainage of the common refuse heap 
 trickled across the damp paving-stones, and be- 
 yond the arch the clop-clop of hoofs blended with 
 the sing-song of beggars. Not conscious of any 
 special purpose Rama passed out into the court, 
 dragging her feet as though she were tired, and 
 went a little way, and then stopped. 
 
 Naomi's two clenched hands were raised ; she 
 shook them, then pressed them against her temples, 
 rocking as she stood, then raised them again. She 
 resembled a figure worked by strings. Near her 
 was Dinah, her hands crossed on her high stomach, 
 nodding her head from time to time with the tone- 
 less "Yes" or "No" of monosyllabic sympathy. 
 David stood at the foot of the steps with one hand 
 upon the crazy balustrade. He was half turned 
 from Rama, so that she could not see his face, but 
 from his very attitude a subtle, /et unmistakable 
 something radiated outward. There was a change 
 — definite, but indefinable. . . . Several ragged, 
 tousled children stood at gaze, listening and watch- 
 ing. At the square hole of a window whose wooden 
 shutter hung open, the sallow face of a woman 
 looked out and down. After a few moments she
 
 90 REVELATION 
 
 made way for a second woman and the two listened 
 together. 
 
 "Oh, the shame of it! Oh, what shame to bring 
 upon your father's name ! He's dead and buried, 
 thanks be to the Most Merciful! . . . This'll be 
 my death ! You've killed me — you've killed your 
 own mother, David! — that bore, and suckled and 
 slaved for you! . . . Oh, there's no gratitude- 
 proper feeling! . . . Am I your mother — or am 
 I a dog? . . . A dancing girl — a Gentile — a harlot ! 
 You have cast filth on my head — and when you 
 were six years old I told everyone that you would 
 be a Rabbi ! . . . Poor we are, but respectable we 
 have always been until this day! And the neigh- 
 bours can bear witness that your praises were never 
 out of my mouth — your name was a weariness to 
 them. ..." 
 
 The torrent of words went on like a stream in 
 spate. David made no sign at all, but the girl with 
 the child on her hip saw how his hand clenched on 
 the rail of the balustrade as the widow flung the 
 
 shrill word "harlot!" at him \ miserable 
 
 feeling of embarrassment woke in her. Above all 
 things she desired that he should not see her — and 
 seeing her know that she had heard and seen. And 
 at any moment he might turn his head. . . . She 
 made a little movement, meaning to gain the door- 
 way she had come from. 
 
 The two-leaved door at the head of the steps 
 opened. David faced round on the instant, look- 
 ing up. The widow checked in mid speech, her yel- 
 low hands raised, her mouth half open, like an ar- 
 rested marionette. All the eyes in the court looked 
 one way.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 91 
 
 In the dark gap of the door a figure stood, droop- 
 ing, holding to the door-frame with one slim hand, 
 upon whose fore-finger was a noticeable gold ring. 
 It was a girl, whose marvellous red-golden hair 
 almost touched the threshold. A length of supple 
 violet satin was wrapped loosely about her ; her feet 
 were bare, and her arms and shoulders. She was 
 like a vision seen in a dream — as incongruous as a 
 queen's peacock in a hen-coop. But the beautiful 
 face was bloodless — tragic — and it was apparent 
 that her knees trembled under her. 
 
 "David " she said. "David! . . . I— I am 
 
 ill !" 
 
 "Astarte !" 
 
 He sprang up the steps and was beside her, his 
 arm about her, supporting her. 
 
 Not one of those in the court uttered a single 
 syllable ; they only looked. 
 
 "I can't see — it's all blurred. ... I don't know 
 what it is. . . ." 
 
 Her voice appeared to fail her. She w T as upheld 
 by him wholly now, for every vestige of strength 
 seemed to have deserted her. A cold sweat had 
 damped her forehead. Her head lay back against 
 his shoulder. ... A swift spasm of pain passed 
 over her face, and her closed eyes opened. 
 
 "Oh!" she gasped, "it was like a knife. ... I 
 can't breathe — I'm stifling. . . . David. ..." 
 
 In her sudden deadly and increasing faintness, 
 sharp anguish, and difficulty of breath, she cried 
 to him in whose arms she had slept from midnight 
 till morning — a pitiful appeal for human help and 
 reassurance from a child-soul whose hold upon all 
 familiar things was slackening swiftly.
 
 92 REVELATION 
 
 David, in an agony of bewildered anxiety, had 
 watched her death-white face without the nicker 
 of an eyelash. As she uttered his name, turning 
 her head ever so slightly towards him, a great stab 
 of knife-edged mental pain transfixed him. . . . 
 Was she about to die, here in his arms, on the very 
 threshold of unimagined beauty and passionate joy? 
 
 "Astarte ! . . . Don't leave me — live for me, 
 Astarte !" 
 
 Her eyelids, which had lowered, flickered open 
 and a strong convulsive shudder passed over her. 
 Then her eyes closed again, and she seemed to relax 
 still further. Her parted lips were blue. David 
 caught one of her hands in his own ; it was as cold 
 as marble. ... A darkness came between him 
 and the light. It cleared, and he saw again, but 
 the sunshine seemed to have gone grey. Bearing 
 the girl he slowly descended the steps. 
 
 Then it was that Rama woke to the situation. 
 She set Tobias on the ground, darted past Dinah 
 and the widow — neither of whom had made any 
 movement — and dragged one of the frayed mat- 
 tresses from the den-like basement room in which 
 the widow cooked and slept, laying it out on the 
 floor of the court by the acacia tree. David did not 
 seem to see her — his face had a curious stony look, 
 but he laid the girl upon the mattress, knelt beside 
 her, and taking one of her lax hands began to chafe 
 it between his own. 
 
 Tears sprang to Rama's eyes. Some intuition 
 laid its finger upon her. She drew a small, bright 
 steel knife from a fold of her raiment, a knife such 
 as women had need of in kitchen tasks, and went 
 down on her knees beside the mattress and laid the
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 93 
 
 knife, very carefully, against the blue lips of the 
 girl. 
 
 A number of moments passed. David made no 
 sign, but she knew that he understood. She lifted 
 the knife and looked at it. The bright steel was 
 undimmed by any faintest blur of breath. . . . The 
 death-ring had done its work. 
 
 Rama raised her eyes from the knife, and they 
 met David's for the first time. She did not speak 
 — there was no need to. 
 
 A querulous whine came from Tobias, who had 
 awakened to a sense of neglect. One of the women 
 who looked down from the window turned her head, 
 speaking to someone in the room behind her. With- 
 out a word David passed his arm under the girl's 
 shoulders, raising her, and set his lips upon the 
 lips that were unresponsive now as any stone. . . . 
 Rama's quick tears fell like drops of rain. 
 
 "She's dead," said Dinah, in a full, matter-of-fact 
 voice, speaking to the widow. 
 
 A ragged, sallow boy, wearing a red skull cap, 
 dashed into the court, nearly upsetting Tobias. 
 
 "Hi !" he called shrilly. "There's a man who works 
 miracles coming! They're bringing out all the sick 
 brats, and old Eli, who's full of boils and stinks 
 worse than a dead dog — phew ! I'm gtoing to 
 watch. ..." 
 
 He was off and out of the court again like a 
 stone from a sling. 
 
 Dinah turned half round, her mouth open as 
 though to speak. Tobias, who had been frightened 
 by the boy, began to howl. The two women at the 
 window had disappeared, and their raised voices, 
 muffled by the stone walls, were audible, imparting
 
 94 REVELATION 
 
 the boy's information to house-mates and relatives. 
 
 Rama's tear-wet face was turned now towards 
 the street. . . . The boy had said that a miracle- 
 worker was coming. . . . There had always been 
 miracle-workers. Everyone had some story of such 
 things. . . . Perhaps — perhaps he could awaken 
 the girl on the mattress. 
 
 In the street there was a cessation of traffic, a 
 hubbub of voices, and the monotonous, hoarse ap- 
 peal of a leper. It was infectious. 
 
 "David," said Rama, "a man who works miracles 
 is coming. . . . Perhaps he will bring her ba< 
 
 He might or might not have heard her, but there 
 was no change in bis face. 
 
 "Lift her up. I will take the mattrc 
 
 He obeyed her, and the dead girl lay in his arms 
 like a broken lily, her sightless eyes half open, her 
 lips apart. It was apparent that he was stunned, 
 acting automatically. 
 
 Outside, in the street that was too narrow for 
 sunlight, and as crooked as a dog's hind leg. an un- 
 conscious woman, in the last stage of blood poison- 
 ing, and an old man afflicted with running ulce 
 were laid out on pallets. Half-a-dozen moth< 
 cradled emaciated infants swaddled like Egyptian 
 mummies, or held by the hand walking children that 
 were crippled or ophthalmic. Round these was a 
 fringe of onlookers that included a man with a per- 
 forming monkey, and a desert Arab brow-bound 
 with camel's hair. 
 
 Rama crouched on her heels beside the mattress 
 on which Astarte lay. David stood erect. There 
 was a slight, straight cleft between his brows as 
 though he were trying to remember something.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 95 
 
 From a doorway a half-grown girl emerged bear- 
 ing a bowl of thick, greasy water, which she emptied 
 upon the slippery cobbles. With the bowl in her 
 hands she looked shrewdly at the little crowd, then 
 re-entered the doorway. 
 
 Turning the corner at the head of the street a 
 man appeared, followed by several others. His 
 garment was white, and his head-cloth, which was 
 bound with a twist of red. He was above the 
 middle height, and moved with an unconscious, 
 grave, yet simple self-containment such as invests 
 a dweller in the illimitable desert, where the lion 
 crouches on a flat-topped rock, and man is a moving 
 atom on the open hand of God, and death and the 
 riddle of life and the multitude of the stars draw 
 very near. 
 
 A clamour broke out. 
 
 "Master, have mercy — mercy! . . . Master — 
 Master!" 
 
 It was the appeal of the bandaged leper, who 
 rocked himself backwards and forwards as he sat. 
 
 Rama uttered nothing, but her lips were apart 
 and her anxious, hopeful eyes were upon the man 
 in white. Behind him were the three or four men 
 who had followed him into the street. They wore 
 stained and ragged raiment of many colours, like 
 the raiment of beggars. 
 
 David had not heard the outcry of the leper, had 
 not seen the tallish man in white who moved so 
 self-containedly. Passionate and fulfilled love had 
 spread for him a golden bed of spices ; he had wor- 
 shipped, thirsted, enjoyed, adored. Then the sword 
 had fallen. . . . He could not readjust himself. 
 He tried to realize what had been — what was —
 
 96 REVELATION 
 
 and the straight cleft deepened between his straight 
 brows. . . . 
 
 He heard Rama speak. 
 
 "Master " she said. 
 
 Suddenly he was aware that he was looking into 
 the eyes of a man who had paused opposite to him 
 — a man in a garment of white wollen stuff whose 
 brows were shaded by a white head-cloth bound 
 with a twist of red. The eyes of this man were of 
 a greyish-blue. For two or perhaps three momc 
 he looked with a stead}' and calm directness straight 
 at David, then stooped, seeming to touch the girl 
 upon the mattress. 
 
 There was a little quick cry from Rama — 
 "Oh! . . ." 
 
 "Master, have mercy!" howled the leper, his 
 rising hoarse and frantic like that of an exhausted 
 criminal strapped to the rack. Suddenly he \ 
 silent. The tall man in white had laid a hand upon 
 him. 
 
 "David — David! She's opening her < \ 
 
 David turned. 
 
 Astarte's breasts heaved like those of an awaken- 
 ing sleeper. Her eyelids lifted. Her eyes, sleepy- 
 looking, liquidly dark, met the light, and she blinked. 
 It was as natural as morning coming up over the 
 purple mountains of Moab. In the street there 
 was a great chattering. The old man who had been 
 afflicted with running ulcers stood upon his feet, 
 gesturing with eloquent out-turned palms to a 
 knot of neighbours. The blood-poisoned woman 
 was sitting upon her pallet, smiling in a gentle, 
 dazed way at those who pressed round her.
 
 FROM DAWN TO DAWN 97 
 
 <«i 
 
 'Look at me — look at me, everyone I" 
 
 It was the voice of the leper, now a cracked 
 scream of joy. He stood upright, shifting from 
 foot to foot as though the oozing rubbish were red- 
 hot ; and with both hands he tore away the filthy, 
 half-rotten bandages that had swaddled him, re- 
 vealing the new, clean, pinkish skin. 
 
 "Fainted and died before my very eyes, she did 
 — not twelve minutes ago. Dinah can bear me out 
 — she saw it too. If any other soul had told me of 
 such a thing, I wouldn't have given it credit. ..." 
 
 A circle of women surrounded Astarte, touching 
 her, wondering at her, listening to Naomi, the 
 widow. It was apparent that she ranked no longer 
 as a presumably wanton, pagan dancing girl, but 
 as an incarnate marvel — a link between the known 
 and the unknown. 
 
 A string of mules loaded with fodder turned the 
 corner at the top of the street. Astarte was assisted 
 to rise, and then led back into the house-court, still 
 the centre of a cluster of women. Rama stooped to 
 roll up and raise the mattress, but David interposed. 
 As he straightened, he look down the street, but the 
 miracle-worker had passed on. 
 
 "She was dead, and now she is alive . . ."he 
 said, and it was as though he were speaking to 
 himself — trying to convince himself of something. 
 
 "Rama. ..." 
 
 She looked at him mutely. She was subdued now, 
 and seemed tired. 
 
 "Who is this man? Do you know anything of 
 him?" 
 
 "I know nothing. ..." She glanced towards a
 
 98 REVELATION 
 
 woman standing near, but this other, also, shook 
 her head. 
 
 The man with the performing monkey spoke. 
 
 "He's a Galilaean — I've heard him spoken of. 
 They call him Jesus of Nazareth."
 
 PART II 
 'A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY"
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 
 
 "Cymon," said David, "I wish you had seen him and 
 heard him." 
 
 "Well. . . . Perhaps I'll go with you to hear 
 him sometime." 
 
 "You must ! He's different from all the others. 
 . . . And he gave Astarte back to me." 
 
 His voice lowered on the last words. 
 
 He was seated on a rough ledge at the base of a 
 blister-like dome that broke the surface of the 
 house room. Cymon sat on the roof, leaning back 
 against the curve of the dome, his arms locked 
 about his knees. 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "David," said Cymon, "I wish things were as they 
 were before." 
 
 "You mean ..." 
 
 "I wish that you had never seen her." 
 
 David laughed. 
 
 "I've had more happiness in the last two weeks 
 than I imagined possible. ... I feel that I could 
 wrestle with seven devils or tear the heart out of a 
 lion. Is that misfortune?" 
 
 "If it lasts the gods might envy you. . . . But 
 it won't." 
 
 "But," said David, "all women are not like that 
 temple girl you met in Tyre." 
 
 "Perhaps not. ..." 
 
 101
 
 102 REVELATION 
 
 His tone implied that they were — but that he 
 preferred not to argue about it. It was the tone 
 of one who knew — non-committal, tinged with just 
 the right shade of cynical weariness of the whole 
 subject. With closed lips he stared up at the stars 
 with which the night sky — blue with the blueness 
 of dark grapes — was oversprinkled. The querying 
 mee-awl of a mating cat was repeated once or 
 twice; then a loose tile fell, breaking into several 
 pieces on the stony floor of some well-like house- 
 court. 
 
 Cymon released his knees and locked his hands 
 behind his head, leaning still farther back. 
 
 "Tell me about this man who really works 
 miracles. . . . What does he say?"' 
 
 David leaned forward. 
 
 "I've heard him speak twice. . . . He teaches 
 that it's the thought, the intention, that counts — 
 that it's no use giving rams and bullocks to the 
 Temple if you cheat, and hate, and sell your debtors' 
 children into slavery. . . . That you must for- 
 give your enemies. . . . That if you follow a 
 woman lustfully with your eyes you're as guilty 
 as if you'd seduced her. . . . That there is no in- 
 justice in pain and poverty, for the unhappy shall 
 be crowned with happiness " 
 
 "Where?" put in Cymon abruptly. He had been 
 listening with attention. 
 
 David was silent for two or three moments. 
 
 "Do you believe that death — is the end?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I don't know. . . . Why shouldn't it be?" 
 
 "Why should it? . . . Anyhow, it's all clear 
 when this man speaks of it. . . . One feels that
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 103 
 
 one is standing in a cold, dark, narrow place — a 
 sort of prison — cramped and fetid. But it's the 
 entry to a — a king's house with ivory columns and 
 a hundred lamps lighting a marriage feast, and 
 death is the door that opens to admit one. ... I 
 can't express it, Cymon. . . . He was speaking to 
 the rabble — men who live like rats and look like 
 them. You know the sort. . . . There were some 
 lepers, too, and a prostitute came out of a house 
 to listen." 
 
 "You mean he teaches that the have-nothings, 
 the street-sweepings — you and I, and the scavenger 
 — are to have everything . . . afterwards? That 
 it's a sort of Forum open to everyone, bond or free 
 — not Elysian Fields where a handful of conquerors 
 and verse-writers stroll about in white togas, and 
 fancy themselves? . . . It's all right — as far as 
 it goes. If I believed something of that sort — 
 really believed it, David " 
 
 He broke off in mid sentence. 
 
 "Oh, gods ! it's futile — futile ! What does he 
 know — what do any of them know? . . . Miracles 
 mean nothing. They're worked by some law we 
 don't understand. That's all. . . . Lightning's a 
 miracle — and snow — and a rainbow. We don't 
 understand them. . . . We live, and then we die 
 — and bloat up and stink if we're not burned or 
 buried. Just like a dog or a sheep. . . . And some- 
 thing frets in us — something expands, and hungers, 
 and strains like a starved dog on a leash. . . . 
 Sometimes I feel that I'm a sort of chained demi- 
 god. Sometimes I want to die on the steps of an 
 emperor's house, leading a mob immeasurable as 
 the sea, who are going to tear him down, and sweep
 
 104 REVELATION 
 
 it all away, and seize the beauty, and hug it, and 
 revel in it ! . . . And — what am I ? 1 sleep where 
 I can, like a pariah with the mange, and 1 can't even 
 buy a sound pair of sandals. ... If it wasn't that 
 I've got my back to the wall and I'm going to fight 
 it out, I'd open my veins to-night." 
 
 "And leave me without a friend?" said David. 
 
 "You've got— Astarte." 
 
 He snapped the name at him as though it gave 
 him a wrench to utter it. 
 
 "Cymon . . . that's not just. It's made no dif- 
 ference between us. You can't say that it has." 
 
 "It hasn't yet. . . . David, I'm sorry. I'll go 
 now. It's getting late.'' 
 
 He got to his feet, and David stood up with him. 
 
 "I'm sorry, David," he said again. "You — you 
 mean a lot to me. . . . I'm quite alone; and Id 
 live and die on a rock in the desert rather than l""k 
 to any woman for company." 
 
 He spoke with a bitterness that seemed unneces- 
 sarily savage. 
 
 The long-drawn moan of the matc-:>ceking cat 
 was again audible. 
 
 "Mee-awl — mee-e-eawl," it said. 
 
 A flight of steps led down from the house-top to 
 the narrow strip of a lower roof terrace where were 
 a few untended plants in broken pots. At the foot 
 of this flight a door gave access to the largish 
 shallow-domed room where David had caught As- 
 tarte in his arms, almost against his will, two weeks 
 before. In this room one little blackened lamp in 
 which three yellow flames floated was suspended 
 from the centre of the dome. 
 
 Astarte lay on a mattress by the wall. One
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 105 
 
 curved, upthrown arm shielded her eyes from the 
 feeble light. Her eyes were closed. A white gar- 
 ment clothed her body. Anyone entering the room 
 would have supposed that she was asleep. But 
 she was not asleep. She was awake, and angry. 
 
 David had brought a young Greek home with 
 him — fair, rather good-looking. It had been some- 
 thing in the nature of an event ; every new face 
 was an event to Astarte. But he had barely greeted 
 her — had scarcely even raised his eyes to hers. Two 
 empty hours had elapsed since then. She had 
 counted the sleeping flies that speckled the smooth, 
 cuplike hollow of the small dome ; then she had 
 tried to sleep ; then she had become angry — in- 
 creasingly angry — and alertly wakeful. . . . Why 
 should she not speak with this Greek who had 
 come home with David? She wanted to meet a 
 variety of people, to talk to them, listen to them, 
 experience all manner of verbal adventures. . . . 
 And men were interesting — more interesting than 
 women. . . . 
 
 There was a sound of feet descending the exter- 
 ior steps that led 'to the roof. Astarte's eyes 
 opened — but instantly closed again. She moved 
 her head, turning her face to the wall. Her breast 
 heaved regularly; she had every appearance of 
 sleep. She waited. . . . When David touched 
 her, she spoke instantly. 
 
 "Am I no better than a dog? Why didn't your 
 friend speak to me ? Why am I left alone as though 
 I were a leper?" 
 
 Her voice was pettish. Her eyes regarded him 
 like those of a cross child.
 
 106 REVELATION 
 
 David, shocked by her sudden self-comparison 
 with a dog, was distressed. 
 
 "Darling — you don't understand," he said. "1 am 
 to blame — I should have told you. Cymon's a 
 good fellow, and I'm — I'm very fond of him, but 
 a girl robbed him and lied to him once, and since 
 then he won't look at any woman — he never spe:. 
 to them if he can help it. . . . Are you angry with 
 me, Astarte?" 
 
 "N-no," said Astarte. 
 
 She was really fond of David, and also, he was 
 the first man to possess and waken her, which 
 counts for much with a woman. His narrow-loined 
 build, at once supple and statuesque, occasioned her 
 a frank and very keen delight. And he was al- 
 together engrossed with her — her passionate, 
 anxious and careful lover — her slave. All this was 
 delicious, and flattering as a tepid bath of scented 
 milk, but for the rest, this place was nearly as dull 
 as the house of Bel-Namri, and infinitely meaner 
 and more disagreeable to the nostrils, gritty and 
 constricted. She disliked it already ; the women 
 were sour and stupid, excepting one girl, Rama — 
 and she never laughed. Each day was similar 
 the day before. There was no colour — only innu- 
 merable flies, a smell much worse than that of 
 Bel-Namri's beast-yard ; and the sort of work that 
 was performed by negro slaves in the house of 
 Herod, as in the house of Bel-Namri. She had 
 been here two weeks, but the morning and evening 
 of each day, and the nights, were all that really 
 mattered, for then David was with her. 
 
 "Didn't you tell me that to-morrow is a festival
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 107 
 
 day for you? You will stay with me all the time 
 won't you?" 
 
 She had slipped an arm about his neck. 
 
 "I never leave you willingly," said David. 
 
 He was very much in love. 
 
 After a few moment's silence he said, "I shall go 
 to the Temple in the morning. Then I will return 
 and stay with you.'' 
 
 Astarte ignored the mention of the Temple. She 
 took all such things for granted. They were facts, 
 like birth and death, slaves and masters, but they 
 did not interest her in the least, and she entertained 
 no curiosity concerning them. 
 
 "You must take me outside the town," she said. 
 "I want to see trees and goats, and walk in the 
 sunshine ! . . . I hope a caravan passes with lots 
 of men and camels." 
 
 She withdrew her arm from about his neck and 
 sat upright, squatting back on her heels, alert as a 
 coiled spring. The prospect of new sights was 
 exhilarating. David's hand came lightly upon her 
 — it slid caressingly from her wrist to her rounder 
 upper arm, as though the mere touch of her was 
 a strange luxury. Still sitting back on her heels 
 she turned to face him, meeting his steady dark 
 eyes. 
 
 II 
 
 "The Rabbi has fallen !" 
 
 It was an exclamation uttered by several simul- 
 taneously. 
 
 A middle-aged man, shuffling along with his eyes 
 tightly closed, had stumbled over a loose stone 
 and come down heavily on his hands and knees,
 
 108 REVELATION 
 
 lacerating his palms. He was not blind, but went 
 habitually with shut eyes to avoid seeing women. 
 
 Two or three darted forward and raised him with 
 solicitude, placing his staff in his hand. A : 
 gouts of blood starred the cobble-stones of the 
 street. The fakeer class to which the self-blinded 
 man belonged were known as Bleeding Pharisees. 
 
 David had halted, involuntarily, when the shuf- 
 fling man, his staff tap-tapping like a blind beggu 
 tripped over the stone, but he had made no m<' 
 ment to assist him. He simply stood and looked, 
 and then passed on. He had upon him a longish. 
 striped linen garment, and a white head-cloth 
 shaded his brows. At each corner of his stole-like 
 prayer-shawl hung a tassel of eight threads uf hya- 
 cinth-blue wool in fulfilment of a command of 
 Moses. It was the morning of the sixth day bet 
 the Passover — the threshold of the holy season — 
 and he was on his way to the Temple 
 
 Nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand 
 orthodox Jews would have sprung forward to assist 
 the fallen Pharisee, and would have counted them- 
 selves favoured by the mere fact of contact with 
 him, but David was unorthodox — scandalously so. 
 If a Gentile even inquired the way of a Jew it 
 was a Jew's duty to direct him wrongly, yet David 
 wore Gentile raiment on all his working days, had 
 chosen a Greek for a friend, and broke bread with 
 him. And from his thirteenth year he had utterly 
 disregarded the Pharisees, the teachers and pre- 
 servers of the Law — the holy men who taught that 
 if a hen laid an egg on the Sabbath, that egg was 
 to be neither eaten, touched, nor even looked at, and 
 that if vinegar was used for the toothache on that
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 109 
 
 day, it must not be spat out under pain of sin, but 
 must be swallowed. Finally, he had taken a Gentile 
 girl for his wife, but this crowning scandal was as 
 yet known only to a few. It was hard on his 
 mother, they said — it was altogether too bad! The 
 poor soul was always excusing him to the neigh- 
 bours, telling them what a good son he was, how 
 handsome and pious. 
 
 He was now ascending a street that resembled 
 a steep, foot-worn staircase. Many others were 
 climbing with him. One man wore a mortar-shaped 
 cap, which came below the level of his eyes, and 
 he stumbled upward with outstretched hands. He 
 also was a self-blinded fakeer. A spare, nobly 
 bearded man in white raiment, with the serene brow 
 of a child and the carriage of a prophet, mounted 
 on David's right. He was an Essene, celibate, vege- 
 tarian, stricter in his way of life than the strictest 
 Pharisee, the slightest contact with whom he would 
 regard as a defilement. 
 
 Dominating the lower town, with its bazaars, 
 poverty, stench, harlots, and hucksters, rose the Holy 
 City, which culminated in Mount Moriah and the 
 Temple of God. Here the streets were hollowed 
 out in the centre with raised footways on either 
 side, so that those who were going up to the 
 Temple might avoid contamination from the pro- 
 cessions of sheep and cattle destined for the altar 
 of burnt offerings, or from any person ceremonially 
 unclean. No lepers were permitted here, and should 
 a death occur the corpse must immediately be 
 carried forth. 
 
 A great gateway with open gates of chased 
 Corinthian brass, the colour of pale gold and more
 
 110 REVELATION 
 
 precious than gold or silver, rose up before David, 
 marvellous, incalculably costly. It ol the 
 
 outer gates of the Temple area. He passed be- 
 neath it, crossed the spacious Court of the Genti 
 beyond which no Hebrew convert might pa 
 cended a flight of steps of variegated mar' 
 crossed the threshold of a second gate, traversed 
 the Court of the Women, ascended a crescent- 
 shaped flight of fifteen alabaster d be- 
 tween the dark greet! marble columns of the third — 
 the Nicanor Gate — and entered the Court of the 
 Israelites. He W I, bavin- rcn 
 sandals at the threshold He I erect 
 straight, and tall. 
 
 Before him, at a .still higher level, was tin. sacn 
 Court of the Priests, and his rais< d i ere uj 
 
 the facade of the Temple — the house of the God 
 Moses. 
 
 It was a house of gold. The roof was s< t with 
 golden spikes to prevent pollution from alight 
 birds; above the massive golden gates I ra- 
 
 ordinary height and breadth intertwining golden 
 grape vines wire weighted with golden 
 bunches six feet in length, and for thirty feet on 
 either side of the gates the marble was plated with 
 pure gold. 
 
 The sun had risen, and the eastward-looking face 
 of the Temple shone like the face of an angel who 
 stands in the blinding light of Heaven. 
 
 David, dazzled by the glowing marvel ^i gold- 
 plated stone that towered a hundred and thirty i 
 above him, lowered his head and began to pray. In 
 the open spaces behind him and on either side hun- 
 dreds of men and youths with covered heads and
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 111 
 
 bared feet were binding - the tiny amulet boxes upon 
 their foreheads and lacing about their outstretched 
 left arms the leather thongs that bore witness to 
 one of the titles of God. 
 
 A bell tinkled. Above, in the sacred space before 
 the Temple, a male lamb, just slain, had been laid 
 upon the great altar of undressed stone, and two 
 priests, one bearing incense in a golden vase, the 
 other glowing coals in a golden fire-pan, had passed 
 into the still, cool twilight behind the gates of gold, 
 where, in the seven lamp-sockets of the towering 
 golden candelabrum, seven little flames burned day 
 and night. 
 
 All the covered heads were lowered. The blue 
 steam of incense was rising in the dim Holy Place 
 where the air was almost as moveless as in a sealed 
 mountain cavern, and the seven small flames did 
 not even flicker as an eyelid flickers. 
 
 Now fire licked and crackled upon the altar of 
 burnt offerings and the smoke of the burning fag- 
 gots rolled upward. A savour of roasted meat 
 
 touched the nostrils. The reverberating, metallic 
 cling-clang of cymbals smote the ear. A choir of 
 deep male voices took up a chant whose Egyptian 
 cadences, lifting and falling, seemed to hark back 
 to an immeasurable antiquity. 
 
 David had raised his head and his eyes were upon 
 the ascending smoke of the sacrifice, but he did not 
 see the smoke, nor the beaten gold of the Temple, 
 nor the pale mornfng sky. His lips moved. He 
 was praying — not the mechanical learned-by-rote 
 prayers prescribed by the Pharisees, the Rabbis— 
 but his hope, his worship, his secret, passionate
 
 112 REVELATION 
 
 aspiration translated into unleashed words uttered 
 beneath his breath. 
 
 In the schools the Pharisees taught the Rabbin- 
 ical commentaries upon the Law with their endless 
 quibbling and hair-splitting. David, an instinctive 
 rebel from the first, had studied the Law alone from 
 his thirteenth year. He observed none of the 
 thousand and one Pharisaical enactments, yet he 
 was of much the same stuff as his namesake and 
 remote ancestor, David, the patriot, the poet-king. 
 Upon this morning he prayed — his brows con- 
 tracted, his face straining upward — for the coming 
 of the Deliverer, the conquering Messiah. A pas- 
 sage from one of the prophets came to him : "And 
 he who shall rise up to rule the Gentiles, in him the 
 Gentiles shall hope." Yes, the kingdom of the 
 Deliverer would be for Gentile as well as for Jew ; 
 Rome would be overthrown, and the Messiah, the 
 Holy One of Israel, would rule the world. The 
 sudden glory of the thought blinded him. 'He 
 caught his breath. . . . 
 
 Presently, going with the crowd, he was on his 
 way out, his sandals fastened again upon his feet. 
 He was still abstracted, looking straight before him 
 and seeing little. Doves cooed, patterned marble 
 of variegated hues glistened, silver and gold and 
 fine brass caught the sun. At the low tables of the 
 money-changers in the Court of the Gentiles, men 
 argued volubly with outspread palms. . . . 
 
 Now came a street that led into the obscurity of 
 a strait tunnelled arch. Wine-coloured draping and 
 strips of Babylonian tapestry work hung against 
 the stone walls, for the approaching festival 
 brought in a period of public rejoicing.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 113 
 
 "Hosanna! . . . Hosanna!" 
 
 "Blessed be He who comes in the name of the 
 Lord!" 
 
 What was that? 
 
 Pigeons were fluttering above his head. A 
 shrivelled little man seated in a goldsmith's shop 
 — a shallow recess under an awning of brown sack- 
 cloth — was craning his scraggy neck to see. 
 
 "Hosanna !" 
 
 There was a crowd coming — what was it ? 
 
 People began to stream out of the tunnel-arch 
 — country people, most of them. Many carried 
 willow wands, on which the delicate new leaves had 
 just budded, and palm branches. One man tossed 
 his arms aloft. 
 
 "Hosanna!" he cried at the top of a rich baritone 
 voice. 
 
 "What's this— what's this?" 
 
 An old Levite, with a pair of grey locks dangling 
 from under his conical white turban bound with a 
 twist of coloured silk, spoke irritably, a blue-veined 
 hand cupped to his ear. 
 
 "Who is it? Judah, ask one of these people who 
 it is. 
 
 David, who stood alongside him, found himself 
 listening for the answer to this. He felt really 
 curious. 
 
 Judah — a handsome, effeminate lad — was speak- 
 ing. 
 
 "They say it is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth 
 in Galilee, father." 
 
 "Prophet ! He's a beggar who teaches heresy 
 and keeps company with loose livers. This rabble
 
 114 REVELATION 
 
 would shout for anybody. ... I don't know 
 what's coming to Jerusalem. The Sanhedrin should 
 
 take action against such people." 
 
 His dangling grey side-locks wagged lil iir 
 
 of goats' beards. 
 
 The sunshine glistened on the slanting palm 
 fronds. The street seemed filled with them — it 
 waved like a thicket in the Jordan Valley. 
 
 From beneath the low-browed arch a meek wh. 
 she-ass emerged, followed by a Little shagg) 
 colt with a white blaze between : which 
 
 Avere deer-brown and very innocent. Upon the 
 she-ass sat a man, and as he came, men, kneeling 
 quickly, stripped off their Ion. ileeved 
 
 and laid them in the hollowed bed of the 
 where fetid moisture trickled, so that the h< 
 the she-ass were muffled. 
 
 "Hosanna in the highest !" 
 
 The snivelled little goldsmith had risen and 
 salaaming. Some of those who stood to watch 
 the raised footways on either side did liki 
 From projecting windows women looked down. 
 
 "Hosanna to the prophet of God — the miracle- 
 worker — the friend of the poor! . . . Bles-ed is 
 He who comes in the name of the Lord!" 
 
 Exultation seemed to fan the faces of the 
 watchers like a strong, sweet wind. 
 
 The man who sat upon the she-ass was level with 
 David now. He turned his head slightly aside. His 
 gaze — the steady and calm directness of it — en- 
 countered David's. . . . 
 
 "Hosanna !" 
 
 It was a deep, hundred-throated, exultant shout.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 115 
 
 Had he been blind and deaf? How was it that 
 he had prayed and groped for the sun when it 
 shone full in his eyes? The man who could raise 
 the dead to life was entering Jerusalem on a white 
 ass after the manner of the Judges of Israel, and 
 in accordance with the prophecy that foretold the 
 entrance of the Messiah. . . . Oh, fool — blind fool 
 that he had been ! Glory to God — glory to the God 
 of Israel ! . . . The Messiah. Yes, it was the 
 Messiah at last ! 
 
 Now he was down in the trough of the street, 
 jostled by Galilsean pilgrims come south on foot 
 for the Passover, by folk from the earth-brown 
 villages on the skirts of the Mount of Olives, by 
 healed lepers in filthy rags frantic to show them- 
 selves to the priests at the Temple and be pro- 
 nounced clean according to the Law, by the blind 
 who saw, the lame who had abandoned their 
 crutches, the deaf mutes who cried out in discord- 
 ant, unpractised voices. Now he walked by the 
 flank of the she-ass, his face lifted. 
 
 "Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest!" 
 
 His whole soul — aflame like the chariot that had 
 caught Elias, living, to the seventh heaven — was 
 in that involuntary, ringing, triumphant cry. 
 
 The Deliverer had come. He had come to Zion 
 as the prophets had foretold. Already the people 
 knew — and the knowledge would spread like a 
 swift-running fire. Then swords — an army of a 
 hundred thousand — the star of Rome setting in 
 blood. And then the golden triumph — like an un- 
 imaginable sunrise ablaze with the hues of gems 
 uncountable. And then the empire of God. . . .
 
 116 REVELATION 
 
 III 
 
 Astarte stood on the shelf-like slice of roof where, 
 in three or four broken flower-pots, hardy mari- 
 golds flourished with the air of spontaneous, golden- 
 flowered weeds. Seven or eight feet below her 
 was a house-court like a shallow pit. At an open- 
 air cooking place a very stout woman - er 
 something, a wooden spoon in her hand. Sm< 
 eddied, flavoured with the odour of some species of 
 -tew. Astarte's delicate nostrils moved like a 
 Then her nose wrinkled and she frowned. It 
 smelled like slave's food. She felt that she never 
 wished to eat again, except, per! , or 
 flamingo's tongues garnished with cucumber — a 
 dish which she had shared with Semla in the hoi 
 of Herod. 
 
 She ascended the flight <>f steps that led up to 
 the roof where was the Mister-like dome. Here 
 she lay down at full length with her arms on the 
 low parapet and her chin dropped on them. Lying 
 so, she could look down into the house-court of the 
 acacia-tree, and the scabby, scrap-eating d ind 
 
 Tobias, and her mother-in-law. But she was not 
 looking for any of these things. She was watching 
 for the return of David. He had left her an hour 
 before and already she was impatient. Impat 
 and bored. . . . He had gone to the Temple. It 
 had seemed tiresome to her, but, somehow, she 
 had felt that she must say nothing to him against 
 it. . . . 
 
 Two women entered the house-court from op- 
 posite sides, and met in the centre, and stood to 
 talk — Dinah and Naomi.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 117 
 
 "Yes, I cook and sweep for three now as before 
 I cooked for two. I'm her servant, Dinah — that's 
 what I am. And my own son stands by as dumb 
 as a mule. . . . She's bewitched him — as sure as 
 I draw breath that's what it is! Oh, what a visita- 
 tion to come upon a God-fearing family ! And I 
 hoped, perhaps, that your Rama. . . . The neigh- 
 bours look askance at us, Dinah — and no blame to 
 them ! Think of it ! No betrothal under the canopy 
 — no marriage gathering. Only a written contract 
 given before witnesses — and that too late to save 
 the scandal. We might be tax-collectors — or — or 
 Gentiles ! . . . The shame's killing me, Dinah — 
 and my own son never even so much as asks me 
 how I have slept. . . . Well ! I won't be with him 
 always — and let her cook his lentils for him, that's 
 all ! He'll find the difference then, Dinah. . . . 
 She lies about all day like a harlot. Oh, what a 
 punishment from heaven!" 
 
 Astarte, looking down, and watching the two 
 women in the middle of the court because she was 
 very bored and must needs watch something, was 
 aware, chiefly, of two things. One was the un- 
 sightliness of Dinah's figure, pronouncedly mater- 
 nal ; the other was the gnarled, rheumatic hands of 
 the widow as she gestured. She could not hear 
 what they were saying. . . . The first of these 
 disgusted her. How terrible to be so hideously 
 out of shape — such an offence to the eyes ! A calv- 
 ing cow was ugly, but this flat-footed woman, who 
 looked as stupid as a fish, was laughable — like a 
 silly, grotesque figure drawn by a child on a wall 
 with a piece of charcoal. As for the widow's ges-
 
 118 REV ELATION 
 
 ticulating hands, they annoyed her because the 
 widow herself annoyed her. 
 
 The two women in the court separated, going 
 different ways. Now there was nothing whatever 
 to look at. . . . Surely David would come soo 
 
 Astarte yawned. The sun was getting hot. She 
 would go down into the domed room and wait tl. 
 for him. . . . She threw a fragment of mortar at 
 a sparrow. Then she got up. 
 
 In the domed room it was cool. The two-leaved 
 outer door was shut. Astarte stood for a while 
 in the middle of the floor with her hands lock 
 behind lur head. Presently she freed herself fi 
 her single garment and began to perform mu>cle 
 exercises of the sort that Dekerto had taught her. 
 This gave her a sense of suppleness and bodily 
 well-being which was pleasant. 
 
 She stretched herself, delighting in the faint con- 
 tact of her loosened, downward-falling hair with 
 her bared body. It was as spontaneous a feel 
 of pleasure in herself as that which prompts a glos 
 filly to roll and kick. A single almost vertical 
 arrow of the sun struck inward through the latticed 
 opening of the high-set window and glinted on her 
 auburn head. There was nothing in the room save 
 the floor mats, the mattress, and the hanging lamp, 
 yet it might have been a shrine of the Syrian Venus 
 from whom Astarte was named, for the sheer 
 beauty of her was that of a goddess fashioned from 
 ivory and red-gold, just as Dekerto had once said. 
 . . . Subconsciously she panted for someone to 
 stand before her and regard her appreciatively. 
 
 A little later she was two-thirds asleep, curled 
 up on the tattered mattress. The sun-ray became
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 119 
 
 vertical, shrank, and disappeared. Astarte slept, 
 breathing softly. . . . 
 
 When she awoke some animal instinct told her 
 that a considerable time had passed. She sprang 
 to her feet, ran to the outer door, pulled one of its 
 leaves inward a little way, and looked quickly into 
 the court. The shadow of the twisted acacia-tree 
 flecked the flight of steps. It was at least two hours 
 after midday. 
 
 David had not returned! 
 
 The querulous voice of the widow came to her. 
 Astarte pushed the door to and went back a few 
 steps. . . . They had planned to take food — bread 
 and dates — and go beyond the city, and eat at noon 
 under the olive-trees. There would be goats to 
 look at — perhaps camels. . . . But he had not 
 returned, and the day was more than half gone, and 
 she was alone in this detestable place where there 
 was nothing to do — no one to speak to or smile at 
 — and the ugly old woman, his mother, whined all 
 the time like a creaking door-hinge ! 
 
 Astarte sat bolt upright on the mattress, her fists 
 clenched, breathing as though her breast was con- 
 stricted. She was furiously disappointed, and as 
 angry as a passionate child who has been promised 
 a much-desired object and then cheated of it. A 
 sort of desperation seized her — she felt that she was 
 caged, and glanced right and left at the naked walls 
 like a trapped wild creature. . . . But why should 
 she sit in this place? She had only to open the two- 
 leaved door, descend the steps, cross the court, and 
 she would be in the street. . . . She could go for 
 a little distance, see this and that, and then 
 return. . . .
 
 120 REVELATION 
 
 Her heart leaped. Resentment against Da 
 disappointment and tedium were transmuted into 
 a sudden breathless daring that defied and antici- 
 pated. She stood up. Her hair was unbound; she 
 plaited it quickly into two plaits, for it inci 
 venienced her. Slipping her bare feet into sandals 
 she took the length of violet-hued satin stuff which 
 she had brought from the house of Herod and folded 
 herself in it in such a manner that her head \ 
 partially hooded. Now she would go out. 
 
 At the foot of the steps a dog snapp< 
 A movement of mild, .squalor-tainted air re: 
 tremulous the acacia's del 
 long, milk-white blossom hung downward 
 jasmine. Astarte stood a moment on the lowest 
 step to inhale this fragrant 
 
 "Where are you going?' 
 
 The widow had come out from behind a i 
 curtain. 
 
 "Into the street. There is nothing . . 
 
 I shall come back in a little while." 
 
 "You tell me you're g"ing into the .street — into 
 the street like that!" 
 
 The widow's voice rose so high on the last word 
 that it cracked. 
 
 "Yes," said Astarte. She felt annoyed. 
 
 "Oh, what a punishment — what a visitation 
 heaven has come upon us ! My daughter-in-law — 
 my son's wife! Why have I lived to see it? I 
 clothe yourself like a respectable woman. My 
 David's wife shall not shame him in the sight of 
 the neighbours — not while I have a voice 1" 
 
 Astarte was really angry now.
 
 r 
 
 \ WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 121 
 
 "I'll do what I please ! Don't scream at me — you 
 — you old mule !" 
 
 And she stepped down to the floor of the court, 
 avoided the flea-biting dog, and went straight past 
 the widow as though the widow were no more than 
 a dumb, planted post. 
 
 A loaded camel was passing — lurching, rank- 
 smelling, supercilious. Astarte stood against one 
 of the walls of the street, for its bales almost 
 brushed the opposite sides of the traffic-gut as it 
 came. Its hide had been rubbed bald in places 
 by the friction of girth and pack-saddle, and its 
 eyes were malevolent. Astarte regarded it with 
 happy interest. 
 
 When it had passed her she walked forward, go- 
 ing in the same direction. All directions were alike 
 to her. The street turned to the right, and pres- 
 ently was intersected by another, which she entered. 
 This street was filled with people, and it seemed to 
 Astarte that they were all looking at her. She was 
 not mistaken in this. Her face, framed by her 
 braided red-gold hair, was as arresting as a sudden 
 display of jewels in a beggar's lane, and no woman 
 going on foot in the lower town wrapped herself 
 to the chin in satin stuff hued like a purple violet. 
 
 A squatting cobbler laid down the curly-toed shoe 
 he was in the act of mending; a cluster of gossiping 
 women wearing metal anklets and with puny chil- 
 dren astride their hips, became abruptly silent, star- 
 ing with something of the blank, hostile suspicion 
 of a group of cows startled by a fluttering coloured 
 rag. 
 
 Astarte took her way down the street. Men 
 astride of mules or asses stared straight into her
 
 122 REVELATION 
 
 face, turning their heads back over their shoulders 
 when they had gone past her. Never before had 
 she walked alone in the narrow ways of a city 
 She could stop if she chose— turn aside, turn back 
 — follow her own will. It was wholly delightful. . . . 
 A low-browed opening gave access to a half- 
 dark den where wine — in earthenware amphoras 
 or goatskin bags whose seams were anointed with 
 resin — was on sale. The place was kept by a Samar- 
 itan, and Gentiles of half a dozen breeds drank 
 there, spat, and swore, scribbled obscene jes 
 the walls with a stub of charcoal and laughed im- 
 moderately at them. 
 
 Three or four ol Herod's mercenaries came 
 slouching out of this place, their breath flavoured 
 with coarse, resin-tainted wine. 
 
 "Hullo!" -aid one of these, stoppii. rt 
 
 Astarte also stopped. She was face to face with 
 the soldier to whom she had been forced to prom 
 an assignation on the night of her escape from the 
 house of Herod. Extreme surprise was the only 
 emotion of which she was conscious. 
 
 "Hullo! Blind me if it isn't Venus! You didn't 
 treat me right, Venus. Why did you bolt when we 
 made a fair bargain?'' 
 
 Astarte said nothing. She began to realize that 
 tms encounter might be dangerous. She looked 
 at the man, noting his earrings, his pock-marked 
 flesh. 
 
 "Nothing to say. Venus? Hades! a promise is 
 a promise. What about keeping it now?" 
 
 With a sudden forward lunge he gripped her. 
 The three men who were with him laughed loudly.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 123 
 
 "Hand her to me when you've done with her," 
 said one of them ; "she's a goddess." 
 
 There was a resounding smack — Astarte had 
 slapped the face of the soldier who held her, with 
 all her might. Then she ducked her head and set 
 her teeth in his wrist. With an obscene curse he 
 loosed her. She turned to escape up the street — 
 but found the way barred by the other three. She 
 faced them, the length of satin stuff in a swirl 
 about her feet, her loosened hair ruffled like a 
 snared bird's breast, her eyes furious. 
 
 "Beasts! Dogs! Don't touch me! Don't you 
 dare to touch me !" 
 
 A door set deeply in a stone doorway grated 
 open. In the opening a girl appeared, stretching 
 her head forward to look and listen. Her over- 
 dress was of blue and orange-yellow in wide stripes 
 with a satin sheen. She had a brow-band of silver 
 and tassel-like silver ornaments hung against her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "You devil !" said the man who had gripped 
 Astarte. 
 
 He clinched with her again, pinning both her 
 hands behind her back with one of his. 
 
 There was a jingle of silver ornaments, a swish 
 of whisking raiment, and the impact of a blow 
 given smartly with the flat of the hand. 
 
 "Pig!" said the girl who had come from the door- 
 way. "You're all pigs — the four of you! If I were 
 your captain I'd scourge the hide off you — and salt 
 you, and string you up to dry! Swine! Vermin!" 
 
 She spoke with the fluency and violence of a 
 camel driver. Her eyelids were blue-painted, her 
 lips inhumanly scarlet, and there was a glint of
 
 124 REVELATION 
 
 gold dust on her checks. About e, wh 
 
 the pock-marked soldier had r< 1 involuntarily 
 
 for the second time, she had thing' an arm I 
 with silver I s. 
 
 "What's th aid a brief 
 
 final authority. 
 
 A man — a Roman — mounted "ii a black 
 had drawn rein. He ■ I, and his white 
 
 toga was bordered narrowly with purpl< 'all 
 
 negi'i servants were with him, 
 whisk with which to dr - fr<>m tl I 
 
 Astarte's instantly ra: • ntered the 
 
 grey ones of Valeriu 
 
 If he experienced any surj 
 it. The four mercenary yarded hi ng 
 
 like hounds who have been kiik.-d H< 
 them over. 
 
 "Go t<> your quarters," he said; and ii 
 
 though a w hip had fallen 
 
 The four slunk hurriedly away, their heads low- 
 ered. A Xnmidian. also in Herod's service, peered 
 out from the wine-den — and drew back with the in- 
 stant quickness of a rat hearing a footstep. 
 
 For some moments Yale- with 
 
 the immobility of an equestrian statue, I 
 straight ahead. Then he set a hand on the Stall i 
 shoulder and vaulted to the ground. Ol o\ the 
 negroes sprang to take the rein-. 
 
 The girl who had encircled Astartc with her arm 
 regarded him with a sort of defiance. She might 
 have been a mother defending her whelp. 
 
 Valerius looked at her. 
 "What have you to do with this?" he said.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 125 
 
 "Do! I slapped one of those pigs on the jaw. 
 The swine ! I heard them and came out." 
 
 "You did well. . . . Now go back into your 
 house." 
 
 She hesitated a moment or two, then released 
 Astarte, and without a word re-entered the deep- 
 set doorway, and the door grated. . . . 
 
 Astarte stooped quickly and caught up the length 
 of satin stuff. Then she looked again, directly at 
 Valerius. She was not afraid of him. No, she was 
 not at all afraid. . . . 
 
 "Well . . ."he said. "What are you doing here, 
 Astarte?" 
 
 "Nothing. ... I wanted to walk — to see the 
 streets." 
 
 "I suppose you know that as you are an escaped 
 slave I should have you brought back and, perhaps, 
 flogged?" 
 
 As he spoke his eyes held hers, and she knew 
 with an unaccountable certainty that he intended 
 to do nothing of the sort. She smiled frankly at 
 him. There was a little pause of silence between 
 them. 
 
 "We cannot speak here, ''said Valerius. "This is 
 a detestable quarter. But there is a house here- 
 about that belonged to a Sadducee whose property 
 was confiscated by the Governor. It is not far. . . ." 
 
 He turned and spoke to the negro who held the 
 horse, and the slave led the stallion away. 
 
 Astarte found herself walking a step or two be- 
 hind Valerius down the street up which she had 
 come. The second negro went before them, clear- 
 ing a passage by striking right and left with an 
 ebony wand.
 
 126 REVELATION 
 
 The sound of a conjuror's rattle was audible 
 he squatted, himself unseen, surrounded by a little 
 circle of men and boys. But as Valerius skirted the 
 group, indifferent as a contemptuous god. ev< 
 head turned and the rattling ceased. Astarte 
 aware that no man scrutinized her as they had d 
 when she entered the street alone. . . . 
 
 With a little stab of surprise -he realized that 
 they were entering the crooked way upon which 
 the house-court of Dinah and Naomi i 
 
 did not want t<> see the widow \> th 
 
 the tunnel-arch that gave access t" the hotl art 
 
 she looked straight before her, tilting her chin 
 upward ever so slightly. 
 
 Farther on the .street turned to the lei 
 lerius paused I a dour set in a wall. 
 
 word from him the negro put his shoulder I 
 door and forced it inward a little way with some 
 difficulty, for it seemed to have been part: 
 wrenched from its hinges. Save for a ! ab- 
 
 out eyesight, who sat forward with di 
 the street seemed at that moment to be deserted. 
 
 "This is the hous< lid Valeria 
 
 Jle entered and Astarte followed him. The neg 
 remained standing by the half-opened door. 
 
 Behind the door was a long room ending i: 
 horse-shoe arch. It was naked, and the dark 
 ways on either side resembled upright coffin 
 
 'They've stripped this place very thoroughly/' 
 said Valerius over his shoulder. 
 
 Astarte was interested. Everything intei 
 her. The boredom and impatience <*i the morning 
 seemed a year away. She did not question why 
 Valerius — whom she had struck in the court of the
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 127 
 
 myrtles for kissing her, whom she had struggled 
 with in the hall of the feast — should desire to speak 
 with her, for she questioned nothing, taking every- 
 thing as it came. It did not even occur to her — in 
 the novelty of the moment — to wonder whether 
 David had yet returned. 
 
 They came out under the horse-shoe arch into 
 a court with a tesselated floor. The walls of this 
 court were banded with broad red stripes. A cy- 
 press rose like an obelisk hewn from green-black 
 marble. At the centre of an octagonal sheet of 
 water, bedded in violets and primroses, a fountain 
 jet trembled like a silver flower. The slanting am- 
 ber light of the mid-afternoon laid the shadow of 
 the cypress across the fountain. 
 
 Astarte was delighted. This place was as charm- 
 ing as the court of the myrtles in the house of 
 Herod. Her whole nature cried out for many- 
 hued flowers, pretty pavements, the murmur of 
 artificially conducted water. The love of the soft 
 life of marble houses, with its assiduous care of the 
 beautiful body, its hectic excitements, its delicious, 
 sensuous idleness — the life of her mother, and of 
 her mother's mother, slave-dancers both — was in 
 her blood. She was as appropriate — physically and 
 mentally — to such a life as an elegant, fawn-col- 
 oured gazelle is appropriate to the chamber of a 
 Satrap's favourite. 
 
 "Oh!" she said, "look at the flowers!" 
 
 With a little laugh she scurried past Valerius, 
 dropped to her knees, and then let herself lapse 
 right down, lying at full length upon the violets and 
 primroses, her face dropped in them. As she drew 
 in the faint breath of the crushed violets her eyes
 
 128 REVELATION 
 
 closed as though the lips of a lover were against 
 hers. 
 
 A man's hands slipped beneath her arm; he 
 
 was raist-d, turned, and left -itting uprig! the 
 
 violet bed, a trifle surprised. 
 
 "Now we can talk.' Valerius. He had i 
 
 tended himself a foot or tv. an- 
 
 ing on his ell><>\v; and couched thus upon the 
 cular lawn of flowi a cynical imir. 
 
 tal reclining in the unchanging afternoon li|^ht 
 the Elysian Fields. 
 
 Behind them t! < -falling water murmur* 
 
 like a shell. 
 
 "Are J u with the man you vith?" 
 
 "Yes," said Astarte. 
 
 "1 )<« you live in t Hi ^ quartei 
 
 "Yes — quite near. \\ < d the where I 
 
 live as we came here. 1: 
 through an archway " 
 
 Astarte had an wered with the ui. in- 
 
 dour of a small child. But 
 
 spoken her brows wrinkled. She regarded the man 
 doubtfully. 
 
 Valerius laughed. 
 
 "Don't look so troubled. I won't give the order 
 to have the dovecote robbed — I'm not 1 
 slave-master. ... 1 wonder whether you know 
 that you're as beautiful as a godd' 
 
 His eyes looked straight into hers with a peculiar 
 effect of concentration, which I lilt of 
 
 practice, but behind his eyes his brain \. 
 . . . Beyond an archway opening upon this same 
 street was the lodging of the man who had wres- 
 tled with him, Valerius, on the night of the feast
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 129 
 
 and then escaped with the girl. That lodging should 
 be raided at nightfall. The man would be flogged 
 to death by his order; the girl carried back to the 
 house of Herod. But — in the meantime . . . 
 
 "Do you know just how beautiful you are?" he 
 asked again. 
 
 Of course Astarte knew. Dido had told her, call- 
 ing her "Lady of Beauty" from her tenth year ; 
 Dekerto had told her, Iris had told her, so had the 
 pock-marked soldier, and, lastly, David. And be- 
 cause she knew it she thirsted, consciously, for ap- 
 preciation as a droughty leaf for dew. 
 
 She smiled at the man, but said nothing. She 
 was enjoying herself immensely, taking what the 
 moment offered, as always. Her eager, life-hun- 
 gry senses, pleasurably appealed to by the smell of 
 violets, the fountain-murmur, the sex-look in the 
 steel-grey eyes, purred like a fondled cat. 
 
 "What do you want to speak with me about?" 
 she said after a lapse of several moments. "You 
 could have told me I was beautiful out there in the 
 street, if that was all." 
 
 She was almost laughing, sitting up straight, her two 
 hands pressed palm downward upon the flowers. 
 
 "If I had anything to say to you, I've forgotten 
 it. . . . As you see, I am looking at you." 
 
 Astarte laughed right out. 
 
 "Oh, you may look, if that's all." 
 
 She turned half round, lapsing down again ; and 
 lying so, almost upon her face, but with her hand 
 lifted, extended a bare arm and dabbled her ringers 
 in the octagonal fountain pool. To the nearness of 
 Valerius she was vividly alive, but her inarticulate 
 thought did not adventure beyond the immediate
 
 130 REVELATION 
 
 moment. As naturally as a plant turns to the sun. 
 she had always followed her impulse unless it was 
 thwarted by someone who held over her the whip 
 of fear. Fear, and her own pleasure — impulses — 
 were the only law she knew. The law of the 
 leopard, the gazelle, the painted butterfly — the law 
 of the average man and woman who invoked the 
 names of Jupiter, Isis, Artemis, Ishtar, or Bail. 
 
 A hand came upon her outflung arm. She turned 
 her head. 
 
 "You were well named." said Valerius. "If they 
 set you up in any temple you'd pass for a flesh and 
 blood goddess of love." 
 
 "Would 1 ? Then 1 wi h th< y would. ... I 
 should like to live in a temple, and have pet do' 
 and peacocks, and do as I pleased." 
 
 "I would be the first worshipper. ..." 
 
 Astarte knew that he was about to kiss her. She 
 did not exactly want him to do so, but she could 
 no more have turned her head aside or offered him 
 the least definite repulse than she could have al- 
 tered the colour of her hair or grown white wings. 
 
 The firm hand tightened upon her arm. Va- 
 lerius's lips were against hers. . . . 
 
 "Goddess!" said Valerius. 
 
 Quite inevitably their lips met again. . . . 
 
 "Aphrodite — I worship you !" 
 
 His voice was a trifle hoarse. . . . Not havine 
 consciously desired him, she wished now with a 
 certain amount of intensity that he would release 
 her, but knew instinctively that he would not. . . . 
 She did not return his kisses, but her cool lips re- 
 ceived them as a flower might have done — neither 
 seeking nor avoiding. . . .
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 131 
 
 IV 
 
 "You're divine," said Valerius. His voice was as cool 
 as a hearth on which are the ashes of an overnight 
 fire. 
 
 Astarte glanced at him, but uttered nothing. . . . 
 She was aware of resentment. 
 
 Valerius stooped, tilted her face upward, and 
 briefly and quite casually kissed her lips. 
 
 "We're good friends, aren't we?" he said. "I'd 
 waste an hour or two with you if I could, sweet- 
 heart, but I've certain matters to attend to. . . . 
 We must meet again sometime — I've a feeling that 
 we shall." 
 
 His lips twisted ever so slightly. She would be 
 lodged in the house of Herod that same night .... 
 He kissed her again — as carelessly as a man pats 
 a dog; tossed the corner of his purple-hemmed toga 
 across his shoulder, crossed the tesselated space 
 between the fountain and the horse-shoe arch with 
 an easy deliberateness, and so out of her sight 
 without even a turn of the head. . . . Astarte sat 
 alone. 
 
 The court was now in shadow, though the 
 upper half of the motionless cypress was still 
 bathed in light. The violets yielded a sense of 
 dampness now that the day-warmth was with- 
 drawn from them, and the mosaic stones of the 
 court-floor were death cold. The monotonous 
 murmur of the fountain seemed, somehow, regret- 
 ful, holding an intangible quality akin to tears. 
 Tap! 
 
 Something fell with a small, clean-cut distinct- 
 ness that startled. A fragment of mortar, perhaps.
 
 132 REVELATION 
 
 For the first time Astarte became really aware 
 of the parapeted roofs that overlooked the court 
 on four sides. They were irregular, sharp-cut 
 against the lapis-lazuli sky. She studied them for 
 some moments. ... A feeling of staleness, depres- 
 sion, and resentment against Valerius, begotten 
 by hurt vanity, possessed her. 
 
 She rose up, lifted her hands to her loose hair, i 
 
 A sound came to her — like the forcible pushing 
 inward of a heavy, sagging door, partially 
 wrenched from its hinges. Then the smart clatter 
 and light thud of bare and sandalled feet. 
 
 She lowered her hands, turning her face to the 
 horse-shoe arch as naturally as a deer turns its 
 pretty head towards a sound, but without a trace of 
 the deer's innate terror. 
 
 A dozen men burst from the interior dusk be- 
 yond the arch. It was like the tumultuous appear- 
 ance of wild beasts in an arena as the iron doors 
 open and the wolves, wild dogs and hyenas, jos- 
 tling each other, pour out. They were unsavoury- 
 appearing men, variously bearded; some stunted, 
 some coarse-built. 
 
 "There — there she is, brothers !" 
 
 In a moment Astarte was surrounded. She stood 
 up straight as a lily, with knit brows ; instinct- 
 ively a little afraid now, but not betraying it. The 
 men who ringed her numbered fifteen, one for each 
 year of her age, and there were boys also. 
 
 "Adulteress !" 
 
 "Gentile adulteress !" 
 
 "Daughter of a pig !" 
 
 Her wrists were seized by hands calloused from 
 flax-beating and mason's work. A cobbler spat upon
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 133 
 
 her, and the spittle moistened a strand of her hair. 
 
 "Bah ! Adulteress !" squealed a hunchback boy. 
 
 But Astarte did not understand. She was divided 
 between anger and fear. 
 
 There was a movement — a parting of the little 
 crowd. . . . She saw Naomi, the widow, whose yel- 
 low face was twitching. 
 
 "Ah-h! . . . Daughter of shame — daughter of 
 perdition ! Shame was your mother and Abomina- 
 tion was your father ! Oh, woe upon me — woe 
 upon my son — my David! . . . Oh, my boy — my 
 jewel — my blessing ! . . . Yes, you called me — your 
 mother-in-law — 'mule' to my face, but I saw you 
 go by with a Gentile — daughter of a harlot ! and I 
 followed you, and then, returning, gathered to- 
 gether the honest men of the neighbourhood, and 
 they will bear testimony to the adultery! . . . 
 'Mule,' am I? The honest wife of an honest hus- 
 band, at whom not a living soul can point a finger. 
 - . . You've bewitched my David, but they'll stone 
 you for this. Oh, they'll stone you!" 
 
 Her hands shook like those of a person with the 
 palsy, her face worked in such a manner that her 
 lips became impotent. 
 
 "Adulteress ! Gentile pig !" squealed the hunch- 
 back boy. 
 
 Now Astarte understood. . . . Because the 
 widow, who hated her, had caused these men and 
 boys to hate her, she — Astarte — was to be 
 stoned. . . . 
 
 The widow had disappeared — or at least she 
 caught no further glimpse of her. The two men 
 who held her by the wrists drew her forward with 
 a wrenching jerk. She shook her head to free her-
 
 134 REVELATION 
 
 self from the hair that feel across her face. Her 
 eyes were brilliant with fury and fear, but her lips 
 remained dumb. Under such circumstances a half- 
 bred dancing girl, purchased for so many pieces of 
 silver, stolen from a palace and threatened with 
 stoning, might have been expected to scream, 
 abuse, protest, become frantic and hysterical; but 
 in Astarte was a strain of Spartan blood, carrying 
 a capacity for silence in the face of terror. 
 
 She was under the horse-shoe arch now, and in 
 the dusk of the naked vestibule where the door- 
 ways gaped like up-ended coffins. The body-odour 
 of the two who hauled her forward between them, 
 and of those who went before and followed after, 
 offended her. But beneath every other perception 
 she was terrified, and this terror mounted very hor- 
 ribly, increasing upon her. Her heart beat in a way 
 that sickened her. . . . 
 
 Outside in the crooked street, where there had 
 been only the sightless beggar with his empty 
 terra-cotta saucer for charitable coins, there was a 
 momentarily augmenting crowd. 
 
 "There she is !" 
 
 "Bah! Shame on her!" 
 
 "Hussy !" 
 
 "Oh, the shameless thing!" 
 
 It was the women who cried out, their unbeauti- 
 ful, high-pitched voices similar to the sudden, hys- 
 terical cackle of hens. "Bah !" screamed the dirty, 
 sallow children, whose quick eyes were dark as 
 onyx. To them it was a wonderful experience to 
 insult unchecked — exhilarating, delicious. 
 
 "Stone her — stone the Gentile adulteress !"
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 135 
 
 A united shout went up from the ragged crowd 
 — men, women and children. 
 
 The uneven cobbles of the street were beneath 
 Astarte's sandals. She was hauled forward, the 
 centre of a cluster of men and boys. The hunch- 
 back shambled alongside, anxious to keep up with 
 the others. . . . She knew that they were passing 
 the tunnelled arch, and turned her head towards it. 
 Her blanched lips opened. 
 
 "David— David !" 
 
 If he had returned he might hear her and come 
 to her. He was so strong — like a young lion. . . . 
 
 "David!" 
 
 A burst of malignant cries spattered her. 
 
 "Shameless !" 
 
 "Stone her!" 
 
 The savage grip upon her wrists tightened. 
 
 She was past the arch now. . . . Hope died. She 
 faced that which was unfaceable, and it seemed to 
 her that fear ran in her veins instead of blood. Her 
 wide-eyed imagination shrieked out piercingly 
 against the thing it saw, recoiling, cowering, with 
 upthrown hands. Her mute lips trembled like those 
 of a person shaken by penetrating cold. . . . 
 
 "What's this? Where are you taking this girl?" 
 
 Directly in front of Astarte stood a blond, beard- 
 less young fellow. It was the Greek whom David 
 had brought home with him the night before — Cy- 
 mon. He had stopped short, speaking loudly, with 
 a sort of nervous bluntness. 
 
 The straggling crowd halted. The stone-mason 
 who grasped Astarte's right wrist answered him. 
 
 "She's an adulteress, and we're going to stone 
 her. Stand out of the way, you!"
 
 136 REVELATION 
 
 "He's a Gentile !" shouted a voice. 
 
 The crowd, compressed between the walls of the 
 street which would not permit more than five or six 
 men to pass abreast, made a unanimous forward 
 movement. 
 
 Cymon flung up an arm. His blue eyes blazed 
 like sapphires. 
 
 "Stop! Don't dare to take this girl a step far- 
 ther ! Where's her husband — you cowards ! 
 Where's David? I am his friend. You shall not 
 bring her a step farther until he comes!" 
 
 His worn-out sandals were mended with string 
 and the untrimmed nails of his hands were black 
 and broken, yet, at that moment, he might have 
 been a young patriot barring with a gesture the 
 path of an embattled host — a hero-figure from the 
 wonder-stories of his people, who had bound their 
 laurels about the white altar of liberty, upon which 
 had burned a divine and golden flame. 
 
 "Out of the way!" 
 
 "He insults the Law!" 
 
 "Pig!" 
 
 "Gentile !" 
 
 "Stone him also !" 
 
 A big negro — a convert to Judaism — shouldered 
 his way to the front. His eyes were red-lit like 
 a gorilla's, for his child-brain had reacted to the 
 spirit of the crowd, plunging him in unreasoning 
 ferocity. With a guttural fury-sound he drove 
 straight at Cymon. Cymon, underfed, overstrung, 
 barely matured, met him without the flicker of an 
 eyelash, striking first. But the grapple was only a 
 matter of moments. . . . The negro flung him, 
 very violently, to one side. His head struck the
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 137 
 
 street wall and he lay where he fell, making no 
 movement. The negro looked from side to side, 
 showing his perfect teeth in a genial grin of in- 
 fantile vanity. The crowd moved forward. 
 
 Astarte knew that she was walking, and that her 
 wrists were grasped, and that there were hostile 
 people on either side and behind her. Beyond these 
 three facts she was aware of scarcely anything 
 save her engrossing terror, which seemed to be an 
 actual physical part of her. . . . For the second 
 time those who held her halted, and she stood still, 
 looking straight before her without paying any at- 
 tention to what she saw, like one who has just been 
 informed of a sudden death, or who is recovering 
 from the effect of a stupefying drug. . . . There 
 were voices — questions, answers, argument. 
 
 Two men — one black-bearded, one grey-bearded 
 — stood together a pace or two away from those 
 who held Astarte. They were Pharisees, and nota- 
 ble Rabbis, both of them. As they spoke their eye- 
 lids were superciliously lowered like the insolent 
 eyelids of a camel, as became persons of such un- 
 questioned moral superiority. Also they kept very 
 carefully apart from those they spoke with to avoid 
 the contamination of any accidental contact. 
 
 "You say that this woman was taken in adultery, 
 and that you have witnesses who will bear testi- 
 mony to it?" 
 
 "Yes, master." 
 
 "Bring the woman to the Temple. . . . This is 
 not a matter for the rabble, but for the custodians 
 of the Law. . . . Follow us, and see to it that you 
 behave with propriety." 
 
 Astarte was walking again, but more slowly. . . .
 
 138 REVELATION 
 
 Her eyes told her that the two stoop-shouldered 
 figures — one short, one tall — who went ahead of 
 her, were clothed respectively in maroon-red and 
 in a drab shade of blue and that the white shawK 
 that covered their hands were fringed with tassels 
 of hyacinth-coloured wool, but the message seemed 
 meaningless. She ascended a street which climbed 
 by stone steps trodden hollow in the middle. It 
 was nearing the hour of sunset, and the ways that 
 zigzagged between walls, blind save for deep-set 
 doors or an occasional built-out window with 
 hinged lattice shutters, were sunless, though rosy 
 light dwelt upon the fortress towers of Herod the 
 Great, and upon the tops of the cypresses in the 
 gardens of the Roman governor. . . . Always she 
 seemed to ascend, and the unrelaxing grip upon her 
 wrists drew her up and on. She was as pale as the 
 bleached bones that lie out on the desert, but she 
 went with her head lifted as at the first. 
 
 They passed beneath the arch of a marvellously 
 proportioned gate of yellowish-white, red-veined 
 marble, surfaced like agate. Astarte understood 
 that she was crossing an evenly paved space of 
 great breadth. . . . Now she ascended three steps 
 and passed between columns of a semi-crystalline 
 appearance and of a pinkish colour. Above her 
 head was a roof hollowed out in small, dark blue 
 cupolas spangled with silver stars. Vase-shaped 
 glass lamps were suspended in rows beneath this 
 roof, but they had not vet been lighted. Those who 
 had hold upon her halted for the third time and, 
 suddenly, her knees gave way. She was down on 
 the pavement, her back rounded, her head dropped 
 forward. She felt physically sick, as a person does
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 139 
 
 who is about to faint, and a sort of granulated 
 blackness swam before her eyes. 
 
 "Master, this woman was taken in adultery not 
 an hour ago. There are witnesses who will answer 
 to it. . . . Now, in the Law, Moses commanded us 
 to stone such. . . . What is your judgment con- 
 cerning her?" 
 
 It was the eldest of the two Rabbis who spoke — 
 the taller, grey-bearded one. And as he spoke he 
 chafed his hands softly together. Behind his speech 
 his thought sat like a spider in a cranny: "If this 
 Galilsean heresy-monger — this impudent son of a 
 Nazareth carpenter — declares for mercy, it is a 
 blasphemy against the Law, and can be reported to 
 the Sanhedrin ; if he condemns the woman the bulk 
 of the rabble will turn against him, for the punish- 
 ment is obsolete." 
 
 At least a dozen heads covered with prayer- 
 shawls were inclined to catch the answer. Behind 
 the flax-beater and the stone-mason who held As- 
 tarte's wrists, the men and youths of the widow's 
 neighbourhood — subdued now, and a trifle overawed 
 — looked and listened; craning their necks, scratch- 
 ing themselves absent-mindedly, rubbing elbows 
 with each other as they stood beneath the spangled 
 cupolas of the colonnade. 
 
 Astarte was upheld solely now by the calloused 
 hands that still grasped her wrists. There was a 
 sound in her ears that was like the sound of the 
 sea, and everything was dark. . . . 
 
 Between the two Rabbis, yet a little apart from 
 them, stood the man who had entered the city that 
 morning riding upon a she-ass, and preceded by a
 
 140 REVELATION 
 
 crowd of pilgrims and poor folk carrying palm 
 branches. 
 
 "Who is he?" asked one of another in the rank- 
 smelling cluster behind the broad shoulders of the 
 stone-mason. 
 
 "It's the prophet, Jesus of Nazareth. He was in 
 our street two weeks ago, and cured Eli. and 
 Daniel, and the mother of Jethro. . . . Sh-h!" 
 
 "Master, what is your judgment concerning this 
 woman?" 
 
 The stoop-shouldered grey-beard with the trick 
 of softly rubbing his dry hands together repeated 
 his question. 
 
 The grumbling coo of the pigeons perching upon 
 the eaves of the colonnade under the saffron 
 was audible in the little waiting silence that fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Jesus of Nazareth raised hi 5, and turning 
 
 his head slightly looked in turn at each of those 
 who looked to him, waiting for him to speak. 
 
 "Let him who is without sin among you cast the 
 first stone at her." 
 
 He spoke with a very clear and level distinctness, 
 gravely. . . . 
 
 "Coo-coo-o," grumbled the white and mottled 
 pigeons sitting upon the eaves of the colonnade. 
 
 The grey-bearded, palm-chafing Rabbi, who, in 
 an earlier day had seduced — very secretly — the wife 
 of his friend, glanced down, sidelong, towards the 
 pavement. The muscular stone-mason dropped his 
 gaze, and fumbled with his free hand where his 
 open-fronted garment exposed the matted, curling 
 hair upon his chest. Before each man of the circle 
 stood a changing picture — little but vivid — of those
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 141 
 
 acts for which the animal in each was responsible. 
 And each was aware, also, of the passions which 
 had (been denied nothing save opportunity. . . . 
 The imperative, ever-beckoning- lure burned in the 
 blood of each one of those who would have bat- 
 tered out her life with stones and to its constrain- 
 ing each had yielded, and would yield again. . . . 
 
 There was a movement — a shuffling. A man, 
 passing between the pink, semi-crystalline columns, 
 descended the three steps that gave access to the 
 colonnade. Another followed him. The grey- 
 bearded Rabbi, whose hands were still folded one 
 over another as though in the act of chafing, gave 
 a small, dry cough, backing softly away. Once 
 clear of the circle he turned about, retreating with 
 a certain amount of dignity, as though in pursu- 
 ance of a previous plan. The stone-mason and the 
 flax-beater simultaneously released the wrists of 
 the girl, who fell forward upon her face as though 
 there were not a bone in her body. Wordlessly, 
 sheepishly, shamblingly the little crowd melted. 
 Clat . . . clat, clat . . . clat, clat — clat — clat — the 
 retreating sandals of the men and youths, of the 
 black-bearded Pharisee, and of the hunchback, 
 smote the three marble steps. 
 
 "Coo — coo-o," grumbled the pigeons under the 
 eaves of the cornice. Above them the sky was a 
 bland saffron from which emanated a magical, 
 shadowless light, softer than a caress. 
 
 Astarte lay face downward upon the pavement, 
 one arm bent under her, one arm outflung. She 
 was aware first of the coolness of the alabaster. 
 ... It seemed to her that she was prone upon a 
 bed of lilies, blandly chill. And she was conscious
 
 142 REVELATION 
 
 also of relief, as though something formless, yet 
 unbearable — oppressive as a mountain of granite — 
 had been lifted from her. . . . The impulse to open 
 her eyes, to raise herself and discover the place 
 where she was, came to her. 
 
 She flattened the palm of her outflung hand upon 
 the pavement, and the muscles of her arm tautened. 
 In a moment or two more she was sitting back 
 upon her heels, her pale face singularly limpid, 
 veiled in the cataract of her hair. 
 
 There were slender pink columns ab<>ut her of 
 great beauty, and above her the blue hollow of a 
 spangled cupola — like a dwarfed firmament. And 
 beyond the columns a beautiful spaciousness and a 
 noble gate tinted like ivory that has mellowed for 
 a hundred years. Doves grumbled, and under the 
 diffused light the marble and alabaster surfaces 
 seemed to glow mildly as from within. But there 
 was someone standing near her. She turned her 
 face. . . . 
 
 A kind of awe stole over her, permeating the 
 whole fabric of her consciousness, yet she was not 
 afraid. ... It seemed to her — inexpressibly — that 
 the columns, the smooth spaces of marble and the 
 great gate were only, as it were, a background, 
 burnished and harmonious, for the reality and sig- 
 nificance of this man who looked down on her. . . . 
 Sitting back on her heels, she gazed up at him be- 
 cause she could not do otherwise. It was wonder- 
 ful to look at him. 
 
 "Where are your accusers? Did no man con- 
 demn you?" 
 
 He had spoken to her. . . . Subconsciously she
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 143 
 
 understood his question. Automatically she an- 
 swered him. 
 
 "No man, Lord." 
 
 "Neither do I condemn you. Go your way ; from 
 henceforth sin no more." 
 
 A sudden rush of tears came to Astarte's eyes. 
 It was as though a sealed spring gushed for the 
 first time, and little fragile white flowers crowded 
 about it, and a dove moaned like the utterance of a 
 heart broken by pain and joy. She wanted to sink 
 right down and touch the feet of this man, but 
 could not. She had not known that such an emo- 
 tion as reverence existed, and love to her had meant 
 passion, capricious affection, or desire. . . . Obeying 
 him she rose up slowly, her eyes bright with the 
 tears she did not understand, and looked to him 
 mutely again, and then passed down the three 
 steps. 
 
 The bland sunset sky, which had begun to fade, 
 was above her head. The air held a slightly fever- 
 ish after-warmth, but the marble surfaces looked 
 cold now. She crossed the great court slowly. 
 There were people — coming and going, speaking 
 together— but she paid no attention to them. Pass- 
 ing under the gate she paused. A cripple sitting 
 with his back to a wall and his two withered legs 
 thrust out before him entreated charity in a whin- 
 ing sing-song that rose and fell with the advancing 
 or receding footsteps. Clip-clip-clop! The hoofs 
 of asses struck trippingly upon the paving-stones. 
 A spiritual condition, similar to that of one who 
 wakens from a dream to a totally strange world 
 in which he has no place at all, dawned in Astarte. 
 vShe shivered slightly, for her thin linen garment
 
 144 REVELATION 
 
 lent scarcely any warmth to her body. Where 
 could she go? . . . Three abiding places she had 
 known — the house of Bel-Xamri. the house of 
 Herod, the house of David. 
 
 David . . . He had kissed her on the e; nd 
 
 on the lips, but that was in the morning very early. 
 Years seemed to have passed since then. 
 
 She went forward again, because it seemed bet- 
 ter than to stand still and have men and women 
 stare at one as though their e; ere bewitched. 
 
 The night was coming. . . . When they o>uld not 
 see her distinctly they would not .... 
 
 She went on, taking her way always where there 
 was most obscurity. 
 
 It became entirely dark. Light gl 1 weakly 
 
 here and there through high-placed lattices. Fig- 
 ures bearing lanterns that shed a feeble radiance 
 passed her. She felt her way along the walls, pr< 
 ing her palms against them. Fetid odours lurked 
 like toads or wandered like jackals. On et de- 
 
 scended step by step like a staircase, and demanded 
 an extremity of caution, for it was . k as the 
 
 pit of a sealed well Vn oily yellow re- 
 
 vealed a square doorway openii Someone 
 
 laughed, and then several laughed together — 
 hoarsely, as men do who may draw their kni 
 on each other should a second word rowel them. 
 . . . Astarte came gradually out of the darkness to 
 the edge of this light. Here she paused. In a room 
 illumined by lighted wicks floating in sau> 
 filled with oil several men sat on low stools, or 
 stood leaning with their backs against the walls. 
 Green fig-leaves covered the mouths of a row of 
 amphoras. Suspended goatskin wine-bags had the
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 145 
 
 appearance of aborted and distended animal car- 
 casses, and their grotesque shadows sprawled on the 
 ceiling. One of the seated men was the pock- 
 marked soldier. His silver earrings glinted as he 
 threw back his head, drinking from a terra-cotta 
 bowl. . . . Astarte turned. The glow that had 
 filled her eyes for about a minute rendered the 
 darkness blacker than a gulf of pitch. She took 
 four or five steps and stumbled, her knees failing 
 her. Her outstretched hand encountered a door, 
 which yielded, opening inward with a grating 
 sound, and she fell forward across the stone thresh- 
 old. . . . Some moments passed. Light fell upon 
 her face from a hand-lamp that was held above her. 
 Someone spoke, exclaiming. . . . An arm was 
 passed beneath her shoulders and she was half- 
 raised. She opened her eyes. An ague-like shiv- 
 ering took her and her teeth chattered. She saw 
 a smooth cheek upon which specks of gold-dust 
 glittered. Thin bangles jingled as the girl who 
 supported her shifted her arm a trifle. A fragrance 
 like that of orange-blossom was in her nostrils. 
 Someone else spoke, and then the door grated again 
 as it was pushed shut. . . . Astarte was in the 
 house of Salome, the harlot. 
 
 Dinah lay on her left side upon a mattress, and her 
 breath came in regular, low grunts. A midwife 
 sat on the floor beside her. Rama stood looking 
 at the woman on the mattress, her delicate brows 
 knitted with reflected distressfulness. Dinah had 
 been taken with pains at midday, and it was now
 
 146 EVELA1 [( i 
 
 late afternoon. . . . She wondered how soon 
 child would be born. 
 
 A whimper came to her. She turned instantly. 
 raised the dingy doorway curtain, and \ I bare- 
 footed into the next room. Tobias was curled up 
 puppy-like on a pillow, lie was still a 
 whimpered un< 
 
 nipped him more sharpl) than usual Kama went 
 quietly over to the built-out wind 
 hinged lattice was open. 
 
 An abrupt outcry -truth the ear, undisting 
 able, but venomous. And then the murmur of a 
 
 .vd. . . . Rama Eelt the ui 
 Tobias was asleep -at that moment he had no n< 
 of her. Shi i cd the matted fl< 
 her sandals, which wen- on the threshol 
 
 tided the naked stair, ai 
 court. 'I here was m ' □ a dog in it. The deli- 
 
 cate foliage of the la hung lifi 
 
 across to the arch and paused there i:i I 
 shadow of it, looking first up and then down 
 street. 
 
 Ah! here was the crowd— € ming round tl 
 elbow where the street bent. Tl. 
 between two men. . . . 
 
 Kama's hand went to her heart. S ir- 
 
 ther out. . . . What had happens 
 
 They were quite near now. She knew the t\ 
 men — one was a stone-mason and the other .t 
 beater. They held the girl by the wrist-. Her 
 wonderful hair was unbound, her perfect face I 
 bloodless. . . . Rama's thought leapt to David. Any 
 trouble which visited this Gentile girl would strike 
 poignantly at him. She was conscious of an anx-
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 147 
 
 ious qualm of anticipatory pain. . . . From the 
 doorway at the head of the flight of steps — she had 
 marvelled at the Gentile dancer as one marvels at 
 goldsmith's work set with jasper and jacinths. But 
 she was alien as a creature brought from a far 
 country, and equally unexpected in speech and ac- 
 tion. Rama had never resented her as the widow 
 did. She looked at her, spoke with her sometimes, 
 but did not understand her. And all the time there 
 was a dull feeling in her breast — like the sensation 
 which follows an injury. 
 
 The stone-mason, the flax-beater, and the dishev- 
 elled girl had reached the arch. Rama drew back 
 a step. She saw the girl turn her head. 
 
 "David— David !" And then, "David 1" 
 
 It was a cry for help. 
 
 Instantly there was a clamour of voices. 
 
 "Stone her !" squealed a hunchback, shambling by 
 at a kind of trot. 
 
 The hand which Rama had caught against her 
 breast contracted. . . . The crowd hurried past — 
 men and women and half-grown children and a dog 
 or two. Most of them she knew by sight or name. 
 . . . She did not understand, but was filled with 
 terror. Perhaps she should follow them to see 
 what was done. 
 
 She stood beneath the arch, uncertain. There 
 seemed to be a halt, more outcries, raucous with 
 anger, and then diminishing sounds. . . . Presently 
 she again looked out and along the street. At some 
 distance, what might have been a corpse or the 
 fallen body of someone stricken with sickness lay 
 at the foot of the wall. 
 
 Rather like a tentatively venturing roe deer
 
 148 REVELATION 
 
 Rama emerged from the protective shadow. . . . 
 Bending forward she looked timidly into the up- 
 turned face of Cymon, who was still unconscious, 
 for the big-muscled negro convert had handled him 
 with the insensate violence of a man-ape frothing at 
 the mouth. At one side of his head the fair hair 
 was matted with blood. 
 
 Rama recognized him. Several times she had 
 seen him with David — David's arm about his shoul- 
 ders, their heads close together as they talked in 
 low voices, earnestly. She knew him to be David's 
 dearest friend — the neighbours spoke constantly of 
 it as a crying scandal. He, like Astarte, was a 
 Gentile. ... It seemed to her that the whole 
 neighbourhood had turned against David. The 
 sight of his friend, unconscious, his fair hair matted 
 with blood, hurt her almost as pitifull hough 
 
 he himself lay at her feet. Soon a might come 
 
 this way, or laden mules, and tread him underfoot ; 
 or the crowd, returning, might finish what th 
 had begun. . . . Obeying an impulse, she stooped, 
 and laying hold of his lax arm began to drag him 
 painfully towards the arch. And as she dragged at 
 his dead weight it seemed to her that this was 
 David whom she was rescuing from further injury 
 in the person of his dearest friend. 
 
 In the shadow she paused, trembling in every 
 fibre from the exertion, her forehead damp. It 
 occurred to her that the house-court was scarcely 
 safer for him than the street, and she could not 
 draw him up the steps to the room behind the two- 
 leaved door. There remained only the curtained 
 den where the widow cooked — which was out of all 
 question — and a similar lair opening upon the oppo-
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 149 
 
 site side of the court, where, during the last week, 
 no one had slept. 
 
 Everything was quiet as a sepulchre. Tobias, 
 evidently, was still asleep. Drawing a long breath 
 Rama began to drag and pull again. . . . As soon as 
 the patched blanket that masked the doorway was 
 between herself and the court, she relaxed, leaning 
 against the cold, bare wall. Cymon's inertness lay 
 squarely upon the floor. His eyes were partly 
 open, as is the case in death. Was he, perhaps, 
 dead? . . . The girl bent down and laid her hand, 
 shrinkingly, upon his bare chest. . . . No, the heart 
 seemed, very faintly, to beat. . . . When David 
 returned she would tell him. 
 
 Voices — the widow's voice. . . . Rama checked 
 herself in the act of lifting the blanket to pass out. 
 They might wonder what business she had there — 
 They might even see the Greek. No other aspect 
 of her situation occurred to her — she was aware 
 only that she was rendering service to David. In 
 the blanket there was a rent through which she 
 could see the widow's doorway, and the flight of 
 steps, and the arch. . . . 
 
 The widow was supported by two women. She 
 turned her head from side to side, speaking first to 
 one and then to the other. Rama could not hear 
 what she said, but she saw how the widow's rheu- 
 matic hands gestured in a helpless way. 
 
 There was a low sound — a moan. . . . Cymon's 
 head moved. 
 
 "Where " he said in a faint voice. "What " 
 
 "Sh-h!" said Rama, down on her knees beside 
 him.
 
 150 REVELATION 
 
 "But I must know where I am — what happened. 
 . . . Oh, gods! my head. . . .'' 
 
 For some moments Rama remained mute. He 
 had seemed as inanimate and impersonal as a block 
 of wood — this friend of David's whom she had 
 dragged to shelter with such extreme difficulty — 
 but now he was conscious ... a blonde young 
 man who looked up at her, his brow furrowed with 
 pain. She felt acutely embarrassed — guilty, also, 
 for he was a Gentile. Yet he was David's friend. 
 . . . She spoke in a whisper. 
 
 "I saw you lying in the street. David is our 
 neighbour — I knew you were his friend, so I 
 brought you here. But you must be careful, and 
 be very quiet until David comes. No one knows 
 you are here, and they — they might harm you if 
 they knew." 
 
 "The crowd. . . . Yes, I remember — a negro 
 came at me. . . . Why would they harm me now?" 
 
 "Because . . . because you're a — a Gentile." 
 
 "I see. . . . Then why did yon take the trouble to 
 bring me here?" 
 
 "You're David's friend. ..." 
 
 "Oh ... I see." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "My head feels as though someone had split it 
 open with an axe. . . . Will David soon be here?"' 
 
 "Yes — I think so. It must be nearly sunset." 
 
 "Are you related to David — cousin, or anything 
 of that kind?" 
 
 "No. I am Rama, the daughter of Saul." 
 
 Another silence. Rama rose up and looked again 
 through the rent in the blanket. A bland and beau-
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 151 
 
 tiful light, reflected from the saffron sky, dwelt 
 upon everything — the age-stained walls, the acacia- 
 tree, the refuse heap. Somewhere a pigeon said 
 queryingly, "Coo-coo-o." The widow and her two 
 supporters were by the widow's doorway. Their 
 blended voices resembled the subdued babble of a 
 querulous brook. Rama's ever-anxious thought 
 turned to Tobias and Dinah. To her backbone she 
 was conscientious, selfless, maternal. 
 
 Coming quickly from beneath the arch David en- 
 tered the court. 
 
 Rama's heart gave a great throb that struck 
 through her like a stab of pure pain. ... In his 
 long linen garment, with the broad scarf upon his 
 shoulders fringed with tassels of hyacinth wool, he 
 was handsomer than the son of a king — the poise 
 and turn of his dark head was regal, triumphant. 
 Pain — whose full significance she did not realize — 
 constricted Rama's breast. 
 
 There was a long, quavering wail, in which two 
 other unwearied voices joined. Then a tearing 
 sound — the widow, assisted by her two neighbours, 
 one of whom slashed the hem for her with a knife, 
 had rent her outer garment from top to bottom. 
 
 "Oh, woe upon me — woe upon us both !" 
 
 "Mother! Astarte— is she dead?" 
 
 That panther-leap — that incredulous, agony- 
 wrung cry. He had caught the old woman by the 
 wrist. 
 
 Rama locked her hands together, twisting them, 
 though she was unconscious that she did it. 
 
 "Dead, do you say? It would be better for us if 
 she had never been born ! She bewitched you — my
 
 152 REVELATICT 
 
 jewel, my heart's pride — the daughter of devils, the 
 shameless adulteress !" 
 
 The widow's voice cracked. 
 
 "What do you mean 
 
 Rama heard the four words as distinctly as 
 though she were at his elb< 
 
 A man had entered the court — Dinah's husband. 
 A woman looked down from the window with the 
 wooden shutter, and — drawn by some instinct — a 
 handful of listeners had gathered under the arch. 
 
 "David, my son, it is hard for a mother to speak 
 the shame of it. She has dishoi. u with a 
 
 Gentile — the neighbours can testify to it. Me she 
 called a mule — and now this scandal is upon my 
 head! But thcy\ ned her. Tht stoned 
 
 her, David " 
 
 "Stoned her! ... In the name of the living God 
 —is this the truth?" 
 
 He had faced hah" round, seeming to speak to 
 everyone who heard him. His mother's wrist he 
 had dropped as though it burnt him. lie :-eemed 
 taller by an inch or more than his actual height. 
 
 "Yes, they have stoned her. ... I passed them 
 in the street of the butchers as they were taking 
 her to the gate." 
 
 It was the husband of Dinah who answered him 
 — a slow-spoken man, dour, and as uncompromis- 
 ing as a Pharisee in many \va; 
 
 There was an affirmative mutter from the 
 shadows of the arch. 
 
 "Murderers ! Wolves ! Dogs lapping the blood 
 of the innocent !" 
 
 His quivering upflung arm seemed to appeal to
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 153 
 
 the lightnings of heaven. His brows were con- 
 tracted like those of a man upon the rack. 
 
 "You hated her from the first, all of you, be- 
 cause she was not of your blood! So you spawn 
 in your festering minds this monstrous lie, and wait 
 until she is undefended — and set upon her like a 
 jackal pack! A helpless girl — a stranger — my wife! 
 May the curse of God sear each one of you who 
 raised his hand against her! May his vitals rot, his 
 children perish, and his name be blotted out ! From 
 henceforward my mother has no son. I renounce 
 you — all of you ! — rats gnawing the dry husks of 
 the Rabbis — crows croaking above the middens of 
 your neighbour's sins — blood-lusting wolves that 
 hunt only in packs ! I go to the man whom your 
 Rabbis have rejected because they would reject God 
 himself unless He came quibbling and mouthing 
 like a Pharisee — the Man of whom the prophets 
 spoke, and who will enter this city on a white 
 horse, with the sceptre of Solomon bringing the 
 kingdom of God!" 
 
 He might himself have been a young prophet, 
 rent by agony and exultation, and trembling like a 
 flame of fire. With a swift, fierce, final gesture he 
 flung out his hands. . . . There was a shuffling 
 under the arch as those who had stood there backed 
 away. David turned, and without a glance at his 
 mother, or at the husband of Dinah, or at any there, 
 passed straight out of the court ; and it was like the 
 passing of the wind of the desert upon whose brow 
 is fire and whose path is desolation. 
 
 Rama heard herself sob. Her face was wet with 
 tears. 
 
 "Is David there? I thought I heard his voice.
 
 154 REVELATION 
 
 but my head throbs so — like a dozen hammers — 
 that I can't be sure." 
 
 Cymon spoke rather faintly from the floor. 
 
 Rama sank to her knees. 
 
 "David — has gone," >he said. came — just 
 
 now. They told him, and he — he cursed them. . . . 
 He will never come back." 
 
 "The brute-!" said Cymon. "The skulking cow- 
 ards! . . . Do you know whether this girl v 
 really guilty?" 
 
 "No. ... J know nothing." 
 
 "Probably she was. Hut to drag her away like a 
 heifer to the shambles without his knowledge! . . . 
 And now he's gone, you say?" 
 
 "Yes. . . . To — to this new prophet, 1 think he 
 said." 
 
 "I know who you mean. . . . Oh, David, David! 
 If you had listened to me 1 could have spared you 
 this!" 
 
 He spoke like one who groan> in spirit, uttering 
 his thought aloud. The hurt that lav behind the 
 words was unmistakabh . 
 
 Rama put her hands over her face and began to 
 sob suddenly in a hopeless way. Her slight body 
 shook. 
 
 "What " 
 
 With a grunt of pain Cymon raised himself until 
 he sat up, holding his bowed head between his 
 hands. 
 
 "Why are you crying?" 
 
 "He — he will not come back." 
 
 "Is that the trouble? . . . Did you love him?" 
 
 "There is no one — no one like him. . . . He is — 
 wonderful. Like the son of a king. ..."
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 155 
 
 Rama answered him in a faint, shaken voice, be- 
 tween great sobs, and with the utter simplicity of a 
 soul lucid as a tear. She had never put her con- 
 ception of David into words before, had never even 
 thought of him articulately, but the wave of an- 
 guished feeling that had broken upon her dumb 
 heart swept her beyond embarrassment and her 
 habitual shy and patient silence. Large tears 
 slipped between her fingers. Her whole inner be- 
 ing seemed to be dissolving in an aching sense of 
 desolation, like a pearl in bitter vinegar. 
 
 "I'm . . . I'm very sorry for you. ... It would 
 have been better for him if he had taken you in- 
 stead of the other." 
 
 Outside in the house-court, under the fading 
 sunset sky, the widow sat upon the lowest of the 
 flight of steps, rocking herself to and fro. 
 
 "Oh, my boy — my David. . . . Where is my 
 David? ... I have no son. ..." 
 
 It was a monotonous plaint, monotonously re- 
 peated. 
 
 A cluster of women spoke together, low-voiced, 
 as though in the presence of grievous sickness, or 
 of a calamity too great to be fully realized until it 
 had been discussed from every angle. Ordinarily 
 at this time they would have been busied with the 
 preparation of food, and the widow's cakes baked 
 with oil for her son's evening meal have been fit 
 to take from the oven. 
 
 It was dark behind the patched blanket. Rama's 
 sobs lessened. 
 
 "I must get out of here," said Cymon. "I — I 
 want to thank you. I'm grateful. Hullo ! What's 
 that?"
 
 156 REVELATION 
 
 Tramp — tramp. . . . Thock ! The grounding of 
 spear-butts. . . . The squeal of a woman. 
 
 Valerius stood on the threshold of the court 
 wrapped in a Roman military cloak. Behind him 
 was an armed guard, lantern bearers, and a pair of 
 brawny scourgers. . . . Within an hour Astarte 
 would be lodged in the house of Herod, and the 
 man who had stolen her, chained naked to the iron 
 rings of a scourging-pillar, would writhe out his 
 life under the loaded whips as the blood that 
 spurted from his torn body formed a widening pool 
 at the pillar-foot. 
 
 "Search this place. Clean out every rat-hole." 
 
 "There are soldiers in the court!" said Rama. 
 
 Cymon was on his feet now. 
 
 "Paid man-killers!" he said, between his teeth. 
 "Tyrants' tools! . . . What's the meaning of it?" 
 
 Up and down flights of steps went Herod's mer- 
 cenaries, driving doors inward with a thrust of the 
 shoulders, ripping curtains aside, and bundling 
 men, women and children out into the open. 
 
 A hand gripped the blanket. . . . 
 
 "Out of here, you two !" said a coarse voice. 
 
 Cymon went first, his throbbing head well up, 
 seeming to defy fate, power and all vested au- 
 thority, though he was deadly white from loss of 
 blood. Rama was badly frightened. She half ex- 
 pected a butchery, or that they should all be sold 
 for slaves. Such things happened. 
 
 "The birds have flown," said Valerius, after a 
 quick, contemptuous survey. "This trash is of no 
 use to me. They can go back to their rat-holes." 
 
 He gave an order and the mercenaries filed out 
 of the court. His two negro body-servants held
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 157 
 
 lanterns for him as he |passed under the arch. 
 
 There was still sufficient light — save in the deep 
 shadows — to distinguish one from another, though 
 the sky was ashen. 
 
 "Who is this man?" 
 
 Rama turned. It was her brother-in-law who 
 had spoken to her. He was looking at Cymon. 
 
 "He is David's friend. I — I saw him lying in the 
 street. ..." 
 
 She hesitated. It had seemed as natural to suc- 
 cour David's dearest friend as to draw breath ; but 
 her brother-in-law would not understand — she 
 knew instinctively that he would not. She seemed 
 to be the centre of a circle that looked curiously 
 at her, as though she were a stranger. 
 
 From an upper room came the fretful voice of a 
 waking child. It was Tobias, peevish and hungry 
 — she must comfort him! But her brother-in-law 
 stayed her, holding her by the arm. 
 
 "There has been overmuch trafficking with Gen- 
 tiles in this house. . . . We have all seen — you 
 cannot cover shame with words. . . . Go to him." 
 
 Rama's dark eyes — shaped like those of an ante- 
 lope — widened with an utterly incredulous terror. 
 
 "But — but I have done nothing! Oh, please let 
 me go to Tobias — he's awake." 
 
 "Go to the Gentile who has led you away as the 
 Gentile woman led away David, the son of Simeon 
 and Naomi. There is no place for you here." 
 
 "It's a lie — a vile lie! I've never laid a finger 
 upon the girl. It's an outrage upon her and insult 
 to me!" 
 
 Cymon was furious. 
 
 Rama's world had shivered into a score of frag-
 
 158 REVELATION 
 
 tnents like a dropped water-jar. She stood help- 
 lessly, her two slim hands against her breast, while 
 the frightened tears ran down her cheek. 
 
 "I have done nothing. . . . Dinah needs me — 
 and Tobias. . . . Please let me go t<> them." 
 
 "Go to the Gentile. If we make a covenant with 
 sin the curses of the Law will be upon our heads. 
 Go, both of you." 
 
 Not one of those present uttered a word. The 
 husband of Dinah was as highly respected a 
 Rabbi on account of his uncompromising attitude, 
 his knowledge of the Talmud, and his practice of 
 fasting twice a week. 
 
 Rama turned very slowly, her helpless tears fall- 
 ing like rain. Like one who walks in his .sleep she 
 went towards the arch. All her short life she had 
 obeyed — docile to authority as a domestic animal. 
 Her brother-in-law, who ruled Dinah and herself, 
 had told her to go, and therefore she must go. . . . 
 
 C'ymon was even more enraged than he had been 
 when he bearded the crowd that held Astarte. 
 
 "This is inhuman — worse than tyranny! Have 
 you no hearts to feel — no minds to reason with? 
 
 u turn this girl — this child — into the street 
 mere suspicion! Gods! it's not wonderful that 
 David broke with you — I don't know how he 
 breathed the same air for so long! May you — 
 every one of you — suffer as you are causing this 
 girl to suffer — that's my last word!" 
 
 They heard him stumble as he groped his way 
 under the arch, and so out. . . . 
 
 Rama had gone a little distance and then leant 
 against the wall, sobbing like a creature mortally 
 hurt. This terrible sobbing seemed to be the only
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 159 
 
 sound in the dusk-filled street. After a longish, 
 distressed pause Cymon spoke to her. 
 
 "If you hadn't hidden me this would never have 
 happened. It's owing to me that you are in this 
 trouble, though, as you know, I am not to blame 
 for it. . . . You have nowhere to go — I haven't 
 much to offer, but if you will trust me you can 
 share what I have. ... A place to sleep — and 
 something to eat. ... I swear to you, by the 
 ashes of my father, that you will be safe with me." 
 
 He saw after a moment or two that she was in- 
 capable of a decision — incapable of anything save 
 racking sobs. He took her by the arm — awkwardly, 
 gently. She did not resist him. . . . 
 
 A little later Cymon sat on the roof that was 
 above the potter's yard, his elbow on the low para- 
 pet, his chin on his palm. The night was starless — 
 like a black tent. He was no longer alone — he was 
 responsible for the food and shelter and safety of 
 an immature slip of a girl, with smooth olive 
 cheeks and the anxious dark eyes of an instinctive 
 mother, who lay huddled upon his ancient mattress, 
 exhausted with weeping. He stared into the dark- 
 ness of the night. His head ached dully. . . . 
 What a frantic, endless struggle it all was ! — and 
 as meaningless, apparently, as a dog fight. Why 
 should this girl, who was still a child, and as harm- 
 less as a little heifer, be tortured by blind circum- 
 stance as a criminal is tortured on the rack? And 
 David had been betrayed by his pathetic, ungovern- 
 able love. ... As for himself he, who had fore- 
 sworn everything female, had a battered head for 
 defending an adulteress and an outcast girl upon 
 his hands. It was certainly humorous. . . . Oh,
 
 160 REVELATION 
 
 gods! how his head ached! Propping both his el- 
 bows on the parapet, he pressed the palms of his 
 hands against his temples. . . . There was no sound 
 from the girl. He hoped she had fallen asleep. It 
 
 would do her good. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The rim of a round cup was set to Astarte's lips. 
 She opened her lips and tasted wine. It ran through 
 her like liquid warmth — like life. She sat up 
 straight, and the arm that had supported her shoul- 
 ders was withdrawn. 
 
 A lamp sat on the floor in its own circle of light. 
 On one side was a built-out window, inset with lat- 
 tice-work. A bright red mattress, very new, was 
 beneath Astarte, and a girl knelt beside her. As- 
 tarte recognized this girl. 
 
 "You came to me in the street," she said. "You 
 spoke to the soldiers. ..." 
 
 "Of course I did — the dirty swine ! . . . How do 
 you feel now?" 
 
 "Better. ... I don't remember just what hap- 
 pened." 
 
 "You fainted — right on our threshold. We found 
 you there, my mother and I. . . . That fellow on 
 the black stallion — that — Roman — has he ill-treated 
 you?" 
 
 Astarte looked into the girl's sympathetic 
 painted eyes. . . . She was speaking of Valerius — 
 yes, it was Valerius whom she meant. . . . Sud- 
 denly Astarte put her hands over her face and be- 
 gan to weep, and this weeping shook her body. 
 
 The girl clasped her in her arms, rocking her to 
 and fro as though she were a small child.
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 161 
 
 "There — there. . . . Don't tell me anything then ! 
 . . . Don't cry. Hush, hush. ..." 
 
 Presently Astarte ceased weeping, and the girl 
 offered her bread and a cake of raisins. The weep- 
 ing had rendered her hungry, and she ate, and felt 
 better for having eaten. 
 
 "My name is Salome," said the girl. "What is 
 your name?" 
 
 "Astarte." 
 
 "Have you nowhere to go?" 
 
 "I— I think not." 
 
 "Then you shall stay with me — you shall be my 
 sister." 
 
 She clasped Astarte in her arms again with some- 
 thing of the passion of a mother hugging a child. 
 Her skin and her raiment both seemed impregnated 
 with the orange-blossom fragrance. 
 
 When the lamp was extinguished and Astarte lay 
 alongside Salome upon the mattress, she did not 
 sleep, but remained with open eyes, thinking. She 
 seldom consciously thought — sensations, emotions, 
 actions had been the stuff of her life. . . . 
 
 She understood that the man in white raiment 
 in the place of the blue and silver cupolas had 
 saved her from being stoned. . . . Her eyes rilled 
 with tears as they had done when she sat looking 
 up at him. It seemed to her that to sit at his feet 
 would be like couching in unstirred grass strewn 
 with flowers at the foot of a refuge-place where 
 the tempests folded their wings. . . . "Neither do 
 I condemn you." He did not hate her like the 
 others, the men and boys and the widow. . . . Did 
 David hate her now? She knew instinctively that 
 his single-hearted passion for her and her self-sur-
 
 162 REVELATION 
 
 render to Valerius were incompatible. If they had 
 told him he must surely hate her. . . . And she 
 wanted him! She wanted to lie in his arms, their 
 T ips pressed together, the care, and worship, and 
 rapture of his love flattering her exquisitely. 
 
 She turned half over, flinging out an arm that 
 seemed to seek. 
 
 "David. . . . David. . . ." 
 
 It was a broken murmur. 
 
 Her throat contracted, hurting her. Tears welled 
 up, wetting the cushion that was beneath her cheek. 
 There was a dull, craving ache in her breast, 
 was as ignorant of any sense of guilt as a lithe 
 forest creature ; but she suffered as such a creature 
 might, who, going soft-footed through the wild 
 places, instinct-led, set its velvet paw in a trap and 
 is gripped by the steel teeth and held. 
 
 Beside her Salome slept serenely, but tl 
 in Astarte's breast became unbearable. . . . To 
 ease it she crouched again in spirit at the feet of 
 the man who had saved her. There was resl at his 
 feet, and refuge. 
 
 £ $ * * 
 
 When David left the house-court he went blindly, 
 conscious only of the mental agony that dizzied 
 him — urging him forward as a merciless spur urges 
 a shuddering horse. . . . They had stoned her. 
 She was dead — mangled. . . . The colour of blood 
 swam before him. It would be such exquisite satis- 
 faction — such relief to kill. If his two hands were 
 only upon one of those who had taken her ! Strength 
 surged through him like an elemental force. Rut 
 he must find her — he must! That was the first, the 
 most imperative need. They would have taken her
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 163 
 
 outside the city. ... It was growing dark. He 
 walked as one seems to walk in a nightmare — 
 rapidly, yet without knowing which direction to 
 take. He was unable to think connectedly or to 
 formulate any definite plan for his seeking — the 
 agony had been too sudden and too great ; and his 
 case was little better than that of a somnambulist 
 driven by an incredibly hideous dream. He spoke 
 to at least a score of people, but they did not seem 
 to understand. . . . Walls barred his way or con- 
 fronted him unexpectedly. He climbed slopes, de- 
 scended hollows, crossed open spaces. Several 
 times he called her name. . . . They had planned 
 to take bread and olives, and go out together into 
 the spring — to see the new green leaves of the fig- 
 trees in the gardens below the city that were fertil- 
 ized by the blood of the sacrifices ; and the fragile 
 white briar roses spreading hither and thither over 
 the stony ground. . . . 
 
 He uttered an inarticulate sound, like a man 
 sharply injured, and became conscious of the place 
 where he was. The dark, sprawling shapes of non- 
 descript, tent-like shelters were on either hand, 
 for he was in a ragged, outer fringe of the walled 
 city. Furtive dogs slunk jackal-like with intucked 
 tails. Here and there was the licking glimmer of 
 a hearth-flame, rubbish-fed. Something pallid 
 seemed to lie prostrate upon the earth. . . . Was 
 it the body of a girl in a white linen garment? 
 
 David's soul withered within him. He went for- 
 ward as though drawn by devil's cords. A pebble 
 turned under the foot of a skulking dog. Oh, God! 
 He gritted his teeth together in order to remain 
 silent. . . . But the pallid thing was only the pros-
 
 164 RE\ ELATION 
 
 trate headstone of a grave, white-washed so that 
 the passer-by might notice and avoid it, and 
 escape unconscious defilement. lie went on past 
 it, the horror still seated in his soul. ... It came 
 to him with an immeasurably desolate, nightmarish 
 certainty that he should never find her — that t! 
 had buried her immediately in some unmarked pit 
 or hollow, and then hidden away rat-like from 
 his vengeance in the black crannies of the intrii 
 city. I!': could have sobbed aloud in his furi 
 impotence as this conviction fastened upon him. . . . 
 
 Opposite, across the Valley of the Kidron, th^ 
 darker darkness of the long M<>unt of Oli 
 loomed. Jesus of Nazareth lodged there nightly 
 beneath the two ancient cedar-trees that cr< 
 it. One of his followers, Simon Bar-Jona, a Gali- 
 laean fisherman, had told him so. . . . lie was the 
 Deliverer, the Mi ah. the Holy One of Israel, and 
 the empire of God was certainly at hand. The illu- 
 mination which had come while the country folk 
 streamed past carrying palm-branches had b< 
 confirmed through the long, golden afternoon when 
 David, one of the inner circle of listeners, I tod 
 
 close to the man who was reputed to be the son of 
 a carpenter of Nazareth : hearing his statements, 
 which were simple, graphic, yet delivered with 
 serene and absolute authority, conscious of the in- 
 communicable influence of his personality, which 
 some might resent with a kind of angry fear, and 
 others bend their knees to, yet none could ignore. . . 
 
 The memory of those rapt afternoon hours shone 
 like a mellow lamp-flame in a place of horrible 
 darkness. . . . Behind him lay the city like a 
 gloomy cloud pricked here and there with needle-
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 165 
 
 points of light that were yellow like the lidless eyes 
 of adders, and now his bloodless face was set 
 towards the Mount of Olives. 
 
 A breathing of wind, soft with the strange, 
 fevered mildness of the spring, sighed through the 
 budding willows that fringed the brook, Kidron, at 
 the bottom of the valley. The dew of sweat on 
 David's forehead was as icy cold as moisture on 
 the brow of the dead. He began to climb the slopes 
 of the hill, encompassed by the starless darkness 
 against which the crowding olive-trees were a 
 denser obscurity. ... It was almost pleasurable 
 to stumble over stones, to put aside branches that 
 whipped the face, to gasp for difficult breath with 
 a taste of blood in one's mouth — it was a species of 
 relief. 
 
 The light of a little fire kindled upon the ground 
 showed through the small-leaved foliage of the 
 gnarled olive-trees. Four men sat about it. A 
 water-gourd, evidently empty, lay on its side, and 
 one of them was munching bread. David came 
 into the light of the fire. The men looked up at 
 him. 
 
 "I have come to join you," said David. "Where 
 is the Master?" 
 
 His voice was level, but curiously toneless. 
 
 One of the four got up. It was the fisherman, 
 Simon Bar-Tona. He was a shortish, sturdily-built 
 man with a beard, very tanned ; of a leonine breadth 
 across the brow, with nervous, well-modelled 
 nostrils, and dark eyes that were filled with a quick 
 life. 
 
 "You're welcome," he said. "Didn't you speak to 
 me this afternoon? , . . The Master is yonder"—
 
 166 REVELATION 
 
 he indicated the crest of the hill that rose behind 
 them — "speaking with God. . . . He will be with 
 us soon." 
 
 David sat down, his body ^ent 'forward, his 
 elbows resting on his knees. They offered him 
 bread, but he shook his head slightly, refusing it. 
 He stared at the fire, and now his body ached all 
 over as though he had been beaten. The others 
 spoke among themselves. There was Simon ; an- 
 other fisherman named Andrew ; a slim, dark lad 
 of sixteen or seventeen, whom they called John, 
 and whose face — the skin clear olive, the lips ex- 
 quisitely cut, was of a singular beauty ; and Judas, 
 a sallow, shrewd-appearing man, who might have 
 been a money-changer. They all had upon them 
 the patched clothing of beggars. 
 
 "In the country about Jerusalem the pebbles will 
 be changed to pearls and precious stones — all the 
 Rabbis who have studied the prophets teach this," 
 said Judas, as though continuing a statement. 
 "Jerusalem, as the Al essiah's city, will be the greatest 
 city in the world, and the richest. The paving- 
 stones in the streets will be blocks of gold. . . . 
 Of course the first is a miracle, but we shall have 
 the spoils of all the Gentile towns to pick and choose 
 from. . . . The Master is widely known now — 
 it's three years since he began to heal the people, 
 and that crowd to-day was promising. I imagine 
 he should soon proclaim himself — very soon. . . . 
 We'll be recompensed then for this tramping and 
 begging — we'll live like High Priests." 
 
 His eyes kindled with an avid, visionary enthu- 
 siasm — like the shrewd eyes of a merchant vision- 
 ing a fabulous extension of his business. The lad,
 
 "A WOMAN TAKEN IN ADULTERY" 167 
 
 John, did not seem to hear him. Andrew nodded, 
 munching at a crust of bread. 
 
 The fire died down somewhat, and the night 
 drew closer in upon them. Across the Valley of 
 the Kidron the city, seated on its hill, was dark, 
 but southward where the intersecting Valley of 
 Hinnom lay there was a flicker of flames. Here 
 undying fires were fed with the offal of the city 
 and the Temple, and the place of this burning was 
 called Gehenna. A jackal barked, and was answered 
 by another. Away to the right, mid-way down the 
 hill-side, a pipe twittered like a nocturnal cricket. 
 Some boy dwelling in the matting-covered booths 
 of those who vended doves for Temple-offerings 
 was making a little music for himself — or perhaps 
 for some twelve-year-old girl. 
 
 David continued to stare into the dwindling fire. 
 . . . The heart of it was red-gold, like Astarte's 
 hair. . . . They had dragged her away, and cast 
 great stones upon her until her blood stained the 
 stones, and the ground, and trickled from between 
 her lips. . . . Oh — devils! . . . Why had he let 
 them live? He had been dazed — stunned. They 
 could be found and killed — killed like shrieking rats ! 
 Blood for blood — 
 
 He found himself on his feet, his muscles tense 
 as tautened cords, invested with an extraordinary 
 sense of lightness as though fury had equipped 
 him, spiritually, with the wings of the striking 
 hawk. Simon had risen also. 
 "Here is the Master," he said. 
 Without any conscious volition David turned. 
 The obscurity of the night had rifted, and in the 
 east there was a strewing of small, misty stars. A
 
 168 REVELATION 
 
 man in white raiment was coming towards them 
 downhill between the indistinct olive-trees, through 
 whose foliage the small stars were visible. David's 
 clenched hands relaxed. He drew a deep, unsteady 
 breath. . . . His passion of fury had fallen from 
 him, and his spirit was like an empty rrlade set 
 round with funereal cypresses — a void that waited.
 
 PART III 
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL, 
 AND A GARDEN
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL, 
 AND A GARDEN 
 
 "Iris — come out here and look ! Come out, Iris." 
 
 It was Semla who called. She knelt by the balus- 
 trade of the gallery upon which the dancers' half-lit 
 chamber opened. Helen was with her, and Amytis, 
 the milk-skinned Persian. The fluted columns of 
 the gallery were caressed by pure sunlight, while 
 the court below lay in translucent shadow, for the 
 morning was very young. 
 
 "What is there to see? Helen's Nubian loafing 
 in the court like a great black bull, or the slaves 
 sprinkling rose-water on the pavement?" 
 
 The voice that came from beyond the spangled 
 blue curtains was ill-tempered. 
 
 "Oh, you're peevish," said Helen across her 
 polished shoulder. "And leave my Nubian alone, 
 or I'll think you're jealous. . . . Perhaps she is, 
 girls. Valerius isn't so wonderful, anyway, even if 
 he did give her a necklace." 
 
 "Sh-h!" said Semla. "Don't let's quarrel unless 
 we've nothing else to do. . . . Iris, you're a lazy- 
 bones ! There's a crowd in the court. Come out 
 and look." 
 
 "Yes, come out !" called Amytis in her pretty 
 child's voice. At fourteen she was scarcely as 
 mature as a Syrian girl of eleven. 
 
 171
 
 172 REVELATION 
 
 After a moment or two the curtains were parted, 
 and Iris, blond as Aphrodite, her body blurred by 
 a diaphanous Greek robe caught on either shoulder 
 with a silver brooch, crossed very slowly to the 
 balustrade. The rose flush upon her cheeks had 
 deepened to a glow, there were violet shadows be- 
 neath her eyes, and she looked sleepy. 
 
 "What is it?" she said, and she still spoke un- 
 amiably. 
 
 The court was choked with a crowd. The three 
 palace girls kneeling by the alabaster balustrade 
 looked down on red skull-caps, twisted turbans, and 
 head-cloths bound with cords of camel's hair. 
 Against one of the vermilion columns that were 
 raised two steps above the level of the court Val- 
 erius leaned with folded arms. He was helmeted. 
 and his body-harness was overlaid with golden 
 scales. Magnificent as a contemptuous Mars he re- 
 garded the crowd as any mentally full-statnred man 
 might regard a rabble of half-wits. Shrill, unintel- 
 ligible voices cried out. Hands shot up, the fingers 
 extended as though clutching at some invisible 
 object. 
 
 "I don't know what it's all about. There's some- 
 thing going on in the banquet-hall just behind those 
 columns — I wish I could see. ..." 
 
 Semla leaned over the balustrade, craning her 
 neck. A dimple on her cheek came and went as her 
 lips parted. 
 
 "We didn't see them come into the court," said 
 Amytis. "We heard them and came out here to 
 look." 
 
 "Oh — there's Leander !" said Helen suddenly. 
 "There's your boy, Semla. Do you see him?"
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 173 
 
 At the foot of the open staircase a blond young 
 fellow had halted, his brows bound with a silver 
 fillet. 
 
 "Go down to him," said Helen, giving Semla a 
 nudge. "He doesn't know much, but perhaps he 
 can tell you something. Doesn't he look a mother's 
 darling with that pretty fillet, girls?" 
 
 The young man looked up. Semla waved her 
 hand to him, sprang to her feet with the bound of 
 the trained dancer, ran along the gallery and down 
 the staircase, the gem rings on her bare toes twinkl- 
 ing. For several minutes she spoke with him, lean- 
 ing on the marble lamp-pedestal at the stair foot ; 
 then turned and scurried back. She sank down 
 again, panting, by the balustrade. 
 
 "He's told me all about it. . . . The Governor 
 has sent a Galilasan miracle-man to Herod — a dis- 
 turber, who speaks against the Emperor. He's 
 before Herod in the hall of the banquet now. . . . 
 This crowd are the people who have accused him 
 to the Governor. . . . Leander says that Herod 
 told him to work a miracle, but he just stood with 
 his eyes on the ground as though he hadn't heard 
 a word. . . . Herod's angry, Leander says, and 
 will send him back to the Governor." 
 
 "Oh — a miracle!'' said Amytis. "I should just 
 love to see one ! If he's a man who works magic 
 why doesn't he make himself invisible and escape?" 
 
 "Pooh !" said Helen. "Conjurers never help them- 
 selves. If they could they'd go on horseback in- 
 stead of plodding along in the dust. They'd all be 
 kings instead of stinking beggars. . . . What a 
 baby you are !"
 
 174 REVELATION 
 
 Semla, sitting back upon her heels, yawned, 
 •covering her mouth with a soft hand. 
 
 "Leander says this miracle-man is quite well 
 known in the city," she said. "His name is Jesus, 
 and he comes from a place called Nazareth.'' 
 
 Iris shrugged an impatient shoulder, turning 
 away. 
 
 "I'm not going to stand here and watch this 
 stupid rabble ! If your miracle-man would come 
 into the court and show us better tricks than the 
 new Egyptian conjurer who turns a rod into a 
 snake and lifts live chickens from an empty bowl 
 it might be worth waiting for. ... If I were in 
 Herod's place I'd have him flogged ... I can't 
 endure beggars, anyhow — they ought all to be cru- 
 cified." 
 
 She turned her back on the other three, crossed 
 to the curtains, and disappeared. 
 
 "What's the matter with her?" inquired Helen. 
 "Is it indigestion, or is Valerius cooling? He's a 
 dog! . . . He was infatuated with that little 
 Astarte who ran away the night after she was 
 brought here — the brat who slapped his face. . . . 
 Do you know what's the trouble with Iris. Semla?" 
 Semla shook her head, agitating the tassels of 
 strung gold beads that depended from her ears. 
 
 Beyond the curtains, Iris — her transparent 
 drapery through which her shell-pink body 
 glimmered trailing behind her — traversed the long 
 chamber. At the carpet-square she paused. A 
 sallow woman, with her lustreless black hair hang- 
 ing from her head in a multiplicity of narrow plaits 
 after the Egyptian fashion, squatted on her 
 haunches at the edge of the carpet.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 175 
 
 "Seket," said Iris, "there is nothing to see out 
 there — nothing- at all. You had better massage me 
 now — before the others come in and start calling 
 for you." 
 
 Unfastening the brooches on her shoulders she 
 gave a shrug and her drapery slipped to her feet. 
 She stepped from it, dropped to her knees upon 
 the carpet, and then extended herself, settling her 
 head on a cushion. The carpet was of a peacock- 
 blue. The limbs of Iris were tinted like an ocean 
 shell, and a noticeable rose perfume emanated from 
 her. The hands of the sallow woman began to 
 knead her relaxed body — deftly, tirelessly. 
 
 "I feel sleepy this morning," said Iris presently, 
 "and my head aches a little, and my face glows as 
 though I were sitting over a brazier." 
 
 "Your body burns under my hands," said the 
 woman softly. "It is perhaps a little fever." 
 
 "It's nothing. I felt like this a week ago, and 
 once before that. . . . How frightful to be born 
 ugly, Seket ! Ugly people ought to poison them- 
 selves. Slaves who wash pavements, and women 
 waddling along with children on their hips, and 
 the people one sees in the streets seem like stupid 
 animals — like plough-oxen. Fancy having to eat 
 boiled locusts and raw onions ! Fancy living with- 
 out perfume, and sweet oil, and eye-paint ! If I 
 couldn't drink wine and keep myself perfect I'd 
 open my veins." 
 
 "The people in the streets have to live," said 
 Seket in her tired, crooning voice. "It is harder to 
 die than to go on living, even though there is noth- 
 ing to hope for. The people in the streets are very
 
 176 REVELATION 
 
 many, the people who live in houses of marble are 
 very few." 
 
 "Well, / do, anyway — that's all that matters. I 
 don't care a rotten fig how those others, the stupid 
 animals, live. ... I shan't be old for years yet, 
 Seket. When one is perfect one's as good as any of 
 the gods — they never had anything better than love, 
 and wine with honey and spices in it. . . . Of 
 course, there aren't any gods. I don't believe in 
 anything but the Evil Eye." 
 
 She raised her two arms and stretched her body, 
 drawing up one knee. Her pale golden hair aureoled 
 her flushed face. Her breast heaved like the low, 
 rose-foam swells of a summer sea. 
 
 "What is this mark?" inquired the colourless 
 voice of Seket, softly pitched ; and a dry finger-tip 
 touched the Greek girl's side. 
 
 Iris lowered her arms. 
 
 "You mean that round spot, not quite as big as 
 a silver coin, and the colour of copper? I don't 
 know what it is. It comes and goes. Each time it 
 stays for a little while and then fades. . . . See ! 
 there's another like it, but smaller, on the back of 
 this hand. Do you know why they come?" 
 
 The hand of the sallow woman skilled in mas- 
 sage was drawn back. 
 
 "You say they come and go?'' she asked, and now 
 her voice had a curious hushed inflection. 
 
 "Yes. And when they come my head aches, as 
 it does to-day, and I feel hot. . . . Do you know 
 what it is?" 
 
 "I have seen such marks three times. They can- 
 not be mistaken once they have been seen. ... It 
 is the beginning of leprosy."
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 177 
 
 "What !" 
 
 Iris sat upright as convulsively as though she 
 had been touched by a white-hot iron. 
 
 "Seket ! It cannot be that — it cannot !" 
 
 "Once it has been seen it can never be mistaken. 
 ... It set its mark upon my daughter, and in 
 four years she died." 
 
 The sallow woman, squatting on her haunches, 
 spoke monotonously. 
 
 The eyes of the Greek girl were vacant. They 
 might have been flakes of opaque turquoise. She 
 sat as motionless as a woman-shaped stone. But 
 her brain was busy. . . . Leprosy. Pictures grew 
 before her, swift as the flicker of an eyelid — a com- 
 posite of all the innumerable lepers she had 
 glimpsed. Presently round, fleshy lumps would 
 appear upon her body, changing from pink to 
 brown. In a little while they would ulcerate, be- 
 coming running sores. The skin of her brow would 
 thicken, corrugating until it resembled the wrinkled 
 brow of a lion. Her hair would whiten, and her 
 head become bald in patches. Her voice would 
 alter, growing husky, as the creeping disease ate 
 into her throat. The toes would drop from her 
 feet, the fingers from her hands. She would shrivel, 
 and weaken, and rot ; and it would be as though a 
 corpse laid in a sepulchre were conscious of the 
 progress of its disintegration and nameless loathe- 
 someness. . . . 
 
 "Oh— I cannot! Seket! I won't endure it!" 
 
 She had caught her hands to her face. Her body, 
 crouched together on the silk-tufted carpet, 
 writhed as though it were impaled upon a spear. 
 
 "What can I do, Seket?"
 
 178 REVELATION 
 
 "There is no remedy ..." said the colourless 
 voice. The Egyptian squatted impassive. 
 
 Iris pressed the fingers of one hand between her 
 lips, gnawing, unconsciously, at the polished, 
 almond-shaped nails. . . . She would be put forth 
 from the house of Herod. Love, and wine, and 
 delirious excitement were as finally at an end as 
 though the nothingness of death had come sud- 
 denly to her. Henceforward she would walk alone, 
 eating the scraps of shrinking charity. And the 
 body that had been her arrogant joy — her needfully 
 worshipped deity — would become her torment, her 
 shame, her death-in-life. . . . She touched the 
 bottom of the bottomless pit of human despair, 
 and there was no light — no light anywhere. The 
 brief, flaring lamps that illuminate, unstably, the 
 last of the senses had been extinguished; the con- 
 sciousness that had lived in their radiance faced a 
 horror of great darkness leading downward by 
 many steps of pain to the dust of the mindless dead. 
 Sense-pleasure had been cleft from her, and there 
 was nothing else. . . . 
 
 The long chamber lightened momentarily as the 
 curtains were parted, and Helen, Semla, and 
 Amytis — the two last with their arms about each 
 other — entered. Helen spoke first. 
 
 "You didn't miss much," she said. "They brought 
 out the miracle-man and made a mock of him — 
 that was all. Now they've taken him back to the 
 Governor." 
 
 "Yes," said Semla, placid as a plump dove. 
 
 The beautiful black-fringed eyes of Amytis, 
 darkly blue, were distressed. 
 
 "I didn't like it," she said. "They were cruel, I
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 179 
 
 thought. I am sure the miracle-man has clone noth- 
 ing. ... I hope they let him go." 
 
 Her lips quivered as though she were about to 
 weep. 
 
 Iris crouched upon the carpet gnawing her nails. 
 Her cheeks seemed to have sunken as though she 
 were a victim of famine. Her eyes appeared to be 
 without sight. 
 
 II 
 
 "Figs — Jerusalem figs — worth their weight in 
 gold!" 
 
 "Syrup of grapes !" 
 
 "Fresh fish!" 
 
 "Fine Egyptian lentils !" 
 
 Up and down the winding bazaar street trade- 
 hungry vendors caught passers-by by the sleeve, 
 gesticulated, chanted, or yelped their wares with 
 lungs of leather. There were stacks of small 
 wicker cages containing turtle-doves destined for 
 the sacrificial fire of the Temple altar, rows of pot- 
 tery ware, cakes of dried figs and raisins laid out 
 on fig-leaves, oil of Indian spikenard in little ala- 
 baster jars, pepper, cinnamon, and cloves. Men 
 spoke in Hebrew, in Greek, and in the dialects of 
 the desert and of the Mediterranean coasts. Young 
 Galilseans, up for the Passover, sauntered hand in 
 hand, frankly sightseeing. The Jerusalem stall- 
 holders regarded them with a mingling of city- 
 bred contempt and wheedling eagerness. It was 
 cheerful, strident, and as familiar to David as his 
 own right hand. At five years of age he had looked 
 forward to the Passover figs ; at ten to the coming
 
 180 REVELATION 
 
 of the pilgrims from Alexandria, Babylon, Tyre, 
 and Tarsus; at fifteen to the underlying signifi- 
 cance of the feast. 
 
 The bazaar street followed a valley that cleft the 
 hill city. David walked in the centre of the way. 
 It seemed to him that he was jostled by innumer- 
 able dreamers while he alone was awake and en- 
 grossed with reality. Five days had elapsed since 
 he had joined himself to the Galilaean prophet. He 
 had seen paralytics rise from their mattresses, and 
 the eyes of the blind unclose, blinking like the just- 
 opened eyes of puppies at the unimagined light. 
 There had been acclamation, and the pressure of 
 wonder-hungry crowds. He had heard the priests 
 and Rabbis denounced as hypocrites in the Temple 
 courts, while they gnawed their beards or broke 
 into bitter argument, and voluble abuse. His faith 
 in the Galilaean was passionate and unquestioning. 
 He believed — and this belief made his life possible, 
 supplying it with a meaning and a purpose. Hut 
 the figure of Astarte stood always at the back of 
 his consciousness like someone standing at the 
 shadowed end of a room, and he knew that if he 
 should revisit the house-court of the acacia-tree he 
 would kill. He burned for the moment when the 
 Master would declare himself the King-Messiah, 
 and the power of Rome be overthrown like a 
 brazen colossus riven by the lightning of an angel. 
 Then he would quench all memory in the blood of 
 the enemies of God! Everything had narrowed to 
 this enthusiasm now. But a breath might have 
 tipped the balance, for if, in his first agony of loss, 
 he had not turned blindly to the Mount of Olives, 
 he would have sought an insensate blood-revenge
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 181 
 
 and have suffered crucifixion at the hands of 
 Roman authorities for murder. 
 
 The chaffering to right and left appealed to him 
 like the babble of children. The Deliverer was 
 even then within the walls of their city — the dawn 
 of his world-empire was about to break — yet they 
 haggled over fish, and cried the merits of grape- 
 syrup. 
 
 "Father ! look at those raisin cakes — I want one !" 
 
 A little boy, holding to the skirt of a bearded 
 man's garment, pointed. 
 
 "Stay a moment ! Examine these staffs of 
 pomegranate wood — cheap at the price !" 
 
 "Do you call those fish fresh? Why, where I 
 come from we wouldn't give them to a leper. You 
 Jerusalem fishmongers should see the market at 
 Capernaum — you'd learn something." 
 
 Someone touched David's arm. He turned and 
 saw Andrew, the brother of Simon. 
 
 "They've taken the Master — the High-Priests 
 have taken him. ..." 
 
 His voice was lowered and husky. His bearing 
 was that of a person at once dazed and nervous. 
 
 "What? When?" 
 
 David spoke sharply. 
 
 "I — we cannot talk here. It's dangerous. . . . 
 Come this way." 
 
 He moved aside, his shoulders rounded, his head 
 thrust forward as though in avoidance of an ex- 
 pected blow. A dingy, coloured twist was bound 
 turbanwise about his brows. A long outer coat of 
 cloth of camel's hair fell to his ankles. In the pro- 
 found shadow of an arch he spoke again. 
 
 "They took him last night. . . . After we had
 
 182 REVELATION 
 
 eaten together according to the Law we went out 
 with him to an olive garden beyond the Kidron. 
 They surrounded him there — men of the Temple- 
 Guard and Gentile soldiers from the garrison. There 
 were Pharisees with them, and servants of the 
 priests — I saw them. They bound his hands, and 
 look him away. ... It's Judas's doing, lie 
 thought the Master would proclaim himself live 
 days ago, when he entered the city with the pil- 
 grims, and that he himself would be made a judge- 
 over Israel. When nothing followed he became 
 sullen. He's sold the Master to the priests I 
 money so that he can bus new garments and be 
 somebody. . . . it's terrible. We're all scattered. 
 ... As they've taken the Master they'll take u- 
 also if they lind us. It won't be safe in the cil 
 
 He spoke in a helpless way. His eyes were the 
 of a fugitive. 
 
 David's brows were contracted so that a deep 
 cleft stood between them. 
 
 "The Master — is a prisoner? Did he resist — how 
 did he go with them?" 
 
 "He made no resistance at all. He we vard- 
 
 them and told them who he was. It was just as 
 though he had expected them. ... He forbade us 
 to defend him, and then the soldiers threatened us, 
 and we scattered. ... It will be safer outside the 
 city — they may stone us." 
 
 His eyes wavered. 
 
 "But don't you understand — don't you see? This 
 is to test our faith in him. It must be so! He has 
 permitted them to take him so that we may be 
 proved! This is the threshold of the new kingdom 
 — before this day is over we shall all see the Glory
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 183 
 
 of God! Why should we hide and scatter? He 
 will break his bonds as though they were flax, and 
 the priests and Pharisees will be blind before him 
 as the people were blinded by the countenance of 
 Moses! This is the final test — cannot you see it?" 
 
 David's face was alight — afire as it had been 
 when he walked by the she-ass between the waving 
 palm-branches. He took hold of the other by the 
 shoulder. 
 
 Andrew regarded him doubtfully. Then his eyes 
 shifted again. He seemed to ask himself: "Has 
 anyone overheard us?" 
 
 "I don't know. ... It may be so. . . . But the 
 Pharisees may incite the people to stone us. I — I 
 think I shall go towards Bethany. You had best 
 leave the city. . . . Peace be with you." 
 
 He muttered this last automatically, and shuffling 
 from beneath the arch mingled with the foot-borne 
 traffic. He was a moneyless Galilsean fisherman, in- 
 herently timid of the violence of those in authority, 
 and pathetically bewildered by the self-surrender 
 of the Prophet whom he had followed for three 
 years with dog-like faith. 
 
 David's flare of contempt was impatient rather 
 than angry. Let the blind-souled, the hare-hearted, 
 slink out of the town ! His eyes were open, and his 
 faith burned like a flame. He would go up im- 
 mediately to the house of the High-Priest. This 
 was the last — the heart-searching test. And then 
 the power of the Promised One would break upon 
 them like a seventh wave of glory, and angel- 
 legions mingle with the young men of Israel to 
 dissipate for ever the strength of godless Rome. 
 
 Exultation seemed to add a cubit to his spiritual
 
 184 REVELATION 
 
 stature. For the first time since they had told hirn 
 of her death the half-conscious thought of Astarte 
 was blotted out. As he stood beneath the arch a 
 white tunic fell in straight folds to his knees. Un- 
 consciously he squared his shoulders like a young 
 captain bracing himself to the weight of war-har- 
 ness. Beyond the arch on that side which v. 
 farthest from the Bazaar, lay a court like a stone 
 wall. Two men entered this court from an inner 
 door. They were bargaining. One threw out three 
 fingers, the other four. Above them a pair of 
 beams, set at right angles, spanned the court. The 
 cross-shaped shadow of these beams fell upon the 
 vividly arguing men. David looked at them with 
 a species of pity. They continued to bargain — 
 vivacious, competent, voluble — ignoring him as 
 completely as they ignored the impalpable shadow 
 cast on them by the crossed beams. 
 
 In the upper town — the Sacred City — the white 
 palace of Herod the Great was now the residence 
 of the Roman Governor. It was not yet mid-morn- 
 ing as David came opposite to the square-arched 
 outer gate. The Roman sentinel on duty stood as 
 straight as his spear, staring at vacancy with the 
 stony indifference of perfect discipline; but a hanri- 
 ful of gazers had clustered in a knot about the gate- 
 way — boys, scavengers, nondescript hangers-on. 
 Beyond the gate some considerable disturbance 
 seethed before the raised pavement from which the 
 Governor administered public justice. 
 
 David halted. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, speaking to a boy who 
 wore a ragged shirt. 
 
 "I don't know, sir," said the boy promptly. "The
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 185 
 
 Governor's judging someone — perhaps it's a murder- 
 er. .. . I'm going to wait in case they scourge 
 him." 
 
 David glanced casually towards the crowd in the 
 forecourt of the palace. . . . Just within the gate 
 stood the handsome lad, John, looking to the place 
 of justice with a fixity that was somehow akin to 
 the rigidity of suffering endured with locked lips. 
 
 David regarded John for some moments. The 
 lad did not stir or turn his face. . . . Then David 
 passed under the gate. 
 
 The crowd that crammed the forecourt was dem- 
 ocratic. There were Sadducees — members of 
 wealthy ancient families, wearing pure robes of the 
 finest linen — who denied immortality and imposed 
 the death sentence for trivial offences; Pharisees, 
 whose amulet-boxes containing extracts from the 
 Law were twice the size of other men's and worn 
 openly upon their foreheads all day ; Levites, with 
 a small roll of the Law protruding from an outer 
 pocket of their garment ; priests crowned with linen 
 turbans having many-coloured silk prayer-shawls 
 on their shoulders intermixed with threads of gold 
 or silver; body servants of the priests and Saddu- 
 cees wearing red skull-caps and striped raiment ; 
 Temple hangers-on — dove sellers, cattle sellers — 
 and the riff-raff found like fetid sediment in the 
 bye-ways of every city. The odour of garlic 
 mingled with the odour of spikenard, applied as a 
 body-perfume. 
 
 David shouldered his way forward. Fragments 
 of speech came to him — the raised voices of the ac- 
 cusers on the steps of the tribunal : "He permits 
 the people to worship him. ..." "He will raise
 
 186 REVELATION 
 
 a rebellion. ..." "If you release him, you are I 
 Caesar's friend!" The crowd - I back and forth 
 
 as men jostled each other, avid to Bee and hear. 
 The Pharisee, pure in his own estimation as a 
 thrice-washed g irment, endured fierce i ith 
 
 a cattle dealer who ate bread and lettu ithout 
 
 rinsing his hands three tim< ired tl 
 
 scribed purification when he crack 
 of mob-emotion, complex, ; 
 the crowd as wind sweeps a field of K r; ' 
 
 A stout man v. 1 ith 
 
 iiiu- k 'round with a guttur 
 
 nation that resembled a snarl, and David ; 
 i he foot o! four marb 
 
 White, fluted columns with . in 
 
 ordered alignment. Above tl an 
 
 ivory chair with an i\ 
 this chair the < 
 
 the people directly. A held a ur- 
 
 faced writing tablet on his knee, tak a what 
 
 was said. At tin- Governor's ri^ht hand ■• 
 High-Priest— the only man who might enter the 
 Holy of Holies in thi of Isi 
 
 at his left hand, J of Xa/.areth. 
 
 David's heart glowed like a handful of tire. H 
 aspiring faith beat like the wings of a cage I 
 that will presently soar to the zenith. Thi 
 sied moment had almost come — then they would all 
 see! Oh. the blindness of them! Levit< tiers 
 
 in sacrificial animals, and this Gentile in immacu- 
 late white bordered with purple, whost imption 
 of authority seemed as natural to him a- the I 
 nelian signet-rin^r on his manicured hand. Only 
 he — David — had open eyes. Already he tasted the
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 187 
 
 astonishment, confusion, glory, and bloodshed of 
 the imminent revelation. 
 
 The secretary coughed discreetly behind his hand. 
 The Governor cleared his throat. He was a square- 
 set, middle-aged man, going grey at the temples, 
 with the yellowish look of a person who suffered 
 from his liver, and a rather disagreeable mouth. 
 
 "I have examined this man already" — he made a 
 curt, outward gesture with his left hand — "and 1 
 have sent him to Herod, who is of the same opinion 
 as myself regarding him. He is harmless. But 
 since you inform me that his illusions concerning 
 himself have caused a disturbance, I will have him 
 scourged as a lesson and example, and then release 
 him." 
 
 He glanced at the prisoner, frowned as a man 
 does sometimes when light falls across his eyes, 
 and again cleared his throat. 
 
 "However . . . as it is the festival, and I purpose 
 to liberate a criminal according to the custom, I 
 can release this man immediately without punish- 
 ment. ..." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 The High-Priest flung out a vehement hand. 
 
 "Not this man ! Liberate Barabbas ! The people 
 want Barabbas !" 
 
 A Pharisee standing a couple of steps lower — by 
 trade a basket-maker, by reputation a saint — caught 
 the name, and, tossing up his arms, cried at the top 
 of his voice: 
 
 "Barabbas ! Ask for the release of Barabbas !" 
 
 "Barabbas !" shouted several voices at the foot 
 of the steps. 
 
 David had heard the name before — all the city
 
 188 REVELATION 
 
 knew it. The man belonged to the Zealots — the 
 irreconcilable, fanatic patriots who regarded the 
 payment of taxes and tribute to Rome a.-, a betrayal 
 of God. There had been an anti-Gentile riot in the 
 lower town, and he had killed a Roman centurion. 
 
 "Barabbas!" A hundred voices took it up. 
 
 "Give us Barabbas!" 
 
 "Barabbas! Barabbas!" shouted the crowd as 
 though it had one throat. 
 
 The Governor puckered his forehead, looking an- 
 noyed. After about a minute the clamour died 
 down. 
 
 "If I release Barabbas" — his educated voice with 
 its unmistakable patrician inflection was noticeably 
 raised, as though he were really anxious for it to 
 carry as far as possible — "what shall be done with 
 this man?" 
 
 There was a pause — like the pause before a sus- 
 pended wave breaks. It was one of those moments 
 when the units of a gathering merge spiritually in 
 a unanimous mob-consciousness that thinks with 
 a single brain. 
 
 "Crucify him!" The wave broke with a crash. 
 The two words leaped simultaneously from the lips 
 of the High Priest, the Pharisaical and saintly 1 
 ket-maker, the Sadducees, Levites, good-for-noth- 
 ings, and Temple hangers-on. 
 
 The Governor raised his hand for silence. 
 
 "I have told you already that the man is harmless 
 — I have examined him myself. ... I will scourge 
 him and let him go." 
 
 "No! Crucify him — crucify him! The cros- !" 
 
 The High Priest was purple in the face. The 
 features of the goat-bearded basket-maker were
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 189 
 
 distorted like a furious mask worn by an actor in 
 a Greek tragedy. The crowd — made up of salaried 
 priests whose venialities had been exposed to the 
 people who supported them, of Rabbis smarting 
 from the open charges of hypocrisy, of Temple 
 hucksters who had been twice bundled out of the 
 Court of the Gentiles bag and baggage, of slum- 
 bred off-scourings ready to yelp "Death!" for the 
 mere excitement of the thing — swayed a yard 
 nearer to the foot of the marble steps. Its com- 
 posite, unanimous brain was blood-suffused. Rage 
 whether its slight roots be self-interest, damaged 
 vanity, diminished profits, or the excitement-lust 
 of the degenerate — is the strongest because the 
 simplest mob-emotion, intoxicating as strong drink, 
 is a delicious abandonment of individual conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 "Crucify him!" 
 
 Hands — some ring-jewelled — some bleached by 
 continual ceremonial washing, some natural as a 
 monkey's — reached towards the raised platform. 
 The mob rocked like the mole-enclosed waters of 
 a bay that is shaken by an earthcmake ; and it was 
 augmented from moment to moment as stragglers, 
 infected by the spreading excitement, gathered 
 upon its fringes, giving tongue with the rest. The 
 whole forecourt from the steps of the tribunal to 
 the outer gate, seethed. 
 
 The Governor's secretary glanced up furtively 
 from beneath his light eyebrows. He was divided 
 between nervousness and the habit of self-efface- 
 ment. The captain of the Governor's guard came 
 forward a few steps, saluted, and asked some ques- 
 tion. The Governor made an irritable, inconclusive
 
 190 REVELATIO 
 
 gesture. Then he spoke sharply to a freedman, giv- 
 ing some order. 
 
 "Crucify him !" 
 
 The hoarse, contagious shout leapt up at the 
 steps of the tribunal like the leap of a fanged wave 
 at a cliff. Then fifty voices barked it from the cen- 
 tre of the crowd. Then scattered yelps rose at 
 the .edges and a\ ere taken up again at the centre. 
 The ears were assailed by cries like intermittent 
 missiles, flung from various directions, and increas- 
 ing momentarily. 
 
 At the foot of the four steps David stood like a 
 rooted statue that smiles a faint, secret smile with 
 calm lips while the futile gusts of a tempest fret 
 and veer. This crowd resembled venomous mad- 
 men racing in delirium — threatening the sun with 
 weapons that existed only in their imagination. . 
 tablished in the certainty of his absolute faith his 
 lifted eyes did not swerve from the Prophet 
 Nazareth — the unproclaimed Messiah whose gl 
 might break forth at any moment like the day- 
 spring from a silver cloud. The tall figure, sandal- 
 shod, and wearing the plain robe of white woollen 
 stuff, made no sign. . . . He might have been a 
 king standing quite quietly on an acropnli> that 
 commanded a view ' of subject lands, coasts and 
 cities, glitteringly vistaed until they vanished in an 
 aureate mist. His hands — which in David's sight 
 had opened the eyes of the blind, caressed tottering 
 children, and restored half-rotted lepers — were 
 bound behind him with a cord. . . . As the shout 
 that demanded crucifixion broke out again and 
 again the shadow of a smile deepened on David's 
 lips. To couple the name of the God-ordained Mes-
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 191 
 
 siah with the gibbet of ignominy, the symbol of 
 outlawed crime, was surely laughable — like the 
 monstrous blasphemies of ignorantly babbling 
 children. His shining eyes never wavered from the 
 figure in which his faith and vision were incarnate. 
 
 From the doorway behind the Governor's ivory 
 chair came a pretty Syrian slave-boy, his ears dec- 
 orated with big golden rings. He carried a brass 
 bowl filled with water, and came very carefully, 
 fear of spilling it investing him with an anxious 
 gravity. 
 
 Again the Governor held up his ringed hand for 
 silence. 
 
 The dropping fire of cries tailed off. 
 
 Coming right up to him the slave-boy went down 
 on one knee. Half turning, the Roman dipped his 
 fingers in the water, rinsing them perfunctorily. 
 
 "As you see, my hands are clean before you — I 
 repudiate all responsibility for the death of this 
 man. ... In my judgment he is innocent. ... If 
 you insist on his condemnation you must answer 
 for his blood yourselves. Look to it." 
 
 He snapped these sentences at them in the man- 
 ner of a man who has been pestered with business 
 before he has broken his fast — for it was not yet 
 nine in the morning — and forced to concede a point 
 to avoid the more considerable annoyance of a riot. 
 And there was something uneasy about the pris- 
 oner's personality. The man was certainly innocent, 
 and as harmless as any crack-brained enthusiast 
 wandering on the skirts of the Judsean desert with 
 his head full of nebulous dreams and a handful of 
 butter-boiled locusts in his stomach. . . . The 
 whole affair had been nothing but worry and irri-
 
 192 REVELATION 
 
 tation from start to finish. But a riot would be 
 even worse. . . . 
 
 "His blood be upon us and upon our children if 
 he is condemned unjustly!" 
 
 The High Priest's violent answer trod almost on 
 the heels of the Governor's utterance. 
 
 "Yes! His blood be upon us and upon our chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 It was a howl from the mob. They were as 
 blood-hungry now as the rabble of dogs leaping at a 
 bleeding trophy of the hunt. 
 
 The Governor spoke to the captain of his guard. 
 
 "Let him be beaten," he said shortly. Men con- 
 demned to crucifixion were always scourged first 
 as a matter of course. Then he turned his back on 
 the crowd and went into the palace to a light meal, 
 for his liver forbade much in the forenoon. 
 
 Those about David gave ground before the butt- 
 ends of soldiers' spears. There was a brief confu- 
 sion. Men were jabbering excitedly, elated, avid, 
 their eyes glittering. Body-odours and the smell 
 of sweat and effeminate perfumes were almost suf- 
 focating in the crush. The raised pavement was 
 vacant, but on the steps the High Priest, the bas- 
 ket-maker, and two or three others had gathered 
 in a voluble cluster. The whetted mob, restless for 
 further satisfaction, licked its chops. Voices were 
 harsh from excitement and husky from shouting, 
 and each man paid scarcely any attention to what 
 his neighbour said. 
 
 David, his brain on fire, elbowed his way blindly 
 forward. ... A levelled spear barred him. Beyond, 
 through an archway, lay a barrack court. An in- 
 termittent flicker was visible — the lift and fall of
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 193 
 
 a pair of many-thonged scourges. . . . The young 
 man's heart seemed to contract in his breast. His 
 spirit winced as though the leather strips loaded 
 with pellets of lead had curled about his own body. 
 "I believe !" he cried within himself as a witness to 
 a proscribed god confesses his faith from the midst 
 of torture-flames. 
 
 David tasted blood. He had, unconsciously, 
 clenched his teeth upon his lower lip. His hands 
 were clenched also — his body rigid. . . . He could, 
 with a single violent movement, have broken past 
 the sentinel whose spear had halted him, felled the 
 nearest scourger, and grappled in unchained fury 
 with the other. The urge to do this stiffened him 
 until he strained against inaction like a leashed 
 hunting leopard. But to yield to the lunge of this 
 instnct would destroy the very foundation of his 
 tormented faith — satisfy his tense muscles, but ex- 
 tinguish the light of his soul like a scattering of 
 fire-embers to the four winds from a desecrated 
 altar. ... If the man lashed by his wrists to the 
 scourging-pillar was the Messiah of God he could 
 deliver himself from his enemies at will. Rescue 
 would be therefore a denial of belief. And if he 
 were not But David's thought reeled back- 
 ward from this gulf. "I believe, I believe " re- 
 peated the dry lips of his mind. 
 
 Sparrows twittered overhead. Beyond a low wall 
 crowned with a marble balustrade were the laurels, 
 cypresses, and tree-oleanders of the Governor's 
 gardens. Snow-white classic statues gleamed, and 
 on the steps of a summer house built like a Greek 
 temple a slave-girl, agile as a fawn, played at ball
 
 194 REVELATION 
 
 with a child, and their mingled laughter came 
 sweetly across the air. 
 
 "Back there ! Back !" 
 
 The soldiers of the guard were using their spear- 
 butts again — crowding the mob away from the 
 steps and forming a double cordon before the tri- 
 bunal. David gave ground with the rest, was swept 
 backward, caught in an eddy of the crowd, and 
 wedged in a crush of bodies. . . . 
 
 A long, empty interval supervened. The faint, 
 silver laughter of the young slave-girl was silenced. 
 The restless crowd muttered like the presage of 
 thunder on a heavy night. Tremors of vague move- 
 ment shook it. 
 
 Now there was a stir about the tribunal. Fig- 
 ures ascended the steps — soldiers. David could see 
 their steel helmets and shoulder-pieces above the 
 heads of the crowds. . . . There was the Governor 
 again, coming forward to the edge of the raised 
 pavement. The knot of soldiers parted, opening 
 out. A step below the Governor a man stood. A 
 torn cloak of military scarlet covered him. His 
 brows were encircled by a fillet of thorny twigs. 
 Large drops of blood like globular rubies jewelled 
 his temples. The guard-room had had its joke at 
 the expense of the Jewish miracle-man who \va- 
 accused of treason against Caesar — the ragged 
 cloak and the thorn fillet were a rough-and-ready 
 parody of the Imperial purple and the laurel wreath. 
 
 David's face strained upward. His lips, on which 
 the salt taste of blood smarted, formed the words 
 "I believe. ..." Now — now surely the transfig- 
 uration, the power and glory, would blaze out be- 
 fore them all like the pillar of fire. 0, God ! now. . . .
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 195 
 
 Indicating the scourged man with a gesture, the 
 Governor said something which was inaudible save 
 to those nearest the foot of the four steps. 
 
 With a unanimous impulse the mob surged for- 
 ward against the restraining cordon of the Roman 
 guard. 
 
 "Crucify him!" 
 
 They had seen blood. It was the howl of the pack 
 closing in on the quarry, crazy to rend him to red 
 tatters. If any unit of the crowd — dove-seller, 
 good-for-nothing, or Levite's servant — had been 
 led aside and questioned temperately he could no 
 more have offered a rational basis for his rage than 
 the wild dog yelding in concert with his pack- 
 brothers, his jaws aslaver for destruction. It was 
 instinctive, simple, joyfully savage. 
 
 "Back — back, all of you ! Out of here ! Clear 
 the court !" 
 
 Again the spear-butts were in use. The crowd 
 jostled, gave ground, yielded. . . . 
 
 "He'll have to be crucified at once. It's the Great 
 Sabbath to-morrow. ... I must get home — I have 
 relatives from Emmaus stopping with me for the 
 festival." 
 
 "He's a Galilsean — they're all rogues. There's 
 nothing to choose between them and the Samari- 
 tans. I've always said so." 
 
 "He has a devil. That's what Rabbi Jonas said 
 in the porch of the synagogue last Sabbath." 
 
 "The man's a frand — he mixes with all the vaga- 
 bonds of the town." 
 
 "What's he done, Rufus? I yelled with the rest, 
 but I don't know."
 
 196 REVELATION 
 
 Fragments of shredded speech eddied about 
 David like straws carried on a current. He saw 
 the outer gateway — a deep arch above him. Then 
 the unclouded sky of morning blue. . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 His porter's basket, empty, was balanced upon Cy- 
 mon's shoulder as he took his way leisurely down 
 the sunken centre of the street. In his closed left 
 hand were a few copper coins which he rattled ab- 
 sently. They were the payment for the load of 
 wine and olive-oil he had just delivered at a well- 
 to-do house. As he rattled them the thought of the 
 bread, dates, salt and young onions that they would 
 purchase dwelt semi-consciously in his mind. . . . 
 A fugitive smile touched his lips. When there are 
 two to be fed the provider who is freed of anxiety 
 concerning the day's food experiences an incom- 
 municable satisfaction. 
 
 The sunshine was milk-warm, but with a crisp 
 edge of freshness in it as though a flake of snow 
 had melted in the bland milk. The doorways on 
 either side were wreathed with lilies, marigolds, 
 and red anemones, and framed in myrtle and wil- 
 low twigs. From the crumbling roof-parapets tas- 
 selled carpets hung down. Girls of thirteen or four- 
 teen, whose heads and shoulders were veiled in lily- 
 white drapings, flashed pretty glances at smooth- 
 faced boys of sixteen who strolled hand in hand. 
 Then they pressed close to each other as though 
 terrified, their sweetly salient figures shaken by 
 mute giggling. All wore their best clothes. Worn-
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 197 
 
 en's silver anklets chinked. There was a perceptible 
 smell of flowers. One could almost hear the pulse 
 of life beating, and it was like the pulse in the 
 throat of a young girl who passes singing where 
 pipes twitter, and sheep bleat to sucking lambs who 
 prance and jump, and the sap stirs under the bark. 
 
 Cymon was eighteen. For nearly a year and a 
 half — ever since the night when he had tasted ideal 
 ecstacy at the lips of a pretty temple girl — he had 
 luxuriated in bitter and violent cynicism. It had 
 helped him to fight — nourishing him with a species 
 of philosophy when bread was unobtainable. But 
 upon this morning the spring seemed to draw the 
 tips of her fingers lightly across the cheek, like a 
 caressing woman ; and the blood thrilled delicately 
 in his finger-tips. He was aware that he felt pleased 
 to be alive. His mere self-consciousness was, 
 somehow, a vague source of pleasure. The half- 
 shrouded girls with lowered heads who continually 
 passed him did not move him to grit the teeth of his 
 spirit — he allowed his eyes to dwell on them cas- 
 ually. . . . Certainly the town was cheerful at pil- 
 grimage times. The weather was glorious, too. 
 . . . He rattled the jingling copper coins in his left 
 hand to the lilt of an odd little tune running in his 
 head. 
 
 Upon many of the flat roofs of the city shelters 
 of boughs had been erected to house the overflow 
 of the pilgrims. Cymon had put together a similar 
 shelter on the roof above the potter's yard. Be- 
 neath it Rama slept, or sat cross-legged with 
 drooping shoulders, her slim hands in her lap. She 
 seemed utterly bewildered still, and her eyes were 
 filled with a sort of pained inquiry. Cymon she ap-
 
 198 REVELATION 
 
 peared to take for granted with a trust that was 
 clear as crystal. He was David's friend. . . . That 
 morning she had smiled at him — very faintly — as 
 they ate dates in the ashen half-light before the 
 dawn. He had undertaken the responsibility of her 
 in a mood of tragi-comic despair and exaspera; 
 pity. Now he liked it. 
 
 He rattled his earnings with increasing cheer- 
 fulness as he followed the zigzag of the street. 
 The bread he purchased must, of course, be unleav- 
 ened. He knew that the people hereabouts had an 
 ingrained aversion to leavened bread at this time 
 of the year. . . . "Gods! I feel like the father of a 
 family !" he said to himself. His lips twisted whim- 
 sically ; then he reddened at the cheekbones; then 
 scowled at a passing man whose cast of counte- 
 nance offended him. And all the time his blood 
 purred subtly with a growing self-pleasure and 
 self-pride as he passed with an easy and mannish 
 bearing — at once tolerant and cynical — between the 
 enwreathed doorways that yielded the balsamic 
 smell of fresh leaves and the odour of lilies. 
 
 Clit-clat-clit — the shod hoofs of a horse picking 
 his way down the trough of the street. A Roman 
 centurion sat astride of him. 
 
 Cymon's nostrils dilated. He glared — as much 
 from force of habit as from any other reason — 
 then sprang to the raised footway, standing at the 
 edge of it. 
 
 The centurion's steel headpiece was crested with 
 red bristles. He came easily along on his bay stal- 
 lion. A dozen soldiers followed him, two bv two, 
 and a couple of fellows with hammers thrusts 
 their belts and coils of rope over their shoulders.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 199 
 
 "Oh — of course. It's the Passover executions," 
 said the thought in Cymon's brain. 
 
 The Government regularly crucified some con- 
 demned criminals during the holiday week as a 
 wholesome warning to the city and the pilgrims. 
 
 Most of those on the footways paused. The 
 shadow of death falling across the sunshine of life 
 is wonderfully stimulating as long as it remains 
 impersonal. Women looked over the parapets 
 from which the scarlet-tasselled carpets hung 
 down. 
 
 Now came two staggering men with cross-pieces 
 of timber lashed to their shoulders — half led, half 
 dragged by the soldiers who hauled them by cords 
 fastened to their belts. They were vilely filthy 
 from months spent in a reeking prison, and reeling 
 from the blood lost under the scourges. Foam 
 showed at their lips, and their bloodshot eyes were 
 like the crazed, glazing eyes of a crippled ox. 
 
 "They're thieves and murderers — the swine !" 
 said someone, speaking behind Cymon. "Headed a 
 gang and robbed a caravan on the Damascus road. 
 Their kind's only fit for the cross." 
 
 The two men staggered past — lurching, uttering 
 sounds that were midway between grunts and 
 groans. 
 
 "Poor devils!" said Cymon's thought. 
 
 Another figure brought up the rear. This man 
 wore a longish, mire-stained, white woollen gar- 
 ment, and his head was encircled by a fillet of 
 thorns. 
 
 "What's this one done?" 
 
 "I don't know — I'm a stranger here. . . . But
 
 200 REVELATION 
 
 they only crucify murderers and such-like, don't 
 they? He must be a criminal." 
 
 "Oh, of course! ..." 
 
 Cymon was watching the last of the three crim- 
 inals much as a sensitive-natured person might 
 watch the approach of a pitifully injured animal. 
 His brows had contracted as though he himself 
 were actually suffering reflected pain. 
 
 Suddenly, without a sound, the man swayed, 
 crumpled, and fell forward. 
 
 "Oh !" said a woman's voice — a wincing pity- 
 sound. 
 
 One of the soldiers in charge of the criminal 
 struck him with his foot. 
 
 "Get up ! We can't wait here all day !" 
 
 Cymon had once seen a charioteer kick a chariot 
 horse that had come down, breaking its foreleg. 
 He had struck the man — half frantic with furious 
 pity. And the consciousness had been knocked clean 
 out of him for his pains. . . . His soul quivered as 
 it had done upon that other occasion, and then 
 seemed to become molten. 
 
 As though he were acting upon a prearranged 
 signal that had just been given, he leapt from the 
 footway and lashed out at the soldier with his 
 clenched fist. He caught him fairly on the mouth. 
 It was so entirely unexpected that the Roman was 
 knocked clean off his balance, staggered a moment, 
 and went over backward with a clutch at the air. 
 
 Cymon's extraordinarily brilliant blue eyes 
 seemed to have gone black. He broke into a tor- 
 rent of high-pitched words. 
 
 "You cowards ! You filthy cowards ! You make 
 me sick ! You're not men — you're paid execution-
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 201 
 
 ers with the muscles of oxen and the souls of 
 jackals." 
 
 He was trembling uncontrollably — swept with 
 fury against the calloused injustice that ruled the 
 world and trampled uncountable quivering bodies 
 beneath its bloody golden hoofs. Stooping very 
 quickly he slipped his hands under the armpits of 
 the criminal who had fallen, and, with an output of 
 effort that nearly broke his back, raised him until 
 he stood again upon his feet. And as he did so he 
 was caught by the shoulder and wrenched half 
 round, his wrists seized, and a leather-hard hand 
 dashed, palm-outward, in his face. 
 
 "Take that, you whelp! We'll teach you to 
 tackle your betters ! You'll get your hide cut to 
 ribbons for this !" 
 
 He was in the grip of a pair of soldiers whose 
 breasts and backs were plated with steel, and knew 
 better than to struggle, standing immobile. The 
 fellow he had knocked down was drawing the back 
 of his hand across his mouth, which was bloody. 
 He spat out a broken tooth, looking black murder 
 at Cymon. 
 
 The centurion, who had come up the street again 
 at a sharp trot, drew rein. 
 
 "Take him to the prison !" he said, "and bring 
 this man up with the others — they'll be half a mile 
 ahead of him at this rate. They must be on the 
 crosses in an hour — all three of them. ..." Cy- 
 mon was about to speak violently — but the words 
 dried up in his throat. Behind this lank-jawed of- 
 ficer on the bay stallion were inexhaustible cohorts, 
 fortresses, military roads, numberless cool and spa- 
 cious marble houses where Power — incarnated in
 
 202 REVELATION 
 
 smooth-shaven men of a square-headed, unemo- 
 tional type — read and discussed elegant literature, 
 ordered the punishment of slaves, poured liba- 
 tions to the gods as a matter of good form, and de- 
 creed the fate of men and nations as though from 
 the summit of a new Olympus. . . . He expe- 
 rienced a feeling of futility — the sensation of a per- 
 son who looks up at the hundred-foot colonnades 
 of a dynastic palace that appear as stable as the 
 eternal mountains and equally indifferent. "Oh, 
 what's the use?" said his thought. Mentally he 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 His wrists were bound — he was walking between 
 soldiers. Willow garlands and lily-wreaths crowned 
 every doorway. The cheerful hum of the holiday 
 city was as steady, as murderous, and as uncon- 
 cerned as the drone of bees in a bed of thyme. His 
 circumstances had turned a complete somersault in 
 the last fifteen minutes, yet it made not a jot of 
 difference to anyone but himself. And at this point, 
 with a blank, sickening feeling, he remembered 
 Rama. . . . 
 
 "Here's your kennel. It smells sweet, doesn't it?" 
 
 Descending three steps, Cymon turned. 
 
 "I'm the master of my own soul," he said, and 
 the words appealed to him as almost overweighted 
 with lofty, ice-cold scorn. "You haven't the soul 
 of a louse — you'll live and die in prison, though you 
 don't know it." 
 
 There was a bark of laughter. A heavy door 
 banged shut, and he heard a bolt shot home. The 
 stench of the place was awful — he felt impelled to 
 hold his breath. The half-light filtered through 
 two gratings, each a foot square. Upon the walls
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 203 
 
 had been scratched the initials of names, appeals to 
 gods, and obscene sentences. 
 
 It seemed to Cymon that he could not possibly 
 endure this place for an hour. And he might re- 
 main here for days before they scourged him. He 
 folded his arms, gnawing at his underlip. Rama 
 would wait on the roof above the potter's yard. 
 She might starve, for she was far too shy and mod- 
 est to beg. . . . All in a moment he felt frantic — 
 rabid. Gods, indeed! A nice sort of justice there 
 was in the world ! If there were gods they ought 
 to be spat upon for the things they permitted. . . . 
 But he had knocked the Roman down — broken his 
 front teeth, too. A spurt of satisfaction, like the 
 leap of a little flame, warmed him transiently. . . . 
 The copper coins he had earned that morning lay 
 somewhere in the street where he had struck the 
 Roman. He must break his way out ! He would 
 lie in wait for the soldier who brought him food, 
 and choke him. . . . 
 
 IV 
 
 Underfoot was the new grass of April, ankle-high. 
 There were white, blue, and purple violets, and the 
 white narcissus. Myrtle bushes clustered, and a 
 few scattered apple and almond trees were span- 
 gled with blossoms. It was a garden, broken up by 
 stony ledges in which artificial steps had been cut. 
 A neglected garden lapsing back to partial wilder- 
 ness, secluded, inclining to dampness, and grateful 
 as a draught of water from a limpid spring be- 
 neath a rock. 
 
 David had entered it as a hurt animal seeks 
 shadow — instinctively. Where a lichened ledge
 
 204 REVELATION 
 
 overhung, a grotto had been hollowed out — in- 
 tended, evidently, for a tomb, but unfinished. Go- 
 ing forward into this shallow cave, David sat down 
 upon a block of stone and dropped his head between 
 his two hands. . . . 
 
 Trails of ivy hung before the grotto. The smell 
 of it was musty and it struck cold. 
 
 "O God! . . . What am I to believe?" 
 
 He spoke aloud. There was no answer — not even 
 the chirrup of a bird or the whirr of an insect. 
 
 "Why must I be tested like this? ... If they 
 crucify him he is not the Messiah. They could not 
 crucify the Messiah! . . . Why should you deceive 
 me?" 
 
 He was speaking directly to God. His own ques- 
 tion shocked him. . . . He lowered his head again. 
 
 "But they haven't crucified him yet," he muttered 
 with dry lips. 
 
 A wave of transcendent faith swept through him 
 and he touched the heights again. He would be- 
 lieve — in the face of heaven and earth and hell — 
 and the very height and depth of this blind belief 
 should secure its fulfilment. He got up and passed 
 out of the grotto, treading the grass that was lush 
 but not rank. A few steps away he paused. . . . 
 Behind the garden lay the city; before it ran a 
 camel-path that joined the Damascus road. Oppo- 
 site the city and skirted by this road rose the Hill 
 of the Skull — the place of executions. More than 
 an hour had elapsed since he had seen the Galilaean 
 led out with two others from the forecourt of the 
 Governor's palace, loaded with the timber for his 
 cross. By this time they must certainly have 
 reached the hill.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 205 
 
 A fevered impatience to see, to know, took him. 
 And he believed — yes, he believed. . . . He set his 
 teeth on that as though nothing in heaven and earth 
 should slacken the grip of his clenched faith. 
 
 Along the camel-path below the garden came a 
 riding-camel heralded by its tinkling neck-bells. 
 The rider intoned a whining minor melody — in- 
 terminable, infinitely weary, yet conveying a sense 
 of indestructible vitality, the plaint of life that end- 
 lessly endures and hopes. 
 
 When the camel and its crooning rider had passed 
 on, David came out upon the camel-path. The 
 morning — which was approaching noon — had be- 
 come curiously windless. Every leaf was as mo- 
 tionless as though it had been cast in metal. There 
 was a sensation of oppression, like that which pre- 
 cedes thunder. A film seemed to have dulled the 
 sky, and the light was diffused — there was neither 
 clean-cut shadow nor definite brightness. David 
 was walking swiftly, but his feet were weighted as 
 they often are in distressed dreams. As he walked 
 he took particular notice of the small lizards still 
 as the stones on which they sat — as the grass 
 blades, as the rigid leaves — and of the circular 
 camel-prints in the dust, and of the green fruit on a 
 wild fig-tree. 
 
 An ascending foot-track branched from the 
 camel-path. He heard the murmurous sound of a 
 number of mingling voices. Slate-coloured rock 
 cropped out and the herbage fell away. He lifted 
 his eyes. 
 
 On the summit of the hill, bald as the cranium of 
 a skull, and whose rocky hollows distantly resem- 
 bled a skull's eye-sockets and nostrils, a number of
 
 206 REVELATION 
 
 people clustered. Something was going forward at 
 the centre of this crowd. . . . David approached. 
 His pace had slackened to a deliberate walk. He 
 still held his mind to a strained blankness that 
 ached. As he came he counted the tawdry figures 
 pushing and shifting. One, two, three, four, five, 
 
 six, seven, eight, nine, ten 
 
 There was a sound of hammering. In the central 
 space the sections of three crosses were being fitted 
 together. 
 
 "It feels like thunder," said a man whose head- 
 cloth was filleted with camel's hair, and whose face 
 had the worm-eaten look that is the legacy of con- 
 fluent smallpox. 
 
 "So it does. ... I must be getting along. There's 
 more to see in the town than out here. I've trav- 
 elled a bit — I've been twice to Jericho, but there's 
 no place like Jerusalem at Passover." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. . . . You can see all the life 
 you want in Gischala on a market day — take that 
 from me !" 
 
 "He was a carpenter," said another voice, "a 
 Nazareth carpenter. He told the High Priest he 
 was the Son of God. A second cousin of a friend 
 of mine is one of the Priest's servants — that's how 
 I know. It happened last night after they arrested 
 him. It's awful blasphemy — they say he's got a 
 devil." 
 
 "But he's cured people — my wife's sister knows 
 
 a woman who " 
 
 "That makes no difference. Men with devils can 
 do anything. Everyone knows that." 
 
 "Phew !" said a caravan ruffian whose clothing
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 207 
 
 smelt like a camel does, "I'd give a week's wages 
 for a gulp of air !" 
 
 The hammering ceased. 
 
 "Here— drink this." 
 
 A soldier held a jar to the lips of one of the 
 stripped men. It was filled with sour wine embit- 
 tered with stupefying myrrh — a mixture prepared 
 by Jerusalem women to deaden the pain of the cru- 
 cified. The man drank ravenously. So did the next. 
 But the Galilasan, after tasting it, averted his head 
 and would not drink. 
 
 The soldier guffawed. 
 
 At a word from the dismounted centurion the 
 condemned men were laid hold of, led to the pros- 
 trate crosses, and extended upon them. . . . Again 
 came the dull, knocking sound of wooden hammers 
 striking iron nails. The Galilaean moved his thorn- 
 filleted head a little from side to side. His eyes 
 closed, then opened again. 
 
 "Father . . . forgive them . . . they know not 
 what they do." 
 
 Now the three laden crosses were heaved aloft. 
 Sockets had been dug for them. They trembled an 
 instant on the brink of these — tottered — and then 
 jarred downward with a heavy shock. Shrieks 
 broke from the caravan robbers, and then a babble 
 of filthy words. 
 
 Among the onlookers someone laughed — sud- 
 denly, loudly, and entirely without mirth. It was a 
 bareheaded young man dressed like a Greek. The 
 tension had snapped. As the centre cross of the 
 three jarred into its socket faith broke like a water- 
 bubble. . . . David laughed at the belief that had 
 touched his life as with a finger of holy fire, at the
 
 208 REVELATION 
 
 white summits where his ideals had walked with 
 God-like wonder with the chariots of the dawn, at 
 the aspiration that had lifted him to unimaginable 
 thresholds of jacinth and jasper. 
 
 His one vivid impulse was to laugh in the teeth 
 of God. . . . Suddenly he remembered Astarte. A 
 wave of molten feeling flooded through him. The 
 Power that had reft his love-mate from him, giv- 
 ing her to hideous death, had wasted the holy sanc- 
 tuary of the ideals by which he lived, and sown the 
 site of it with salt, but he was still a man — he also 
 could shed blood, and break lives as her life and his 
 own had been broken. He turned immediately, 
 freed himself from the crowd, and went down the 
 cityward slope of the hill. 
 
 Traffic drifted on the Damascus road. The am- 
 bling mules and asses — brow-bound with blue beads 
 as a protection against the Evil Eye — drooped their 
 heads as though the increasing heaviness was a 
 more -tangible burden than the loads that were bal- 
 anced upon them. No living air agitated the 
 banded tassels of their housings. Those who 
 walked by them turned their faces briefly towards 
 the Hill of the Skull. Some struck their beasts with 
 sticks as though to hasten them forward before 
 the heavens were shattered by a storm. 
 
 David entered the city. His goal was the house- 
 court where his mother had told him of Astarte's 
 death; and he headed for it undeviatingly. He 
 heeded nothing now — the people, the streets, the 
 dominating white fortress-towers that resembled 
 bluffs of marble rock. . . . He had no weapon, but 
 his hands were very strong. And he would not 
 need to inquire as to who had dragged his love-
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 209 
 
 mate out to the stoning-ground, for as soon as any- 
 one of those who had stoned her met him eye to 
 eye he would know immediately why he — David — 
 had returned, and his own fear would be his be- 
 trayer. Then blood should atone for blood. . . . 
 He felt that to have that stain on his bare hands 
 would be a release, a salve like an anointing with 
 oil and wine, a deliverance from the hollow and 
 aching void that had been his soul. 
 
 Now he was in the crooked street. . . . More 
 slowly he approached the arch. Above each of the 
 three lower doorways that opened into the house- 
 court was a ragged palm-branch — a poor echo of 
 the festival. The double door at the head of the 
 steps was closed. David's heart winced as he raised 
 his eyes to it. . . . It seemed to him that a person 
 differing entirely from himself had stood on the 
 threshold of that door looking straight into the 
 gold of the morning, while his exultant blood sang 
 like the immortal pulses of a god. 
 
 Overhead the unmistakable squalling wail of a 
 very young infant sounded. There were voices also. 
 David stepped back a pace, remaining unseen. 
 
 Two women had come out into the house-court. 
 
 "And as I was saying, Sara, a woman needs to 
 have four pairs of hands these days. What with 
 all the leavened-bread crumbs to be gathered up 
 and burnt, and all the wooden dishes rubbed with 
 a red-hot stone, and all the used clay pots broken 
 and thrown out, and the grain-mortar filled with 
 hot coals to cleanse it, the Passover's no holiday 
 for me, let me tell you. I haven't a foot to stand 
 on, and that's the truth ! And then the five-days 
 boy upstairs — Heaven bless him ! and Dinah fit for
 
 210 REVELATION 
 
 nothing, sick or lazy — I don't know which. . . . 
 My back feels as though it were broken across 
 from stooping after all those crumbs of bread." 
 
 "I am sorry. ..." (This voice had a dove-like 
 quality — the other had resembled the raucous 
 clucking of a hen.) "But it is better to be weary 
 from work than to be laid aside. Three weeks ago, 
 as you know, I could not even lift my own hand — I 
 lay on my bed and wept to see others doing what 
 I could not. But God is good. . . . The prophet 
 from Galilee restored me — may his name be a 
 blessing!" 
 
 "That was on the morning when Naomi's David 
 told his mother he was going to marry the Gentile 
 dancing- girl who died and was brought to life 
 again. ..." 
 
 The busy, clucking voice trailed off — or seemed 
 to. David, standing by the street wall a pace from 
 the archway, heard again in spirit the hoarse ap- 
 peals of a leper, Rama's one word, "Master"; and 
 again it seemed to him that Astarte, white as death 
 and golden as fire, lay at his feet on the torn mat- 
 tress with livid lips that had been robbed of breath 
 and the sky above him was that of a clear saffron 
 morning. . . . Someone paused before him, and he 
 looked at this man, and their eyes mingled. Then 
 the man stooped . . . and Rama uttered a little cry 
 of pure joy. -. . . 
 
 With a sharp, incoherent utterance, he drew a 
 hand, palm outward, across his eyes. His braced 
 shoulders sagged. Some energy had been suddenly 
 and definitely withdrawn from him — the energy 
 urging him to kill. Every tense muscle relaxed — as 
 they had relaxed that night on the Mount of Olives
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 211 
 
 when the glimmering figure moved towards him 
 down-hill between the olive-trees. That figure did 
 not seem to bear any relation to the scourge-tat- 
 tered body of a mute man nailed to a gibbet. . . . 
 No, he could not kill — the flame had died and there 
 remained only a handful of ashes. An immeasur- 
 able hopelessness enveloped him. 
 
 He stood for a long time in the one place. Sev- 
 eral people passed him. He was quite purposeless. 
 The inertia of despair seemed to eat inward to the 
 very heart of him as quicklime eats through flesh 
 and bone. The impending darkness deepened — its 
 suggestion of thunder was so imminent that the 
 rigid air seemed to be listening for it like a mo- 
 tionless sentient creature in a wood of Fear. 
 Through the lattice of a hanging window the light 
 of a lamp, kindled in an upper room, trickled, 
 smoky-yellow. 
 
 "Lord, spare us all ! How dark it's got ! I'll have 
 to light the lamps — just as if I hadn't enough to 
 do. ..." 
 
 Hasty, yet dragging sandalled feet struck sound 
 from the cobbles of the house-court — clip-clap, 
 clip-clap. 
 
 The physical darkness invaded David's conscious- 
 ness — it met the spiritual darkness that was already 
 there, and the two became one. . . . And this dual 
 night widened outward from the Hill of the Skull. 
 . . . His will stirred. It was as though one be- 
 trayed by Fate should fling wide his arms to all 
 that he had held off from him with his last shred 
 of strength — an embrace namelessly terrible as 
 the union of manhood with the destroying sphynx, 
 the inhuman ecstasy of self-surrender to the forces
 
 212 REVELATION 
 
 of death. . . . Light had been niched from him. 
 Very well ! The darkness should possess him as 
 sable waters lave the limbs of a swimmer in a mid- 
 night sea. He experienced a species of exultation 
 that was in its essence more terrible than despair. 
 Where there is no hope there can be no further 
 suffering of any kind. The lover in whose breast 
 her brazen claws had fastened pressed his lips with 
 a ferocity transcending that of passion to the 
 mouth of the sphynx. . . . 
 
 He moved. He traversed street after street. The 
 obscurity was that of a premature nightfall. The 
 lilies above the doorways showed pallid as the linen 
 bands that enwind the dead. Desertion reigned 
 everywhere, for everyone expected the stall of 
 lightning and a deluge of rain. The city had the 
 appearance of a town that has been decimated by 
 pestilence and stands empty under the still-lower- 
 ing wrath that has smitten it. 
 
 At the Damascus Gate the Roman sentinel, 
 leaning on his spear, cocked an anxious eye up- 
 ward. 
 
 A long, hollow wailing, thrice repeated, drifted 
 out under the heaven that was now a uniform violet 
 pall. The ram's-horn trumpets of the Temple an- 
 nounced that the slaughter of the many thousands 
 of unblemished male lambs had commenced. 
 
 For the second time that day the city lay behind 
 David. . . . The Hill of the Skull drew him — he 
 would taste and handle that which had tortured his 
 soul to death. 
 
 The Damascus road was as lifeless now as the 
 ways of the town. A bird flew low, uttering no 
 cry. As David's sandals smote the dry rock of the
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 213 
 
 fleshless hillslope his footsteps seemed to be the 
 only sound between heaven and earth. . . . 
 
 Against the three crosses the blood-drained 
 bodies of the crucified men hung wanly. A dozen 
 or so of people stood about— they did not seem to 
 be speaking. Sentinels had been posted, but the re- 
 mainder sat at ease on the ground in an irregular 
 group. There was a very faint rattle as dice were 
 shaken into a metal helmet. At the foot of the 
 central cross someone huddled, seeming to have 
 flung both arms about it. Three other figures 
 stood together by this cross — two women and a lad. 
 
 A qualm of pity touched David. The naked body 
 nailed to the midmost cross had been borne by a 
 woman — flesh of her flesh. The nails that trans- 
 fixed the hands and feet had pierced this woman's 
 heart also. . . . Darkness — and ever deeper dark- 
 ness. . . . Why should he pity? That which had 
 ordered all things was pitiless. It had killed his 
 soul, and now he could look it between the eyes 
 without even the quiver of a quailing nerve. Where 
 there is no hope there is no fear, and without fear 
 there is no pain. . . . Why should he pity others 
 when neither he nor they were pitied by that which 
 over-ruled them. A feeling of stony indifference 
 hardened him inwardly, and he welcomed it. He 
 folded his arms across his breast. 
 
 The mounted centurion sat his horse as though 
 both he and it were cast in bronze. The thrown 
 dice rattled in the helmet. 
 
 "Body o' Bacchus !" grunted the thrower. 
 
 Aerain came the minute tinkle of the dice — audi- 
 ble only because the world seemed to hold its 
 breath.
 
 214 REVELATION 
 
 "My God! My God! Why hast Thou forsaken 
 me?" 
 
 It was a sudden, ringing cry from the mute, cen- 
 tral cross. A terrible cry. . . . Desolation. 
 
 The centurion turned his head. The onlookers 
 stirred. A fresh ripple of interest appeared to 
 quicken them. 
 
 Scarcely a quiver of expression passed across 
 David's face. . . . 
 
 God forsook everyone, from the first even to the 
 last. To the eyes of his mind creation's misery of 
 betrayal flowed past him where he stood, like a 
 black, shoreless tide, freighted with infinite wreck- 
 age. . . . 
 
 The violet darkness deepened, if that were possi- 
 ble. The immobility of the air was as that of a 
 stretched bowstring. Surely the rain would come. 
 
 The head that was crowned with thorns lifted. 
 
 "It is finished!" 
 
 The second cry rang louder than the first — 
 clearer. It resembled, strangely, the victory-cry of 
 the exhausted but triumphant runner, falling for- 
 ward as he attains the goal. 
 
 A tremor shook the ground. Then the hill 
 heaved like a sea-swell. The three laden crosses 
 trembled — rocked like the bare masts of a careen- 
 ing ship. The dumb lips of the earth parted, and a 
 fissure gaped. A fugitive glare of heat lightning 
 flickered from zenith to horizon. From the shaken 
 city came the crash of collapsing walls. 
 
 A terrified babble broke out upon the Hill of the 
 Skull. Some, thrown down by the earthquake, re- 
 mained upon all fours, striking their foreheads 
 against the gravel, and calling upon God. Others
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 215 
 
 hurried, scrambling and stumbling, down the hill, 
 instinctively seeking shelter. 
 
 David stood his ground, rigid as the Roman sen- 
 tinels whom discipline had converted into statues 
 of men. He had turned his face to the livid light- 
 ning glare, and his lips writhed back as though he 
 would have laughed again. . . . The man whom he 
 had followed as the invincible Messiah of God — 
 the Holy One of Israel — was dead upon a gibbet 
 between two thieves ; the glory was a heavy and 
 stagnant darkness, and Jerusalem — shaken by no 
 winds of triumph, and chariots of angels — was a 
 grey, huddled city in the power of a chance-born 
 earthquake. . . . 
 
 The heaviness had lightened perceptibly. The air 
 stirred, agitating the dry weeds that grew between 
 the stones. No rain had fallen. . . . 
 
 V 
 
 "Come here, Astarte. Come and look." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Three men going to be crucified. Come quick, 
 or you'll miss them !" 
 
 "I don't want to look. I wouldn't look if there 
 were a hundred of them ! . . . I wish I'd never been 
 born." 
 
 There was the breath-catching of a sob. 
 
 The tripping ring of the shod hoofs of a walking 
 horse was unmistakable. . . . Salome, lounging on 
 shabby red cushions in the hanging window, had 
 thrust her face right against the grating. 
 
 "Oh — the poor brutes !" she said. . . . "Don't cry 
 — there's a darling!"
 
 216 REVELATION 
 
 She drew back from the grating, gathered her- 
 self up, and crossed the floor. 
 
 Astarte lay on the red mattress. Her hair was 
 dishevelled, her eyes inflamed. Salome put her 
 bangle-laden arms about her. 
 
 "My poor little pigeon of a sister! Don't break 
 your heart over a man, dearie — they only amuse 
 themselves with us." 
 
 Astarte began to sob hysterically again, hiding 
 her face against Salome's bosom. Her own im- 
 pulses had been thwarted for five days, and she was 
 enraged, and helpless, and unhappy. Salome's hag 
 of a mother would not permit her to leave the 
 house — she was as much a prisoner as when she 
 had lived under the authority of Dekerto. And she 
 wanted David. She was afraid of the house-court 
 and of all the people of the neighbourhood, but she 
 wanted to go to him, feverishly, unreasonably, per- 
 sistently. . . . Quite possibly, if the door had been 
 unbarred for her to pass out, she would have stayed 
 where she was, uncertain between her love-need 
 and her physical fear. But the door remained 
 barred, and she raged and sulked. 
 
 "There— there! I'll grant he's handsome and 
 talked honey to you — but they all do that. It's a 
 rotten fig to a cake of raisins that if you met him a 
 month from now and asked him to tell you your 
 name he couldn't do it. A man pays no more real 
 attention to the women he kisses than to the plat- 
 ters he eats off. . . . But it's hard, sometimes, not 
 to care. One of Herod's athletes used to come 
 here last year. I was crazy about him, so I know 
 
 what it feels like. . . . Let me make you pretty 
 
 there's a darling! Nothing helps one more than
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 217 
 
 eye-paint, and some trinkets, and a smell of myrrh 
 about one's clothes.'' 
 
 Astarte allowed herself to be partially comforted. 
 She sat up and bathed her face, and Salome combed 
 out her hair with a bone comb and bound her brows 
 with a plaited green-and-purple fillet. Then she 
 dressed her in a very short green jacket, stiff with 
 silver thread, and a skirt of purple silk that fell 
 from a low, tinselled loin-belt. Betwixt belt and 
 jacket the satin skin, magnolia-white, was exposed. 
 Rounded silver anklets set off her narrow ankles. 
 Salome arranged the little pots of kohl, vermilion, 
 and blue paint for the eyelids, and the brushes with 
 which to apply them. 
 
 "If I didn't love you like my own sister I'd be 
 jealous !" she said. 
 
 "Salome ! Oh, Salome !" 
 
 The calling voice creaked like a rusted door- 
 hinge. 
 
 The plump-figured girl rose with a sort of grunt 
 from where she had knelt behind the array of tiny 
 beauty pots. 
 
 "I wanted to finish you myself — it's like dressing 
 a doll. But sit quite still, and perhaps I will soon 
 be back." 
 
 She went out. 
 
 Astarte took up a mirror — a slightly convex disc 
 of pale, polished bronze, whose handle was a nude 
 female figure, its arms at its sides. She looked at 
 her reflection. It pleased her, and for the moment 
 she felt almost happy. An odour of myrrh clung 
 to the garments that semi-clothed her. If a white- 
 and-tawny lily could become self-conscious — aware 
 of its blended milk and gold, its satin contours — its
 
 218 REVELATION 
 
 spontaneous self-delight would have been very sim- 
 ilar. . . . Then a needle-like pang stabbed her. 
 David should see her now. David should enter by 
 the doorway through which Salome had gone out. 
 What was the use of dressing-up if David could not 
 see her? Her demands from life narrowed to one 
 only — the embrace of his arms. Her mind-picture 
 of him incarnated everything that was passionately 
 desirable. . . . She must escape. She felt that ^he 
 could not endure the passage of another day! But 
 would he have altered towards her on account of 
 Valerius? It was as though a cold wind blew in 
 upon her. She was divided between desire, doubt, 
 and resentment against this doubt ; against her cap- 
 tivity, against the Roman who had offended her 
 self-esteem and involved her in contrary circum- 
 stances. It was unbearable that she could not have 
 what she wanted! Then she recalled David- 
 kisses, and her heart seemed to melt like wax in 
 fire. . . . 
 
 She sat straight-backed upon the mattress, her 
 eyes vital and having a kind of driven lu<>k. Her 
 impulses resembled a chariot-team of unschooled, 
 spirited horses fretting, fighting, and straining in 
 opposite directions. 
 
 The room, semi-dark always, had grown murky. 
 The day, evidently, had become overcast — a po- 
 ble presage of thunder and rain. One drew an in- 
 voluntary deep breath, as though to obtain a 
 draught of air that would satisfy, and so became 
 conscious of a sense of oppression. 
 
 Astarte drew just such a breath. A considerable 
 time had elapsed since Salome's outgoing.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 219 
 
 There was a footstep. Someone entered the 
 room, and Astarte turned her head. 
 
 "Eh, dear! how dark it's got! Get up, there's a 
 good girl," said a creaking voice. 
 
 It was Salome's mother. 
 
 Astarte rose. 
 
 "Now listen to me. There's a gentleman down- 
 stairs we want to please. . . . Come down now, and 
 show him the stomach dance.'' 
 
 "Yes ..." said Astarte. She felt listless — in- 
 different. 
 
 The hag-like woman who had Once been a beauty 
 came close to her, turned her about with little pat- 
 ting touches. 
 
 "Oh, pretty — very pretty. . . . You're a jewel — 
 that's what you are, my dear." 
 
 A half-formed thought dawned in Astarte's 
 mind. . . . Perhaps if she danced really well and 
 Salome's mother was very pleased with her she 
 would be allowed to go out. . . . She permitted 
 herself to be overlooked and patted with the pas- 
 sivity with which she had endured Dekerto's plump 
 hands. Then she followed the mother of Salome 
 out of the chamber which, during the last half- 
 hour, had seemed to darken from moment to mo- 
 ment. An outer room lay beyond it, and then a 
 stair descending into the interior court. On the 
 curb of the well that was in this court sat a grey 
 and rose coloured parrot with a clipped wing. It 
 seemed to feel the menace of the heavy sky, for its 
 plumage was ruffled as though it were sick or 
 moulting. 
 
 In the principal chamber of the house several
 
 220 REVELATION 
 
 lamps had been lighted. Carpets of fairly good 
 quality hung against the walls. The air, un- 
 refreshed, unsunned, and cool as a cellar, smelt 
 rather mustily of musk. On a cushion a stoutish, 
 bearded man sat cross-legged, a fat hand on each 
 thigh. Salome leaned against him, one arm about 
 his neck. She had assumed an air of pliant and 
 inviting surrender as an actor in a Greek comedy 
 dons a smiling mask. 
 
 "Here is the dancer, sir. A paragon — a rival <-i 
 the full moon." Then, in a half-whisper to As- 
 tarte : "Stand under the lamp. Now do well, there's 
 a dear. He's got money." 
 
 Suspended by a chain from the ceiling was a 
 quadruple bronze lamp with a flame at each of it^ 
 four lips. Automatically Astarte >alaamed, salut- 
 ing the stout, seated man. and Salome, withdrawing 
 her bare arm from about his neck, took into her 
 lap a tambourine. Astarte drew a slow, prepara- 
 tory breath. She was neither pleased nor sullen. 
 She wanted to gratify Salome's mother, and it \ 
 as easy to dance as to walk. . . . 
 
 The butter-yellow light of the lamps was the 
 only illumination. Salome's mother squatted on the 
 floor, each of her innumerable wrinkles the im- 
 print of a sin; her finger-tips stained auburn with 
 henna, as though she were still a beauty. A cock- 
 roach hastened with a dry scuttle from one van- 
 tage point to another. Beneath the suspended four- 
 fold lamp Astarte stood, veiled in the wonder of 
 her hair like a fountain image in the falling waters 
 of a fountain of red gold. 
 
 Salome raised the tambourine and rapped the
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 221 
 
 stretched parchment with the knuckles of her right 
 hand. There was a light thud, and a jingle. 
 
 With effortless instancy Astarte assumed the 
 first posture of the stomach dance. Her trained 
 muscles had obeyed the signal as a snake-charmer's 
 serpents respond to the first quaver of his flute. 
 
 Thud, jingle; thud, jingle. The rhythmic rap and 
 shake of the tambourine was measured, monoton- 
 ous, yet stimulating. Astarte did not dance with 
 the laughing and vital abandon of Semla, but she 
 was more beautiful than a dream, and her air of 
 mechnical performnce threw, as it were, a veil 
 about the gestures and muscle-play, heightening 
 their allure as a film of fine silk trebles the potency 
 of the almond-white body it partially blurs. 
 
 The stout man's nostrils dilated, and his coarse 
 lips seemed to bulge outward, becoming looser and 
 moister. Salome's mother, squatting like a mag- 
 nified spider, beamed, mentally felicitating herself. 
 A dew of perspiration stood on Astarte's forehead 
 as on the forehead of Semla when she salaamed, 
 panting, to the guests of Herod. . . . For several 
 moments she held the final pose — purged of its 
 grossness by the golden fire of her beauty and the 
 snow of her indifference. Then she relaxed, bent 
 from the hips, and saluted again the man upon 
 the cushion. 
 
 Salome's mother scrambled up. 
 
 "Did I not tell you the truth, sir — and less than 
 the truth? You won't find her equal anywhere, and 
 her hair is not dyed." 
 
 The stout man grunted, his hot, black-brown 
 eyes on Astarte. 
 
 "Mother " said Salome.
 
 222 REVELATION 
 
 "Be quiet — you!" Then again suave and wheed- 
 ling: "What is your will, sir?'' 
 
 The stout man blew out his nostrils like a buffalo. 
 
 "The dancer. . . . Yes." 
 
 He fumbled and drew forth a purse. Into the 
 avid palm of Salome's mother he dropped five 
 pieces of gold. 
 
 Suddenly the carpet-hidden walls quivered. The 
 carpets swayed outward as though a storn 
 had nosed its way behind them, bellying them. The 
 suspended lamp swung like a pendulum, its four 
 flames fluttering like frightened breath. The house 
 rocked. 
 
 Astarte heard an inarticulate fear-sound. She 
 was aware of screams that seemed to come from 
 some other part of the house The flo,.r heaved. 
 One of the smaller lamps that was set on a led 
 fell, and broke, and a thin blue flame flickered o> 
 the spilt oil. Relief, equalling her horror, bathed 
 her as with sweet waters. She was incapable 
 the moment of anything else. At the other end of 
 the room a panic-stricken bulk belaboured the shut 
 door with thick fists. 
 
 There was a crash and louder screams. The walls 
 seemed to bend inward. A crack zig-zagged like 
 a quiver of lightning across the ceiling from side 
 to side. Suddenly the suspended lamp fell. Dark- 
 ness, with little licking flames crawling at or 
 feet. A howl of cringing fear, and a frantic tattoo 
 of fists upon a door that would not yield. Then 
 showering missiles as though the solid structure of 
 all things were crumbling piecemeal. A blurred 
 cataract of sound. The consciousness of a blow 
 that in that same instant destroyed consciousness
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 223 
 
 as a hammer-stroke annihilates some fragile organ- 
 ism that is blotted 'into not-being too suddenly for 
 
 pain. . . . 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the Roman prison it had become too dark to 
 distinguish anything save the lighter darkness of 
 the two-foot square gratings. The obscene sen- 
 tences scrawled with nail-points or charcoal on the 
 defiled walls where vermin crept, had vanished, and 
 the caricatures of Roman officers likewise, and the 
 names and initials of names. Only the stench re- 
 mained — full-bodied, unescapable, palpable almost. 
 
 Cymon gnawed unconsciously at his nails. He 
 was still standing erect. The floor, littered down in 
 one place with reeking straw, was fouler than the 
 underfoot of a cattle-pen. His thoughts were black 
 — black as a pit of pitch. . . . The colossal injus- 
 tice of the whole scheme of things towered before 
 him. The contemplation of it roused in him a fury 
 that was as useless as rage directed against an ava- 
 lanche, for it was impersonal, unintelligently ironic. 
 But those upon whom it inflicted agony were sen- 
 tient — self-conscious. ... If only it were en- 
 dowed with personality so that he could curse and 
 insult it ! He would have given ten years of his 
 life to believe vividly in immortal gods who heard 
 and saw — at whom he could shake his clenched fist, 
 blackening their names with his contemptuous hate. 
 . . . He was in this stinking den because he had 
 championed an abused criminal. Justice ! Faugh ! 
 A sensible person, properly cynical, would have 
 stood on the footway with folded arms and per- 
 mitted the Roman to kick the fallen man to death
 
 224 REVELATION 
 
 if he chosen to do so. Each for himself. There was 
 nothing beyond that, or above 
 
 Beneath his feet the ground heaved. The walls 
 trembled. There was a Low-pitched muttering 
 rumble like deadened thunder, or as though the 
 earth groaned. Then crashes, distant and near at 
 hand. The heavy door through which he had been 
 thrust swung suddenly open, for its outer fasten- 
 ings had parted. 
 
 It was a moment or two before he realized what 
 had happened. . . . The door was open. He 
 staggered, almost losing his balance, as the place 
 where he was rocked like a cradle ; then sprang to 
 the gaping doorway. A stone passage ran back 
 from it to a twisting flight of steps. He saw no 
 one, and leapt for these steps like a slipped gr< 
 hound. They led up to a guard-r* mm. It \ 
 empty. He gained its outer doorway, crossed a 
 court — and was in the freedom of the tangled 
 streets. 
 
 It had all been so swift, so unimaginable, that 
 his first sensation of relict was limited to his de- 
 liverance from the intolerable stench. He drew in 
 the air like a person who has barely escaped suffo- 
 cation. Then he was running — heading for the pot- 
 ter's yard. 
 
 In the dim streets there were many terrified 
 people who had run out of their houses at the earth- 
 quake. Their holiday clothes appeared ludicrous 
 contrasted with their fear-sallowed faces. They 
 huddled together, not knowing what to expect. 
 The black sky lowered as though pregnant with an 
 appalling downpour of rain. Through the lattice of
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 225 
 
 hanging-windows lamplight was visible. Here and 
 there a wall had collapsed. 
 
 Cymon kept on at a run. He was concerned 
 solely with his anxiety to reach the potter's yard. 
 It urged him like a spur. But an under-current of 
 his thought dwelt on the coincidence of his deliver- 
 ance. ... If he had had belief in any gods it would 
 have possessed a quite staggering significance — 
 personal as the spoken message of an oracle. But 
 there were no gods. . . . 
 
 There was no one in the potter's yard. He 
 climbed the crumbling exterior stair, panting like a 
 dog, with a taste of blood in his mouth. By the 
 parapet someone cowered. 
 
 "Rama !" said Cymon. 
 
 There was a sound between a dry sob and a cry. 
 . . . His hands were upon the slight, cowering 
 figure. He was clung to — his arms shielded and 
 reassured the girl who clung to him. She was 
 sobbing, but without tears, her throat dry from 
 fear. He could feel the nervous pulsating of her 
 heart, beating just above his own, which had been 
 quickened distressfully by running. She was a 
 terrified child clinging to someone older and better 
 equipped to meet the hazards of Fate than herself. 
 A grateful spiritual warmth suffused Cymon's con- 
 sciousness. He was aware of a new, full-grown 
 self-confidence as though he had suddenly acquired 
 the height and thews of adult manhood. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, Rama. I — I could not get back 
 before. I was prevented. . . . The earthquake is 
 over." 
 
 "Oh! I thought everything would — would be 
 shaken down. And it is so dark. The sky looks
 
 226 REVELATION 
 
 like the anger of God! I thought this building 
 would fall and I would be crushed. ... It may 
 come again !" 
 
 "No, no. It's over." 
 
 Her whole body trembled. She had never exper- 
 ienced an earthquake before, and it had seemed 
 the first throe of a catastrophe that was to end the 
 world. 
 
 Cymon had said that the danger was ended, but 
 he recalled that such shocks were often successive, 
 like sea-waves. If another came the roof where 
 they were might collapse. ... It would be better 
 to go beyond the city and remain for a while where 
 there were no walls to crumble. 
 
 "Rama," he said, "there is nothing to be afraid 
 of now, but I think we will go out of the town — 
 just for a short time. It's not far to the Damascus 
 Gate." 
 
 "Oh, yes! Let us go!" 
 
 The blind instinct of flight was strong in her. 
 She wanted to get far away from structures of 
 stone that quivered and vibrated, threatening to 
 crash to the ground. Her eyes, so like an ante- 
 lope's, were swimming with the same liquid terror. 
 
 Overhead the sky had lightened a little. A stirring 
 of the air — which had been inert as a thing para- 
 lyzed — fanned their faces, hers blanched by fear, 
 his by over-exertion. They descended the steps 
 and crossed the potter's yard. Cymon upheld the 
 girl by an arm about her, for her knees yielded as 
 they had done when the strong tremor of the earth- 
 quake flung her prone upon the roof. No one gave 
 them a second look. The city was cowed — dis- 
 organized. People wandered about in the aimless
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 227 
 
 manner of poultry scattered from their roosting- 
 place by the midnight onslaught of a fox. Some 
 had dragged furnishings and bundles of valuables 
 out into the street. As the two passed out under 
 the Damascus Gate a straggling handful of men 
 and youths were entering the city. They had a 
 hang-dog look. One or two struck their breasts 
 rhythmically with their clenched hands as in the 
 usage of the synagogues at the formal confession 
 of sin. As the lowering sky continued, perceptibly, 
 to lighten their breast-strikings lessened, after the 
 manner of a fetish-worshipper's babble of invoca- 
 tions which die off with the passing of the danger. 
 There was no speech among them. They seemed 
 ashamed of each other. Their shuffling feet raised 
 a momentary dust — dust on which blood had fallen 
 three hours before leaving black stains. 
 
 Cymon, the semi-starved Greek outcast sprung 
 from a line of patriots and dreamers, and the home- 
 less Hebrew girl who was still more child than 
 woman— a pair of strays — turned aside from the 
 Damascus road, dappled with dry dung, following a 
 camel-path that led towards a green mist of spring 
 foliage. To the right, some distance off, was a low, 
 bald hill — a mere rise. Three crosses crowned it, 
 for it was the place of execution. Cymon glanced 
 that way. From a sudden rift in the leaden heavi- 
 ness a sword-stroke of sunlight, stormily golden, 
 struck downward, bathing the central cross, caus- 
 ing it to stand out extraordinarily like a right- 
 angled symbol of gold against a sheet of purplish 
 slate. The sagging naked figure that hung against 
 it, motionless as though carved from ivory or bone, 
 was wonderfully distinct. One could even see from
 
 228 REVELATION 
 
 that distance that the dropped head was filleted in 
 some fashion. . . . "It's the man who fell in the 
 street — the man who was crowned with thorns," 
 said Cymon's thought. "I didn't do much for him!" 
 
 Soldiers moved between the crosses, their helmets 
 catching the momentary stormy light. . . . There 
 was a dreadful scream, as though a soul were being 
 rent from a body like quivering entrails from a 
 living carcass ; and then another. . . . The soldiers 
 had struck the two crucified caravan robbers with 
 clubs, breaking their legs above and below the knee. 
 The purpose of these blows was to procure imme- 
 diate death. Before nightfall the bodies would be 
 cast out upon the smouldering refuse heaps in the 
 Valley of Hinnom. 
 
 At the death-screams Rama started like a touched 
 hare, clutching Cymon. 
 
 "It's nothing — it's the executions on the Hill of 
 
 the Skull," he said quickly. "Don't look It's 
 
 finished now. The poor wretches are dead." 
 
 They kept on, walking in the soft dust of the 
 camel-path. It skirted a hedge enclosing a closely 
 planted garden where the sprinkled blossoms of a 
 few fruit-trees resembled small white butterflies 
 or the petals of roses. Against the scarped face of 
 a bank which the hedge crowned branches leaned. 
 covered with mats — the shelter of a pilgrim or 
 nomad. It was untenanted, and the ashes of the 
 little fire that had been kindled before it were 
 several days old. 
 Cymon halted. 
 
 "We won't go any farther." he said. "To-morrow 
 is the Sabbath, when I can earn nothing in the city
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 229 
 
 anyhow. We will stay here until the day follow- 
 ing. 
 
 Rama, standing in the camel-path, her narrow, 
 sandalled feet dust-whitened, looked at the green 
 of the spring that spoke to the eyes like the babble 
 of water to the ears of a wayfarer in an arid land. 
 
 Quiet surrounded them, fringed by indeterminate 
 sounds that were all distant. 
 
 "I — I think it is beautiful here." 
 
 Beneath the shelter more mats had been spread, 
 covering the bare earth ; and at the bottom of a 
 hanging pouch of goatskin was a little of the aro- 
 matic honey of wild bees. To this Cymon added 
 a handful of figs. They sat on the mats in the 
 shade of the half-hut, dipping the figs in the honey 
 before they ate them. The extraordinarily overcast 
 day continued to clear, and here and there a more 
 diffused sunlight glinted wanly. Somewhere an 
 insect chirped. In the shadow under the bank there 
 was a smell of growing grass, moist earth, and 
 fire-ashes, with an elusive thread of hidden violet 
 or lily scent. Rama's panic fell away from her. 
 She smiled faintly at Cymon when he spoke to her 
 or she answered him. Her lucid eyes were of a 
 golden-brown now that the fear-dilated pupils had 
 contracted. For the, first time since she had be- 
 come an outcast a little feeling of happiness stole 
 over her. 
 
 Cymon had stretched himself at full length, 
 munching honey-sweetened figs with an unusual 
 sensation of contentment. He observed Rama's 
 slim hands, the pathos of her profile, the youth of 
 her throat and slightly rounded shoulders. He was 
 aware of a keen protective impulse — poignant, but
 
 230 REVELATION 
 
 not painful — and, strangely, the flattering sense of 
 self-confidence again possessed him like a grateful 
 warmth that was both spiritual and physical. 
 
 In the hedged garden above them was the sparse 
 white and pink blossom-snow of April, and in the 
 thorn bushes and the new, tender grass beside the 
 camel-path the sap stirred, quickening towards self- 
 fulfilment and efflorescence. 
 
 VI 
 
 When David for the second time descended the 
 cityward slopes of the Hill of the Skull, no purpose 
 drove him — he was raked by the spur of no emotion. 
 He walked like an automaton that has been set in 
 movement by some independent intelligence. 
 Ahead, others were descending. They stumbled, 
 and the stones turned noisily under their feet. The 
 shiver of reviving air that had followed the earth- 
 quake again set the wretched weeds trembling. 
 
 Spiritually he might have been compared to one 
 who, having just died, moves in a new world which 
 holds as yet no meaning for him. But it was his soul 
 which was dead. His body lived ; he walked, he 
 saw, he felt the stirring air against his face. He 
 observed the motions of a half-bearded, neurotic- 
 looking youth who struck his breast and muttered 
 like a person deranged, but they conveyed nothing 
 to him. As he approached the city it was as though 
 he were about to enter a foreign town, where every- 
 thing was separate from all previous experience, 
 but the very stones of it were saturated with the 
 emotions he had undergone ; and the attenuated 
 ghosts of these emotions, voiceless and powerless,
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 231 
 
 walked with him. He looked at the houses, the 
 street-arches, the deserted shop-alcoves. The moist 
 flights of stone steps climbing the hillsides between 
 huddling walls appeared as strange as staircases in 
 a dream that might lead to anything or nothing. 
 Yet unsubstantial shapes — wraiths of aspiration — 
 ascended and descended them, irridescent as the 
 beings in Jacob's vision of the ladder between 
 heaven and earth. David recognized these wraiths 
 — -they joined the many ghosts that accompanied 
 him. He did not curl his lip at them now as he 
 would have done an hour before — all feeling seemed 
 as dead in him as his soul. 
 
 A heap of rubble blocked his way. A house had 
 been shaken down, the walls falling inward, and 
 was now a mound of tumbled masonry above which 
 the stone-dust hung like a thinning smoke. 
 
 He halted, and his gaze, which had been level, 
 lowered. At his feet the upper half of a girl's body, 
 and her bent, outflung arm lay clear of the wreck- 
 age. Her henna-coloured hair, outspread beneath 
 her head, accentuated the utter pallor of her face 
 as a barbaric setting of red-gold enhances the stain- 
 lessness of a pearl. 
 
 A shudder passed over David like that which 
 flees across the limbs of a waking sleeper. His 
 brows contracted. Hiis lips parted as though he 
 were about to speak, but without uttering a word 
 he dropped on one knee and caught the girl's half- 
 contracted hand between his own — almost as a man 
 might catch at the trailing garment of a dream or 
 at the phantom flowers of a mirage of the sands. 
 
 The lax hand was faintly warm. A trace of living 
 moisture dwelt like dew in the palm of it.
 
 232 REVELATION 
 
 "Astarte!" 
 
 It was a vibrant cry that rang from end to end 
 of the street, confined by the age-grey walls of the 
 deaf and blind houses. 
 
 The ice had broken. The beating of his heart 
 shook him as though it were the pounding hoof- 
 strokes of a galloping horse. Passing his arm be- 
 neath the girl's shoulders he drew her right out. 
 There was no apparent mark upon her save slight 
 bruises, and no bone had been shattered. She was 
 clothed in a skirt of purple silk and a green jacket 
 sewn with silver. As he knelt on one knee David 
 took her into his arms and pressed his mouth on 
 hers. A roseate glow enveloped him. The gh<> 
 and wraiths that had borne him company — where 
 were they? He was alone in the rubbish-blockd 
 street with his love-mate's breathing body in his 
 arms. . . . 
 
 Astonishment did not touch him, nor any specula- 
 tion. She was not dead — her limbs had not been 
 crammed into some dusty cranny of the vile Valley 
 of Hinnom to rot where the city's refuse smouldered 
 and festered. She was living, satin-skinned, fra- 
 grant with the fragrance of musk. The numbr 
 passed from him, and the sense of detachment and 
 of unreality. The houses that surrounded him be- 
 came substantial again and endowed with ordinary 
 significance. Life had a meaning though his faith 
 and his aspiration had been hurled from their pedes- 
 tals in one common ruin. It could still throb with 
 joy and yield delights that were both physical and 
 spiritual. His divinity was gathered in his arms — 
 more beautiful than all the jewels of the world. 
 He would worship her — she should be his idol of
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 233 
 
 gold and ivory, his Holy of Holies, his oasis of lilies 
 and pomegranate trees. The God of his fathers, in 
 whose teeth he had flung the terrible laughter of 
 his disillusionment, had withdrawn from him until 
 He loomed only as a vast, cold shadow in the abyss. 
 His worship, his passionate devotion, his thirst for 
 union with the Ideal enveloped the unconscious girl 
 like a garment of soft, invisible flame. . . . 
 
 He stood up, holding Astarte easily. The impulse 
 of one who has found great riches and hastens to 
 conceal them urged him to bear her away. But 
 there was no place that was his own — he was house- 
 less, alone as a palm-tree in the desert. His thought 
 quested hither and thither. . . . The grotto in 
 the secluded and half-wild garden near the Damas- 
 cus Gate appeared before the eyes of his mind. It 
 was cool and secret — a place where he could clasp 
 and guard his treasure as a lioness fondles her 
 single cub in a covert. The current of men's affairs 
 would flow past them like water, its unrest sub- 
 dued to a low, continual murmur. 
 
 Gathering the girl up so that her head lay against 
 his shoulder, he turned back, going purposefully, 
 his eyes watchful for anything that might thwart 
 or hinder him, for the reborn life in him was like 
 the glitter of a drawn sword. 
 
 The people in the streets barely glanced at him 
 — a young man clad like a Gentile carrying a girl 
 who had been injured by the earthquake or who 
 had fainted from the fright of it. They were in- 
 finitely more concerned as to whether their cook- 
 ing utensils, shabby mattresses, and bundles of rai- 
 ment should remain on the footways or whether it 
 would now be safe to drag them back into the
 
 234 REVELATION 
 
 houses. Children were whimpering ; some of the 
 sallow women looked half-dead with panic, others 
 were querulous because their Passover house-clean- 
 ing, which had been interrupted, must be com- 
 pleted by sunset under pain of deadly sin. 
 
 "I tell you, Rachel, I must go indoors !" said one. 
 "The water's boiling away on the fire at this very 
 minute, and I've a pile of metal-ware as high as 
 my knees to scour!" 
 
 As David gained the threshold of the city a 
 stormy glare of sunlight struck earthward. With- 
 out conscious choice he followed a faint track from 
 which the hill of executions was invisible. Enter- 
 ing the garden he made his way between the 
 myrtles and apple-trees to the grotto beneath the 
 overhanging ledge, using the rough-cut steps that 
 led from one natural terrace to another. At the 
 back of the grotto the rock had been hewn away, 
 leaving a shelf of the length and width of a bier. 
 Upon this shelf the stiff, swaddled body of a dead 
 man or woman would be laid if the grotto should 
 at any time be put to the use for which it had been 
 hollowed out. 
 
 Laying Astarte for a moment in the lap of the 
 grass David heaped the burial shelf in the gr< 
 with the flowers of the spring — scarlet, blue, and 
 white anemones, narcissi, marigolds, and violets. 
 When ail was ready he lifted her to a resting-place 
 that was sweeter than the flower-strewn bed of a 
 bride. The ivy trails that hung down before the 
 grotto screened them even from the man-forgotten 
 garden. Seating himself upon the block of stone 
 David leaned forward, his eyes on the perfect face 
 of Astarte, his hand laid over one of hers. Her deep
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 235 
 
 unconsciousness scarcely troubled him. She 
 breathed; there was no mark on her. Presently 
 she would wake. He had thought her dead, and 
 she was living — his mind dwelt only upon that, 
 glowing, concentrated on the wonder of her like 
 a kneeling worshipper lost in contemplation of a 
 perfection that suffices the spirit as food satisfies 
 the body. He took no account of the passing of 
 time — his consciousness was suspended in an opal- 
 escent mist like that of a fakeer of the deserts who 
 sit for days together motionless as a rock. 
 
 Sunset came. The sky had entirely cleared, and 
 now swam with pale apple-green and the clear red 
 of fire-embers, overlaid with torn violet fleeces like 
 the imperial purple of a king. A refracted glow 
 dwelt in the grotto. David turned his head, listen- 
 ing. There was a murmur of voices, subdued as 
 the grieving of a dove. The garden had been 
 entered by others. . . . He rose and went towards 
 the sound, moving quietly. 
 
 At the higher end of the garden, set in a 
 smoothed rock-face, was the doorway of a com- 
 pleted tomb. It was closed by a great circular slab 
 that fitted into grooves cut in the rock. The re- 
 fracted sunset light gilded this slab, and the smooth 
 face of the little cliff and the pebbly stretch before 
 the sepulchre. David stood back in the shadow of 
 the close-growing myrtles and oleanders. 
 
 Six or seven people went by him at a little dis- 
 tance. One he recognized. It was John. At that 
 moment a woman walking between John and an- 
 other half-turned, looking back towards the door 
 of the tomb. Her face, framed in the folds of a 
 white head-covering, was colourless as wax. Her
 
 236 REVELATION 
 
 eyes swam with the glazing silver of tears. . . . 
 Another woman, whose loosened hair hung down, 
 sobbed audibly, her two hands covering her face a-. 
 she walked. John carried a fillet of thorns — his 
 arm hanging at his side as though it were weighted 
 with lead. He was unaware of David. 
 
 The brief sunset lustre failed, leaving the rock- 
 face cold as ashes. In the lucid green between the 
 violet cloud-strips a minute star sparkled — the 
 solemn Paschal Sabbath had begun. 
 
 David remained for several minutes in the place 
 where he was. He understood what he had seen. 
 . . . There had been a burial in the garden, and 
 the dead body laid in the tomb whose entrance was 
 closed now by the circular stone was that of the 
 crucilied Galilsean. This knowledge left him cold 
 as the stony earth between his feet. It seemed a 
 matter that held neither interest nor significance 
 for him. All that gave a purpose and a meaning 
 to his existence was bedded on spring flowers in 
 the grotto that opened where the apple and almond 
 trees were planted. He turned on this thought, 
 going downhill swiftly. 
 
 Presently all the stars came out and it was night. 
 David, sitting again upon the stone, laid his head 
 on the flowers where the head of Astarte rested, 
 and slept deeply. He dreamed of love that was 
 worship, and the joy of his dreaming touched his 
 lips with a smile. But Astarte's rest was dream- 
 less. The blow that had rendered her unconscious 
 when the house crumbled above her had caused an 
 inward bleeding of the brain. Her life ebbed like 
 a slowly receding tide while her body lay like that 
 of a sleeper lapped in the most perfect repose.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 237 
 
 Not half an arrow-flight away, in the nomad's 
 shelter beyond the foot of the garden, Rama slept 
 with her bent arm for a pillow. At the threshold 
 of the shelter Cymon had stretched himself. 
 
 On the following day — the Great Sabbath — a 
 sprinkle of spring rain fell, but between the light 
 showers the sun shone out and the garden droned 
 with the low, deep note of a hive as countless insects 
 thrummed. Nothing of Astarte stirred. Through- 
 out the day David watched by her. He drank from 
 a spring that bubbled in a hollow of the limestone 
 rock, but was aware of no hunger. He waited for 
 her awakening in the certainty of one who watches 
 a closed flower, knowing that at the ordained 
 moment the petals will open. His spirit was held 
 in a breathlessness that was in itself a species of 
 motionless rapture. He had no impatience, no 
 doubt, no fear. He did not again touch her with 
 his lips, but his eyes dwelt on her in the mild twilight 
 of the grotto, and the hours succeeded each other 
 almost without his knowledge. . . . 
 
 Beyond the garden and in the city the river of 
 circumstance flowed on — inexorable — moving stead- 
 ily to its unknown bourn. Between the showers 
 Cymon and Rama wandered down camel-paths, 
 goat-paths, and foot-tracks, gazed from a distance 
 at the sprawling encampments of the hundreds of 
 pilgrims who could find no shelter in the town, and 
 laughed at the skipping of the little lambs where a 
 few nomad shepherds fed their sheep. It was as 
 wonderful to Rama as a Paradise fresh from the 
 hands of God. She gathered the white brier roses 
 and smiled her soft, lip-curving smile when the 
 thorns wounded her. . . .
 
 238 REVELATION 
 
 At the gate of the house of Herod Iris, the blonde 
 Greek posturer, wrapped in a wine-coloured cloak, 
 stood like a soul whose wild eyes have just opened to 
 the icy half-light of Hades. Upon the previous night 
 she had endeavoured to stab or strangle herself, but 
 at the core she was a coward, squ< aling at the first 
 prick of pain. The coppery finger-prints of oncoming 
 leprosy had marked her body here and there, but to 
 the unpractised eye there was as yet no 1 
 her. She knew that this was so. With despair, fury, 
 and terror feeding upon her entrails like a triple- 
 headed serpent, she began to descend th< hat 
 led to the lower town. In some ho f wicl 
 — until her disease became apparent — she would c 
 fear and memory to feed the fires of excitement, care- 
 less of the foul infection she would spread, careless of 
 everything save delirious oblivion. . . . Beneath the 
 rubbish pile that marked the site of the bouse of 
 Salome were hidden the crushed bodies of Salon 
 mother and the stout man. The tumbl could 
 not be moved upon the Sabbath, so tl 
 not yet been discovered. Salome herself, who was 
 unhurt, had sheltered in the of a tax-collector, 
 whose trade — as a servant of the Roman rnment 
 — automatically rendered him and his family social 
 outcasts. His youngest child was ill with a teething 
 fever and colic pains, and Salon) 1 the mother 
 with it, weeping between whiles over the disappearance 
 of the girl whom she had adopted as a ... 
 In the house-court of Dinah and Naomi the God- 
 fearing husband of Dinah spoke with other sol 
 minded men of the neighbourhood. The earthquake 
 and darkness of the day before had interrupted the 
 slaughter of the Paschal lambs, and dislocated the
 
 TOE HILL OF THE SKULL 239 
 
 ceremonies. Very many had been unable to keep the 
 Law and eat the Passover that night. And also — this 
 was only to be spoken of in a whisper — the great 
 curtain of blue and purple and scarlet that hung before 
 the Holy of Holies, shutting all light from it, had 
 been rent asunder by the falling in opposite directions 
 of the two columns between which it was suspended ; 
 and the awful golden void of the inmost shrine was 
 laid bare. They were all agreed that these things were 
 a sign of the wrath of God. Hundreds of Jewish 
 people in the Holy City itself broke the Rabbinical 
 rules day in and day out — eating eggs that had been 
 laid by poultry on the Sabbath, taking more than the 
 permitted three steps before washing their hands and 
 faces on awaking from sleep, administering emetics, 
 kindling fires, and handling money at times when it 
 was forbidden to do so. Above, in the semi-dark 
 room where Dinah sat with her infant in her lap, 
 several women cackled over the earthquake, each ex- 
 aggerating her terror to prove that she had suffered 
 more severely than anyone else. ... In the guard- 
 room at the palace of the Governor everyone discussed 
 the action of the centurion who had supervised the 
 three crucifixions. He had resigned his command and 
 gone down into the city to find the followers of the 
 dead Galilaean. . . . 
 
 Night came again, flooded with the mild silver of 
 the Passover moon. In the grotto there was no sound. 
 David slept, his head pillowed by Astarte's. The 
 shepherd crouching on the hillside with a blanket about 
 his shoulders spread his palms to a handful of char- 
 coal embers, for the air was sharp ; but the steady 
 inner glow that pulsed like a heart through all his 
 dreaming lapped David from head to foot in a bland
 
 240 REVELATION 
 
 warmth. ... It was towards morning when he woke. 
 The moon had set hours before, and the first glimmer- 
 ing greyness that comes before the dawn lightened 
 along the eastward hills. There was a half articulate 
 sigh. The hand over which he had laid one of his 
 quivered. A thrill struck through him that was like 
 an arrow of golden summer lightning. 
 
 "Astarte . . ."he said. 
 
 It was the first word he had uttered since he drew 
 her from the ruins. 
 
 "David. ..." 
 
 Her voice was very faint, a mere shadow of a voice, 
 but her eyes were open. 
 
 "My happiness, my divinity, my heaven and earth !" 
 
 His arm was beneath her shoulders, his lips sealed 
 hers. Faintly he felt her lips respond. All his long, 
 frozen expectancy flashed into realization as a poised 
 wave breaks in a welter of diamonds and pearls and 
 snow-white flowers of foam. A gust of dry sobbing 
 contracted his throat and caught his breath. He bowed 
 his head until his forehead rested on the breast of the 
 girl — vaguely sweetened with the fragrance of musk. 
 
 "I believed that you were dead — that they had stoned 
 you. . . . Oh, Astarte, Astarte, without you there is 
 nothing! You are my life. You — only you — I wor- 
 ship! I will live for you — work for you as a slave 
 works. You are my divinity!" 
 
 He raised his face from her breast, looking down 
 into hers, his nostrils quivering, his lips unsteady as 
 those of a boy who has been weeping. The half- 
 veiled darkness of her eyes mingled with his. . . . 
 
 "David . . . I've wanted you so. I thought that I 
 should never seen you again. ... I want you 
 to love me. I want to be with you always. . . .j
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULE 241 
 
 I cannot be happy when I am not with you." 
 
 Her voice had strengthened a little. He could see 
 the movement of her lips as she spoke, for in the east 
 the morning star sickened. 
 
 "Nothing — neither God nor man — shall part us any 
 more! If God should hear me and strike you with 
 death, I will instantly kill myself and die with your 
 body in my arms. I live only in your life. I worship 
 you, Astarte!" 
 
 There was silence for a long moment as he passion- 
 ately kissed her again. 
 
 "David . . . raise my head a little." 
 
 He lifted her until her head lay against his breast. 
 
 "They were going to stone me, David. I was so 
 frightened — they seemed to hate me so." 
 
 "The wolves — the devils! I've cast them off — I 
 have no part with them now." 
 
 "You are not angry with me, are you?" 
 
 "Angry ! Astarte, how should I be angry with you ?" 
 
 "I was afraid that you would be very angry. . . . 
 But I don't love Valerius. . . . Afterwards I hated 
 him." 
 
 "Valerius?" 
 
 "He is the captain of Herod's guard. You fought 
 with him on the night when you took me away. . . . 
 I met him in the street, and he said that he wanted to 
 speak with me. So I went with him to the empty 
 house, and we sat by the fountain in the inner court. 
 ... I hate him now for what he did — I hate him, 
 David. And after he left me the men came, and your 
 mother. . . . Was it your mother who told you when 
 you came home?" 
 
 There was a pause before the answer.
 
 242 REVELATION 
 
 David's voice had dropped. It held now a peculiar 
 deadened quality as though he himself were detached 
 from it — groping to comprehend some hitherta in- 
 conceivable thing, as a blind man might fumble with 
 the coils of a half-guessed serpent-headed horror that 
 will presently destroy him. 
 
 "She was so angry that she could scarcely speak. 
 And one of the men spat on me. They dragged me by 
 the wrists — a very long way. We came to a place 
 where there were columns of the colour of pink shells, 
 and I felt that I could not breathe, and then it all 
 became dark. . . . And after that, when I was able 
 to lift myself up again, there was no one there save 
 only one man. He was tall, David, and his garments 
 were white. He must have sent away the people who 
 were going to stone me. . . . He — he was strange. I 
 didn't feel afraid any more. . . . He spoke to me. 
 He said that he didn't condemn me. When he spoke 
 to me I felt that I wanted to cry, though I was not 
 unhappy. ..." 
 
 She ceased to speak, her voice dying softly away 
 like a whisper of dawn wind through the dim grass. 
 Her red-golden head, laid back against David's breast, 
 seemed to be most sweetly at rest — its contentment 
 simple, sure, and perfect. 
 
 David's immobility had a frozen look. The grey of 
 the dawn had begun to trickle into the grotto like a 
 colourless liquid outpoured drop by drop. . . . 
 "Adulteress." That was the word which his mother 
 had shrilled at him in the house-court. And she had 
 spoken the truth . . . the truth. . . . His mind re- 
 peated these things over and over. They seemed to 
 have no significance, but he was aware, as though he
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 243 
 
 stood on the sheer verge of it, of a void — limitless, 
 lightless, cold as the touch of death. . . . 
 
 The head on his breast moved ever so lightly. 
 
 "David. ..." 
 
 Ah! . . . the full significance flashed on him. He 
 saw — he realized. Under the blinding pain of it every- 
 thing became momentarily black. 
 
 "David, kiss me again. . . . I — I feel as though I 
 were sinking. But it cannot be so. . . .1 am in 
 your arms." 
 
 Her voice had sunk to a shadow of itself, as at the 
 first. In the grotto the colourless light was now clear 
 as dew. On the wax- white face of the girl the impress 
 of death was unmistakable. 
 
 David's soul was one red, gaping wound; he was 
 dizzy with the nausea of pain, but some deep spring 
 of compassion — of a quick human pitifulness — had 
 not yet dried. . . . The sweat of the sudden agony 
 was on his forehead. He did not consciously think. 
 . . . He bowed his head, and his mute lips touched 
 the lips of Astarte. 
 
 The rock in which the grotto was hollowed out 
 seemed to tremble slightly. It was like the vibration 
 of a harpstring; and with that vibrant tremor a 
 thin arrow of the purest gold struck through the 
 hanging ivy-trails and lit with a swift touch of glory 
 the dark head that had bent down to the red-golden 
 one. . . . The rim of the sun had lifted above the 
 edge of the world. The tremor might have been that 
 of a body when, at a word, life replaces death. 
 
 David's head lifted. The light trembled on the 
 face of the girl. She might have been asleep, but she 
 was dead. He disengaged himself, allowing her to 
 lapse softly back upon the wilted flowers. Her atti-
 
 244 REVELATION 
 
 tude was that of natural slumber — deep exhaustion 
 abandoned to serene, delicious rest. She had died 
 under the kiss of the man whose heart she had broken 
 — died ignorant, happy as a so ft- furred kitten that 
 curls down to drowse in the lap of love. Her pains, 
 her fears were over. She had been thirsty for life, 
 and had drunk deeply of it, finding it both bitter and 
 sweet ; but it was the sweetness that had dwelt on her 
 lips at the last. She was even as she appeared to be — 
 a sleeping child whose pretty, undisciplined hands, 
 snatching at joy, have shattered things infinitely 
 precious. And in the sleep from which she would 
 never again awake, she smiled as though the memory 
 of joys dwelt innocently with her. 
 
 Other arrows of the sun had entered the grotto. 
 The liquid light fingered the silver stitching of the 
 green bodice moulded to the form that was stilled for 
 ever ; it caressed the silver anklets that seemed too 
 heavy for the childish ankles, it aureoled the outspread 
 hair. Close at hand a bird began to sing as though 
 the beating heart of its life were pulsing out upon 
 the air in melody. David stood by the burial shelf. 
 He looked at the beauty lying there, in which there 
 was no flaw or blemish. . . . Valerius. The captain 
 of Herod's guard. . . . Oh, God ! He raised his 
 clenched hands, his face strained upward — the lips 
 drawn backward from the set teeth as though he were 
 undergoing torture. He was robbed, despoiled — the 
 last, the innermost sanctuary of his life defiled like a 
 shrine where beasts have been stabbed. ... It was 
 unendurable. He must kill, or die, or presently go 
 mad. There was a pressure, a tension in his brain 
 that would, perhaps, snap. . . . Mechanically he
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 245 
 
 parted the ivy-trails and passed from the grotto into 
 the new day. 
 
 He saw the many white blossoms that were like 
 alighted butterflies upon the apple and almond trees. 
 Slivers of sunlight — antennae of gold — pierced every- 
 where the lattice work of newly budded leaves. Every- 
 thing was jewelled, gilded; impearled with petals so 
 exquisitely frail that they appeared semi-transparent. 
 To every spoke of a wheel-shaped spider's web, spun 
 overnight, hung a diamond drop that cradled rain- 
 bows. The birds sang still. It was the transcendent 
 miracle of clear morning in the spring — which is joy 
 welling from a perpetual fountain and hope eternal, 
 eternally triumphant. 
 
 David looked at tho white and at the gold with 
 eyes across which a film seemed to have been drawn. 
 The blood drummed in his temples. Dully he ap- 
 prehended the unspeakable mockery of it all — as 
 though a grinning skull should hold a flower between 
 its teeth. A flash of scarlet flickered athwart his 
 vision, but the inner blackness, all-engulfing, blotted 
 it out There is a certain rapture in red fury, but 
 even that last flame was quenched now. He neither 
 cursed nor muttered the name of God. . . . 
 
 The sweetly trilling bird broke off suddenly as 
 though, having reached the sheerest summit of its 
 ecstacy, the climax came in a rapt hush. A level sun- 
 shaft smote dazzlingly between the blossom-sprays. 
 . . . Stumbling, David moved forward perhaps a 
 dozen steps, not knowing what he did. . . . But there 
 was someone right before him — someone he had 
 almost touched as he stopped short. The apple and 
 almond trees stood back from the little oval of grass, 
 starred with a pale violet or two. Above, a miniature
 
 246 REVELATION 
 
 steepness of rock in which steps had been cut was 
 crowned with dark shrubs. The paling sky was 
 hyacinth. 
 
 David was looking at the man who barred his way. 
 . . . He was tall. His white raiment was outlined 
 by the strong morning light behind him. His hand, 
 which he had stretched out a little way as if to halt 
 the young man, bore a large wound as though some 
 blunt-pointed thing had been driven into the palm of 
 it, transfixing it from side to side, and the gash had 
 then been widened by the drag of weight. ... In 
 the street where the sick had been laid out upon their 
 mattresses, in the street where *he pilgrims had spread 
 their garments before the white she-ass, he had looked 
 directly into the blue-grey eyes, infinitely quiet, that 
 met his now. . . . There was a rushing sound in 
 his ears like great winds, or waters, or the measure- 
 less sweep of the torrent of Life itself. He felt the 
 sting of tears, and they were sweeter than rain on 
 the desert that causes it to blossom in roses and in 
 myrrh-plants. . . . He sank to his knees. He was 
 aware that a hand touched him — that hand that had 
 shaped wooden ox-yokes in a carpenter's workshop ; 
 that had raised the paralytic, the palsied, and the four- 
 days dead ; that had been nailed to a cross. Light 
 broke in upon him, and it was almost more than he 
 could bear; as when the door of a prison is thrown 
 open, and the full glory of the middle day submerges 
 the quivering prisoner. Something within him seemed 
 to melt utterly as in the unspeakable flame of knowl- 
 edge that was too great a joy. He caught his breath 
 in a long, low, shaken sob as a man might upon whom 
 splendour beyond splendour, stretching into infinity, 
 breaks in one heaven-wide starry arc. He bowed
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 247 
 
 himself until his forehead all but touched the feet his 
 hands reached out to but did not dare to clasp. . . . 
 Pain. He had endured it, revolted from it, fought 
 it with set teeth, blasphemed his God with foam on 
 his lips, because of it. . . . And his God, tattered by- 
 scourges, had carried a cross from the Governor's 
 palace to the hill of executions, had been nailed against 
 it, and had hung dying for three hours. ... It was 
 the path by which Life climbed from stage to stage 
 of its ordained upward course — from the insensitive 
 to the sensitive, from the sensitive to the conscious, 
 from the conscious to the self-conscious, and from 
 the self -consciousness to the consciousness of God. 
 And now . . . God Himself had walked that path 
 that men might understand. And He had walked it 
 as a man, born of a woman — work- weary, footsore, 
 misunderstood, denounced, abused, betrayed, maligned, 
 scourged, crucified, abandoned in that last hour even 
 by His own divinity that He might taste that ultimate 
 human desolation that is worse than death. Like an 
 infinite cataract of jewels the sorrows of the world 
 shone now — the million steps of that long stair by 
 which the ever-growing spirit ascends towards eternal 
 perfection; where all loves and aspirations and soul- 
 hungers meet in the burning rose-heart of uncreated 
 Love. . . . The nation that had looked for the coming 
 of a God-man had fed itself with shallow and gaudy 
 thoughts of visible conquest, vast hoards of white and 
 yellow metal, and pageants of purple and gold. But 
 the God-man had come dusty- footed in the raiment 
 of the common people, treading with them the path 
 they trod — the ordained path, the only path to joy — ■ 
 the Path of Pain. . . . Only through pain can man 
 — and with him all creation — reach from the lower to
 
 248 REVELATION 
 
 the higher. It is the jewelled stairway whose first 
 step rests on the primal slime and whose heights are 
 lost in that pure, molten glow where agony kisses the 
 
 lips of rapture and the two become one \nd 
 
 the brows of God Himself bear the scars of a crown 
 of thorns. 
 
 As David, shaken by the low sob of joy, bowed 
 himself at the feet of the Promised One who had 
 died as man and risen as God, he was not aware of 
 any voice that spoke to him. Truth itself — certainty, 
 vision, attainment — bathed him like light. He knew 
 that the feet his hands yearned towards, but did not 
 touch, bore each a diamond-shaped wound. His inner 
 being was a single flame of worship that trembled as 
 a flame does. . . . 
 
 The bird that had hushed its voice began again » 
 sing. And David knew that he was alone. 
 
 He rose to his feet. Everything about him glittered 
 as though powdered with gold-dust in the arrowy 
 radiance of the morning. He knew that the doorway 
 of the garden tomb, a score of steps above him, . 
 open like the door of a dwelling that has been aban- 
 doned, its great stone lying upon one side; and that 
 within it the linen bands and the winding sheet lay 
 like a cast-off garment. Death was a name — and even 
 less than that. . . . There was light about him, but 
 the light within him dimmed it. Joy ran in his veins, 
 lucid as crystal ; and it seemed to him that he moved 
 as though his feet were winged — effortless, buoyant, 
 scarcely conscious of his body. ... A spray of 
 almond-blossom brushed his brows as he bent to re- 
 enter the grotto. 
 
 A living sheen dwelt on Astarte's wonderful hair. 
 Her limbs had not yet begun to stiffen. With an im-
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 249 
 
 measurable tenderness — almost as though she might 
 waken from her soft sleep — David touched her half- 
 lowered eyelids, closing them. . . . He understood 
 everything now. She was a child — lovely, loving, 
 reckless, ignorant — wholly innocent of that open-eyed 
 rebellion which alone is sin. She had loved him to the 
 limit of her child-nature. . . . She would understand 
 many things when they met again, and his love for 
 her was as undying as his very self. 
 
 He bent and touched her brow with his lips. The 
 perfume of musk still hovered about her. . . . Per- 
 haps, even at that moment, she knelt again at the feet 
 of Him who had forgiven her, protecting her even 
 from the punishment of men. It would be very sweet 
 to take her hands where there was no parting any 
 more, nor doubt, nor inevitable betrayal. . . . She 
 also had suffered — as a child might, treading the ap- 
 pointed path. . . . "Good-night," he said within him- 
 self, "for a little while." And he kissed the undimmed 
 brightness of her hair. 
 
 At the mouth of the grotto was the stone that 
 should seal it when a man or woman was laid therein. 
 David rolled this stone forward, and the burial-place 
 of Astarte was secure. 
 
 The unseen bird sang on, full-throated. Insects 
 chirped. . . . David went downward through the 
 garden — downward towards the camel-path. White 
 and green mists encompassed him — leaf and blossom. 
 The pale stars of flowers studded the path of his 
 feet; and to his hearing they sang together like the 
 stars of morning when the first dawn stood on the 
 threshold of new-created Time. Life resurgent — 
 deathless, triumphant — thrilled in the sap-channel, 
 pulsed in the thrumming undernote of insect life,
 
 250 REVELATION 
 
 throbbed in his own strong yet serene pulses. 
 
 In the camel-path two stood — Cymon, his friend, 
 and Rama, the younger sister of Dinah. Cymon's 
 brilliant eyes were curiously fixed and widened ; his 
 lips were apart. He stood like a person struck rigid 
 by catalepsy. 
 
 "David!" 
 
 It was Rama who spoke. 
 
 Cymon started — blinked. He turned his head. 
 
 "David . . ."he said. Then he began to speak 
 rapidly. "Gods! I — I think I'm sane, David, but this 
 — this is inconceivable. . . . Two days ago, in the 
 city, I got into trouble helping a scourged man they 
 were going to execute. He couldn't stand — and when 
 he fell in the street one of the Romans kicked him. I 
 hit the fellow — knocked him over — and helped the 
 other man up. Then they arrested me and put me 
 into prison, but when the earthquake came the door 
 broke open and I got out. Some of the houses were 
 falling, so I came here, and on the way I got a view 
 of the execution hill — you know ii — and the man I'd 
 helped was there — stiff and dead on his cross. . . . 
 Well — just now — I — I saw him, David. He came 
 down this path and stopped not more than a foot away 
 from me and laid his hand on my shoulder — I felt 
 the weight of it just as I should feel the weight of 
 any man's. His feet were bare, and I saw the wounds 
 on them where the nails had been driven through them 
 — and the wound on his hand. . . . He looked straight 
 at me. ... I couldn't speak — I couldn't do anything. 
 . . . He was flesh and blood, David — like you and 
 I. . . . And then he — he was gone. . . . Just as you 
 see a flash of lightning one moment and the next 
 moment it's all dark. . . . But he was flesh and blood,
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 251 
 
 David. His raiment was white, and where the light 
 shone through it at the edges it showed the colours 
 of an opal. ..." 
 
 He broke off. He was evidently altogether un- 
 strung. . . . David's eyes, steady as those of an 
 archer who draws his bow against a lion, held his 
 now; David was speaking, and even if he had been 
 unwilling he could not have chosen otherwise than 
 listen. . . . Rama was listening too. She had drawn 
 close. She gazed at David as at one touched with 
 the transfiguring fire that clothes the strong spirits 
 who are the agents and messengers of God. But it 
 was Cymon in whose shadow she seemed to shelter 
 herself, as though she sought instinctively the nearness 
 of a person human even as she was. . . . 
 
 Sweetly came the tinkle of a camel's bell, and then 
 the crooning monotone of the rider, carrying that 
 never-broken under-thread of plaintive hope which 
 from the first has surely held a promise and a 
 prophecy. . . . 
 
 In the streets of the hill-city men were vending 
 fresh loaves of barley-bread, parched ears of the new 
 crop, and all manner of spring vegetables, for the 
 thanksgiving barley-sheaf — reaped overnight — had 
 been threshed, winnowed, and ground in the forecourt 
 of the Temple. Everyone followed the rut of his own 
 affairs; everyone suffered in one way or another; 
 everyone clutched at beauty as he understood it. . . . 
 None gave any special attention to the three who 
 came in under the Damascus Gate. One of the young 
 men had his arm about the shoulders of the other, 
 speaking to him. The face of the girl wore the ex- 
 pression of a child to whom a breathless wonder-story 
 has been told — a story in which the ivory gates of a
 
 252 REVELATION 
 
 dream-surpassing palace open with a sound like music. 
 . . . No one knew that they were on their way to 
 the friends of Jesus of Nazareth, whose sepulchre was 
 in a near-by garden of myrtles and of almond-trees — 
 empty. 
 
 VII 
 
 A house-court similar to that of Dinah and Naomi ; 
 a low arch giving upon the street; a flight of steps 
 leading to an upper room — but above each of the sev- 
 eral doorways set around this court was scratched, as 
 children scratch with a nail on a stone wall, a right- 
 angled symbol. It was the Sign of the Cross. 
 
 There was an intermittent, subdued clatter of pots 
 and pans, and an odour of cooking food. On the 
 lowest step of the short flight Rama sat, a basket of 
 lentil-pods beside her, and in her lap a terra-cotta 
 bowl into which she shelled the red lentils. Her hands 
 busied themselves without a pause. The lentils were 
 for the evening meal of Abner, the husband of the 
 woman with whom she lodged, and Joseph, Abner's 
 younger brother, and Cymon, who worked in the mar- 
 kets all day and slept with Joseph on the house-top. 
 As she shelled the lentils her narrow shoulders drooped 
 as though a burden rested upon her. 
 
 Someone entered the court from the street — Cymon. 
 Rama looked up, and it seemed that an unuttered 
 sound was on her lips. He came straight over to her. 
 She put aside the basket of lentil-pods and set the 
 bowl of shelled lentils on the ground. 
 
 "It's true," said Cymon. "They've taken him. It 
 happened last night." 
 
 Rama said nothing.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 253 
 
 "I've seen it coming for weeks. It's been gather- 
 ing. ..." 
 
 "Where — where is David now?" 
 
 Rama's two hands were clutched together in her lap. 
 
 "Before the Sanhedrin, I think. He was in one of 
 their prisons last night. . . . They've charged him 
 with blasphemy, of course — speaking against the 
 Temple and the Law." 
 
 "What — what will they do with him, Cymon?" 
 
 "I don't know what power they have. ... In 
 their law the punishment for blasphemy is stoning." 
 
 Without a word Rama bowed herself forward until 
 her face was almost hidden on her knees. Her shoul- 
 ders twitched. She was weeping quiveringly — con- 
 sumingly. 
 
 Cymon's eyes misted. Immediately he sat down by 
 her — raised her — and she turned her face to him, her 
 head resting against his shoulder. Her tears flowed 
 helplessly. His free hand closed over both of hers, 
 which were stained with the sap of the lentil-pods. 
 
 "Rama . . . you mustn't be unhappy. I — I'm his 
 best friend — I love him better than any brother — but 
 I'm not grieving. I'm . . . glad. Because he will 
 be glad. . . . Once, I would have gone out, stolen a 
 sword, and killed right and left until I was cut down 
 myself if anything like this had happened. . . . Rama, 
 you wouldn't cry if a runner were starting out on a 
 race that he was sure to win, and you knew that the 
 prize was more magnificent than anything in the world ? 
 . . . And we know that there's no death." 
 
 The girl's quivering stilled. The tears which 
 suffused her eyes ceased to flow. Woman through 
 and through, she must draw her spiritual vision, her 
 simple, death-conquering fortitude always from the
 
 254 REVELATION 
 
 man. Gradually a wistful and unquestioning tran- 
 quility deepened, like a luminous shadow, upon her 
 face. 
 
 The clatter and rattle of pots and pans still con- 
 tinued. The odour of cooking food had strengthened, 
 acquiring a more definite flavour. The two were 
 very still. ... In a little more than a year it was 
 written that Cymon's child — her firstborn — would lie 
 in the curve of Rama's arm, for she was destined to 
 obey him as a wife, to bear his children, and to tend 
 the fire on his hearth while he stood between her and 
 the world. And it was also written that they two 
 should see through iron bars the strong sunlight on 
 the sanded floor of a great circus, and the flicker of 
 innumerable fans where the people sat in tiers clear 
 up to the stretched awning, and hear the sea-like mur- 
 mur of blended voices and the muffled, booming roar 
 of the lions in the subterranean dens. And on that 
 day the woman, standing in the circle of the man's 
 arms — listening to him child-wise, her eyes on his, 
 
 would have no fear. . . . 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 "Blasphemer !" 
 
 "Enemy of God !" 
 
 "Dog!" 
 
 "Pig!" 
 
 "Son of a Gentile!" 
 
 The furious voices were hoarse and raucous as 
 though torn from exhausted throats. Dozens of 
 clenched fists were shaken. The hinged lattices of 
 hanging-windows were thrown open and faces peered 
 down, devoid of any expression save curiosity. A 
 pretty, curly-headed child, standing on a doorstep, 
 spat gleefully in imitation of its elders.
 
 THE HILL OF THE SKULL 255 
 
 David's body stumbled, reeled, sustained blows — 
 swept forward like a branch on a torrent. . . . His 
 mind poised as though on wide, shining wings, the 
 ever-broadening flood of light in which it hung deep- 
 ening from glory to glory. . . . This was the battle 
 he had dreamed of since his thirteenth year — the last, 
 superhuman combat. Like vain, shrivelled rose-leaves 
 before an autumn wind, the tinsel triumphs he had 
 pictured in the days that were gone, eddied, scattered, 
 and were lost. More precious than any tribute-rubies 
 borne by a king's camels from the farthest East were 
 the drops of blood that jewelled the Path of Pain . . . 
 the Path of God. And loss was gain, and submission 
 conquest, and death Life. . . . 
 
 There was the colonnade where he had mused so 
 often, looking down on the market. On the steps of 
 it four stood together. He recognized them. There 
 was John, and Cymon, and Rama, and Simon Bar- 
 Jona, who was known to them all as Peter, even as he 
 himself, David, had taken the new name of Stephen 
 to signify the rebirth of the spirit that had dawned 
 in him between the apple and almond tress of a garden. 
 His eyes smiled at them, steady as those of an archer 
 who draws his bow against a lion ... his lips were 
 bleeding, for a fist had struck him in the mouth. But 
 it was Cymon's gaze with which he locked his — as 
 men clasp hands at parting — for a long farewell 
 moment. . . . The heart of each spoke in his eyes — 
 the last words of a wordless, deathless friendship: 
 "Until we meet again. ..." And then the colonnade 
 was gone. 
 
 Now the Damascus Gate was right before him. . . . 
 Now the unhindered arch of the sky, blue as a Persian 
 turquoise, bent above him. Behind him was the city,
 
 256 REVELATION 
 
 for his face was set to the north. There was the 
 clear tinkle of a camel's bell and the crooning song 
 of the rider. . . . 
 
 They were binding his arms to his sides with cords. 
 ... A wandering air caressed his temples. It was 
 like the touch of light fingers. . . . Astarte. . . . 
 
 Now they were standing from him, stripping off 
 their striped outer garments to give their hand free 
 play. . . . The ever-broadening, ever-deepening light 
 in which his steadfast consciousness poised as a flying 
 silver swan might seem to poise in the mid-glory of 
 the sunset approached with smooth, winged swiftness 
 some transcedent climax. . . . Beauty beyond beauty, 
 wave beyond wave of living rapture. . . . Was it 
 possible to bear it? . . . Were the golden, imperish- 
 able laurels of the victor even then about his brows ? 
 Oh. victory, victory! . . . 
 
 The first great stone had been cast. 
 
 The End
 
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