'COME FORTH.'

Evening Star, Issue 8249, 21 June 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

'COME FORTH.'

[Copyrighted,]

A STORT OP THE TIME 9F CHRIST,

B? EwGa»eb?h Stuart Phhups, Author of * The Gates Ajar,’ ‘ Beyond the Gate,’ etc.

An® tRe Rev. Herbert D, Wars,

CHAPTER V,

Lazarus walked homo like a man blinded by light. His head swam giddily. The blood leaped iu his veins. The stately form «f the Temple shook before him as he passed. The familiar outline of Mount o,‘ivet quivered against hia eyeballs. The figures of people in the road wavered and enlarged and dwindled like phantasmagoria seen in mist. He felt as if he moved above them, on a strange high level, and saw the world over their heads. He seemed to himself like a spirit escaped from the body and set free to wander at will. He lied, ho floated, he drifted across the currents of common life. Ho knew not whether ho would go, nor wherefore; he only knew that ho fluttered upon a sea of delight and despair. He only knew that ho was alive as a bird is, or a wind, or a strong tree, or some bright brute thing that has neither conscience, nor intellect, nor foresight; only the sense of living and the joy of it. The only fact ho had ever dreamed of that could separate soul and body in like manner and give a man his utter freedom was the fact of death. New here was another, unknown to his grave speculation, a thing till then as unfathomed by the calm and thoughtful Jew as the basin of the Pacific Ocean—hero was the fact of love.

To Lazarus, the busy mechanic, the sober householder, the steadiest of citizens, the most religions of devotees, the purest of men, the serenest of spirits—unto Laaarus had occurred the experience which shuts itself as an unsealed book from most human souls, albeit they are wrought of the molten fibre of passionate impulse as unknown to him as the firo of Moloch—Lazarus had been overtaken by that rare and mighty angel: instantaneous love,

Now, this godly young Jew knew no more what to do with this state of things than if l*e had been cast handcuffed and blindfold into the lake of Galileo in a midnight tempest and deserted there. At first ho was only conscious of the fact of sinking and of the necessity of the fact. Then he became aware of the struggle and struck out.

“It is a dream,” he muttered, “ I forget it. 1 awake. It passeth. Ido dream.” He drew his firm hand over his eyes confusedly ; it was as if he would brush her image away. Nay, then ! She was no such film. Flesh and blood will not melt at a sign of dismissal. Shall a man wave a woman out of being by a gesture? She standeth tall and haughty, queenly, a form of power and a face of flashing light. She defieth his signal. She will not be dismissed, See ! how sho holds her ground, mockingly, merrily—no apparition she. This is no dream, godly Lvz-arus. Warm as the bounding blood in the veins of a soft strong woman—the vision claspeth thee. Lazarus as he walked staggered under the pressure of it. It seemed to him as if that sweet proud creature had entered his very being ; as if her life melted into bis ; as if the drawing of his breath hung unon her curved lips. “ Zahara ! ” he murmured, “ Zahara ! ” When he spoke her name aloud it seemed to him as if he began to possess her. He threw back his head and trod proudly. He walked in a sweet delirium.

One of his workmen followed him and asked him some pressing question about the work at the palace. “ What did you say ? ” asked Lazarus confusedly. The man repeated his inquiry ; his master replied with a few irrelevant, hurrying words, and hastened on ; he felt a, desperate need of being alone.

He got homo into hi? own apartments quickly .as he might. Martha buzzed about some disturbing trifle ; but he said : “I pray thee, my sister, leave the matter alone. lam weary, and would he at peace,” “It is important,” persisted .Martha. “ I must talk to somebody.” “Converse with Mary, then,” said her brother wearily.

“Ooe might ns well talk to the evening star,” cried Martha. “I will listen, then,” said Lazarus, a little smitten at the conscience ; for he was a good brother, and not a man to disregard a woman’*! chatter.

“Nay, then!” answered Martha resent' fully, “ I have naught to say to you.”

Lazarus parsed on into his chamber, and abut the doors. He looked about the familiar place perplexedly. He felt that a new person crossed the threshold ; the man Lazarus, whom he knew, had passed for the last time. He did not recognise himself, He was not used to dreams and to strange views of common fact?. He had lived a plain, busy, pious life. Nothing like this had ever come within his knowledge. His quiet nature was now a tempest. All his standards and codes were capsized like little shallops in a sudden sea. In a moment, in the twinkling of a soft eye, a ■woman had entered his calm world, and all the kingdoms of his nature and the glory of them %vere beneath her feet. He wished that he could have laid his reverent lips to them —those veiled feet. This eminently diicreet young man did indeed cherish that desperate daring desire. How gently her garments flowed about them !—as a modest maiden's chould—concealing them in long, soft folds; as if she trod upon morning clouds. Her drapery, veil beneath veil, ■enclosed her jealously. It was a kind of haughtiness in her, it was a kind of higher modesty, not to draw the veil across her face at first glance of him—-her father’s workman. Lazarus recalled this with half a delight and half a stinging shame. His first thought was: is not as other women. She doeth her own will. She is a princess.”

His second; “She is the daughter of Annas. Audi am Lazarus, builder to the High Priest, her father.”

What was he verily, in her sight, that he should dare lift up so much as his thoughts unto Zahara? It was dark iu his sumptuous rooms. The prosperous man paced them like a beggar. Iu an hour he felt pauperised. He had always been so sure of his standing in the world ; his possessions and his skill had meant credit and content; he had been honored : he had felt that his preference would be regarded by the women whom ho knew ; it had never occurred to the rich ■builder and prominent ecclesiastic that a woman could become to him an unattainable fact in life. His large mild eyes flashed in the dark rooms. “I am defied!” he said aloud, “lam denied !” JVhat would Annas the High Priest, Amtta member of the Sanhedrin, Annas the Sadducee, with Lazarus his builder, the Pharisee, if he so much as took the proud name of Zahara upon his lips? Truly as a .slave is hurled from his master’s presence, r>o would the father of Zahara deal with the cost* whose veriest shadow should fall across barrHjrs dearer to Jewish convention than Sifo itself. Annas was the aristocrat of society and of theology ; Lazarus the bourgeois and dissenter. Nay, the very wealth, position, influence of the builder were likely jo bo sources of offence to the patrician. Better were it for Lazarus if he came like a beggar, with “help but God” (as hia name did read), and sat upon the palace stairs; the High Priest would have regarded him its a properly classified person who knew hia place and kept it, flung him a handful of coin, and observed him no more than the ass that brought the packs of provender at the bidding of the slaves. Who knew ? A man might snatch the girl at such a vantage and away with her. Lazirus checked his feverish walk, threw himself upon a rug, and in the prostrate .nodtion dear to Oriental emotion hid his <*so and battled withhimself. Lazarus was . cozexmndcd at his own condition. Within • himas/f he found a foreign enemy; he felt himself unlearned in the tactics of a strange war. Ec was not ready to yield, but he knew npt.hcEf to fight. He did not even mve the name af Love to his swift and overv,’helming passion. He called it Zahara, ..and studied it no more. ■“ I shall see her to-morrow/’ he thought;

then he remembered that he might never see her on any morrow. “ But I shall 1” he cried ; “ but I will!” Then he bethought him that shall and will were helpless slaves in the hopeless situation. He was accustomed to doing as he chose. He had not been thwarted before. He had had his way. Ho now began to understand that he had never really worked for anything until this hour. Human desire, a wild creature unchained, sprang upon him ; he felt like a person wrestling with claws and teeth.

At intervals he repeated her name aloud : “Zahara ! Zahara !” The very sound of it seemed to him to scintillate. What a gorgeous name ! “ Zahara, the Bright One. Zahara, the Shining, I worship thee, here iu my dark room, Zahara,” whispered Lazarus.

As he lay there prostrate with his face upon his arms, a light and timid sound aroused him. It was the voice of Mary, hia sister, in the court beyond his doors. “ Art thou ill, my brother?” “Nay, then, my sister, I am well.” “ Comest thou not forth that I may speak with thee ?”

“Is it a matter of import?” demanded Lazarus.

“It can _ wait,” said Mary gently. “I would not intrude upon thee.” “ Thou hast not the soul of the intruder,” replied Lazarus with the hearty voice of one coming cordially from the reveries of passion to the realities of home. Mary could do as she would with Lazarus. Ho aroused himself and came outside the court. Mary was alone ; it was late, cool evening ; the brother and sister sat down upon the nearest rug, and settled themselves comfortably. Marv looked at Lazarus, but not keenly ; her eyes were gentle and sweet. He met their gaze with a strange sense of irresponsible guilt. He thought: “ Mary would not understand. Mary could not understand,” “I have somewhat to say unto thee,” began Mary timidly. “Martha would have spoken of the matter, but thou repeiledcat her.” “Martha annoyed me,” said Lazarus shortly. “Thou never dost that.” “ Hu hath been here,” said Mary with unwonted abruptness. “He ? Here ? Thou meanest ” horn could I mean? We know but One,” replied Mary grave!v. “ The Master hath visited us.” “ In my absence ?” “In thine absence. Ho remained with us until the twelfth hour; we pressed him to tarry further, but lie would not, though Martha made ready the upper chamber and said many words to him—he departed. He remained not.” Lazarus was silent a moment. “If thou hadst been here,” observed Mary, “I think he would have tarried.” “ I am sorry,” avowed Lazarus. “ Why, of course!” cried Mary with more than usual spirit. It seemed to her as if there were a singular Ip.ck of animation in her brother’s tone and manner. Did he exhibit the scorching grief she expected, or only a tender regret ? “ Lazarus,” she said, with something like reproach. “ Nearer and dearer to him than thyself he hath but one other friend among all that name the name of his disciples, and that thou knowest.”

“Thou speakest of John the fisherman, and thou speakest truly, Mary. The Master loveth him.”

“And thee! And thee, likewise, Lazarus ! His own lips have said it. His own deed hath proved it. It seems to me that thou speakest coldly of him.” “ God forbid ! ” cried Lazarus starting, “ I have not wavered. If any may be loval to him and his cause I am the man. My heart can never chill toward him.”

But as he spoke the words a feeling almost of terror came over Lazarus. With the sudden warming of this strong and splendid flame which that day within his nature had shot fire would other feeling, must other feeling, cool by hot comparison ? Was it possible that hr, Lazarus, beloved of one on whom the hopes of the race were hanging, tenderly selected by that sweet and supremo nature to the affectionate attitude of intimate friend—was it possible that Lazarus could forget the Messiah of his people, the Jesus of his personal royalty, for the glance of a girl’s eye but yesterday unknown ?

“Itgrieveth mo,” said Lazarus penitently, ‘it grieveth mu that I saw him not. How :ecmcd he ? What said ho ? ”

“Worn,” answered Mary eadiy, “worn and pale. His countenance hath a transparent look, and his step betokens a erreai weariness. Verily, Lazarus, the sight went to my heart.”

“What said ho?” pursued Lazarus with increasing sympathy.

“Hia words were few,” replied Mary, in a, tone of awe, “ His words were few and precious.”

“ Canat thou not recall them for me, my sister 2 ”

“ Nay, my brother ; it is as if I tried to recall the rustling of the wings of cherubim above the altar. I have a sense of sacred sound that bore my s:ml above my body, of words I fear I can tell thee but too few. It ever sesmeth to me an unbecoming thing to take his words upon one’s lips unwarily.” “Of what did he discourse, then ?—if thou venturest not to quote his language, for which indeed I do commend thee, Mary, and better were it for him if everyone of our number had so wise e conscience. We have tongues too many and too easy in our flock. _ I have myself admired his own habit in this regard. He speaketh with more dumbness and is silent with more voice than any man it hath been my lot to meet in this world. I grieve me more and more that I did miss him. Verily, he is dear to me,” urged Lazarus with rising feeling. “ Tell me of what he did discourse.” “Of the Homan threat and the Jewish hatred,” said Mary mournfully. “Of the barriers set before the Father’d Truth at every side ; but it wae of the Truth that he did speak, and of the Father. He said few words concerning himself—he carath not for himself, Lazarus ! Ho valneth not his own safety, nor his sleep, nor food, nor rest, nor health, nor hope of any human comfort. He careth only for his Father and for miserable people.” “He is of the Father,” said Lazarus solemnly.” “He is not as we. This world and the ways thereof do not tear him as with us; he is like one who treadeth unharmed a cage of wild beasts, I am not worthy to unloose the latchet of his sandals, 0 my sister ! ”

Lazarus bowed himself unto the ground, and_ drew his breath with the resurgent motion of a man who would weep wore he not a man, Mary looked on with awe and perplexity. She knew not how to comfort a distress which she knew not how to try to understand. Sweet, serene, distant, untouched by passion, she came no nearer to Lazarus at that moment than a pure cold star. “ I must see him,” said Lazarus, abruptly controlling himself. “I have need of him. I must suffer no longer time to elapse. It is the days of many weeks since I have looked upon his face. It dimmeth before my heart, yet, as the Lord heareth me, my heart doth cling to him ! I must make it my business, if it be not my chance. I must see the Nazarene.” CHAPTER VI.

The morning rose like a princess. The sun was resplendent. The trumpet-call to early prayer rang through the bright air with a long quivering cry, Lazarus at the summons stood at his window—at the window looking towards Jerusalem, as the custom demanded—and bowed his face in silent petition. His soul was lifted, his nerve was calmed ; the fever of last night —where was it? Laid by the cool pure breath of the morning, or healed by the diviner art that comes of holy thought? Lazarus felt like a convalescent. He wondered at yesteiday’s attack of feeling ; he thought of the daughter of Annas with a curious sense of humiliation; she seemed to elude him as a dream when one awaketh ; he reproached himself that bis emotion had pursued her. As he stood at prayer he had the heart of a penitent. At the morning meal his sister served him more silently than usual. Perhaps this was the reflection of his own mood ; or perhaps the soothing influence of the guest of yesterday lingered yet upon the household. Even Martha was subdued. Her face wore its beat look. And Lazarus had said : “Forgive me, Martha,” when he came forth in the morning. Now Martha was accused to being the one

to be forgiven that the reversal of position gave her satisfaction. It put her in excellent humor when another member of the family fretted and had to acknowledge it. Lazarus parted from his sister pleasantly, and went to his work with a quiet, thoughtful mien.

“ I shall arrange it soon,” he had said to Mary. I shall make it my duty to search for him in Jerusalem until I find him.” Lazarus fully intended to do so. He made his way to the palace with a brisk step.

At the palace the workmen were already astir. Fine carving upon the renewed cedar pillars was the order of the day ; it required the closest supervision ; Lazarus surrendered himself to the work. He had an artist's nature, ruddy cultivated as it was, and crudely expressed in such limited ways as his avocation permitted. Ho directed with conscience and enthusiasm the carving of a pattern of vines and pomegranates from which all outline of the human or animal figure was religiously excluded ; a has relief of little pillars supporting is miniature portico peered between the vines. Lazarus became closely interested in the execution of tins design. Hia day's work set iu prosperously. The entrances to the women’s portion of the palace were carefully curtained. No one but the officers of the household appeared. ‘ Annas the High Priest is gratified with tha handiwork of Lazarus, the builder,”said one of these men, with a pompous graoiousness. Lazarus bowed.

This is as it should be,” he replied, with a slight hauteur. He returned to his task with renewed absorption. Not well pleased, as the day wore on, with the execution of certain details, the master builder rebuked bis artists with some emphasis. One of them, restless under the criticism, threw down his burin, or the tool which then corresponded to that name, and irritably said; “If I cannot please you, I will try no longer. Finish the work yourself, Lazarus.” “Nay, then, I will,” cried Lazarus, and forthwith did proceed to make good his word.

Now, as ho worked in this impulsive manner, carving after the imagination of his own heart upon the cedar pillar, and scarcely knowing what manner of thought his hand executed, Lazarus let his soul free ; it took wings and fled from him, and bare him whithersoever he would not. It was higo, hot noon. His artists and workmen had betaken themselves without the palace for resting space and a meal. The palace was qmet. Lazarus adream before the pillar stood alone, carving assiduously. •Suddenly his hand fell like the hand of palsy at his side. Through the stillness of the warm, soft air a low laugh rang like a muffled silver bell. The tool dropped from the hano. of Lazarus. The blood rushed to his face. “ Zahara !’’ he murmured.

She stood indeed behind him—a blazing, scowling beauty; her eyes mocked him ; her full lips pouted ; with one hand she pointed to the carving on the pillar. ‘‘ Verily, for a devout Jew, thou hast clous a fine deed, sir builder.” Done ? W hat had he done ? Behind the carven vines, behind the trellissed portico, behind the miniature pillars of the designs the cedar wood gave the faint outline of a figure—a girl’s figure, hiding modestly, with flowing robes, between the loaves.

“ The Sanhedrin would be ill pleased,” teased Zahara. “ What an ecclesiastical crime thou hast committed !”

“ Is it a crime in thine eyes ?” demanded the builder hotly. His own regarded her manfully. His urgent tenderness looked out of them. A wave of daring love roiled over him. He would be as he was. He felt a sudden, sacred right to the impetuosity of his own nature.

Zahara returned ids ardent gaze with a queenly look ; then—for she could not help it—her own eyes drooped before his, less like a queen than like a woman, and more like a sensitive girl than either. “Nay, then,” she said softly, “ I wrote not the Law, but Mooes. Thou hast broken no atone table of mine.”

“ I could not help it,” said Lazarus impulsively . “ I cannot forget thee. Thou art in the thought of my heart and the dream of my mind, and thou controllest the deed of my hand as the wind controllest a boat upon the sea.”

“ My father,” observed Zahara demurely, “ might not find the carving agreeable.” She had veiled herself as she spoke, and stood sheltered, a lovely, swaying figure, half retreating as she spoke. “ Thou warnestme wisely,” said Lazarus. “Annas the High Priest shall not bo disturbed by the weakness of a moment in Lazarus the builder. The carving shall be righted according to the letter of the law. Fear not, Zahara. I have done no error past a remedy.”

As he spoke he smote the figure with a passionate gesture. The cedar wood gave out a rich perfume like the protest of a creature wounded.

“ Ah me !” cried Zahara, wincing prettily, “ you hurt the poor girl !” The face of Lazarus became very pale, Zahara could not know the emotion she aroused by her little feminine play. If she had known would she have spared him ? Lazarus thought not. His manhood roused itself to sudden self-defence. His eyes gave Zahara one blinding look. But his lips remained obstinately mute. With quick, strong experienced strokes, he struck the graven image from the pillar, and covered with thick foliage the spot where the outline of the hiding girl had stood. As he worked he did not even look around to see if Zahara were still there. He believed she would stay. And stay she did. “Behold,” he said at last, turning suddenly, “ she is gone. She is blotted from existence. The law condemneth me not, if I kill what I have created, Does that please you, Zahara ?” “ It concerned! me not,” said Zahara in a low voice. “ Thou needest not to remind me of that,” urged Lazirur. “Too well I know the truth. Too sad a truth it is.” “ But,” suggested Zahara timidly, “if I were that girl—that carved girl—l do not think it would please mo to be killed and forgotten so soon, sir builder.” "Zahara!” cried Lazarus in a voice of rapture. “Zahara! Zahara!” called one of her women from within. Zahara made a quick movement with both of her tine hands; it was a gesture of entreaty, it was a gesture of dismissal; it was a wilful, tender, capricious, untranslatable action. Lazarus stood gazing steadfastly after her. But Zahara had gone.

That evening, before the workmen departed, the still rustling of the priestly robe announced to the builder for the first time since he had begun his work the presence of Apnas. The artists and carpenters bowed with reverence before the High Priest. Lazarus saluted him respectfully. “ I come to observe your repair?,” remarked Annas, “They have given me satisfaction hitherto. It is a workmanlike undertaking, honestly executed and well conceived.”

Lazarus silently bowed. “You will not find it too long a task, I infer ?’’ inquired the High Priest, politely. “Not beyond a week further,” (prickly replied Lazarus. Aa he spoke the words ire felt a sick sinking at the heart, never known before to tire sensation of hia peaceful and uneventful life. A week ?—only a week ! Then was Zahara no more liable to cross the orbit ot hia life than Annas the High Priest to invite him to supper.

“Of course I wish, the work thoroughly finished,” continued Annas, with a keen look, “even at the cost of a fow extra denarii, if need were. It is too good a matter xrot to be a perfect one.” “ I need no more time,” replied Lazarus slowly. A struggle set in upon his nature. How easy to prolong the perioi of service at the palace—the period of delight and denial withiu the blessed possibility of her presence who was becoming to him, he felt at that moment, incredibly, unbearably dear. The longing of the lover battled with the conscience of the artisan. Lazarus feit that he never knew before the meaning of a sense of honor.

“No,” he repeated firmly. “No. The work can he done within the period agreed. Why should I intrude, upon your courtesy ?” “ You are an honorable person,” observed tho High Priest, graciously. “I have enjoyed tho work,” conceded Lazarus ; “ it would have been agreeable to me had the palace required my service further. It does not.”

“At some future day it may do so,” continued Annas, urbanely. Lazarus felt his lip tremble and hia color change. He bent over a tool and tried its edge upon his finger. “ Your politeness is beyond my deserts,” he replied with Oriental suavity. At that moment he felt an emotion perfectly new to him; a sense ot kindliness to the old man replaced lus instinctive antagonism—the father of Zahara became interesting to him. “ You have wounded your finger upon the tool,” observed Annas.

“ It is nothing,” said Lazarus, binding the hlocd with embarrassment.

“What, I pray, is your design at this point ? ” inquired Annas, critically observing the carving of the pillar. He placed his priestly finger upon the snot where the littio “graven image” of Zahara had been changed (like a heathen dryad) into a wavin'* tree.

“The foliage appears to rae thick in this spot,” continued Annas. “la it a Greek imagination ? ”

“ It is my own design,” said Lazarus with heightened color. Annas gave tho builder a a searching look—who could have said why ! For certainly no suspicion of the truth could by possibility* have been apparent to the High Priest. Both men felt uncomfortable. “You are a Pharisee. I understand,” said Annas, abruptly changing tho subject. “Such is my ecclesiastical position,” returned Lazarus, with dignity.

“ Know you an glib of these popular diaturbaucea— these religious riots of the people? You seem to be it man of intelligence, in acme respects above your situation in life. Have you familiarity with thess pretenders—these false prophets and idols of the populace who lead them astray like sheep shepherded by wolves ? ” “ i- know none such, 1 ’ answered Lazarus, proudly. “There is otic—he calls th himself the Prophesied, ho naineth the sacred name of the Messiah ho tuacheth as a Rabbi, and assumetn to perform the miraculous, bewitching the people vainly'. Know you this man ? ” “ I know none suoh,” repeated Lazarus, firmly. “I refer," said the High Priest, “to the Nazarene ; know you the nun ? ” “Intimately,” said Lazarus, without a moment’s hesitation. “ I both know and do revere him,” “Surely," said the High Priest, with severity, “you put no trust in his preposterous claim ?” At this moment the light flashed before the face of Lazarus, and a faint perfume of ottar of roses filled the hot air. Zahara robed in silver-wrought white, veiled in pale purple gauze, floated up to her father and laid her small hand upon his arm. Go thou within, my child,” said the priest, with a caressing frown, “I do discourse with the builder.” “ Let me stay,” pleaded Zahara, “ I will nou interrupt tnee. I but pass across the court to give an order to my women. Let me stay a moment, father.” Her brilliant eyes moving above her veil like tuna above a cloud, turned slowly toward the builder. In them not a scintilla of recognition burned. Zahara leaned nonchalantly against her father’s arm. She was the portrait of indifference. Lazarus returned her glance with deferent distance. His heart leaped within him that she gave herself this little play before her father ; she cherished a pretty secret between them—she, Zahara! He set his teeth with the struggle of concealment and covered his ardent eye with a soft film of remoteness. He drew himself together manfully and took up the conversation where Zahara had snapped it. ‘ ‘ Concerning the Nazarene,’Tie began “ Oh,” interrupted Zahara, disdainfully, “ the Nazarene! ” Lazarus ceased abruptly. His sensitive color left him. “ Continue,” ordered the High Priest. “ Art thou then of his rabble—one of hia people ? ” Zahara regardad Lazarus now quite steadily; her beautiful eyes expressed astonishment and displeasure. Lazarus hesitated for a perceptible instant. Then he answered distinctly : “ I see no reason why ; I should deny that I number myself among those who do follow the doctrine of Jesus the Nazarene.” : A well-bred stillness filled the court of the palace at this announcement. “Young man,” said the High Priest coldly, “ 1 would fain caution you against i this person. He is a dangerous fellow.” • Zahara said nothing. She swept upon i Lazarus one eloquent look ; it seemed to ) him to express command, reproach, regret, r and something else besides—was it entreaty ? On the motion of this look she stirred and

I turned and floated across the court. One of her women, a pet slave, a young girl, came to her and put aa arm about her with pretty feminine familiarity. “Ah then, Rebecca!” cried Zahara, Lazarus could have hurled Rebecca over the palwall. “Continue your work,” commanded Annas with a sudden change of expression, “I interrupt you no longer.” The two men exchanged cold salutations. The High Priest walked away in his stateliest attitude. The builder bowed his head over the pillar where the little graven image had been carved out of existence. The next day one of the officers of the palace remained on duty within the portico. The man yawned and' fidgeted ; he had plainly nothing to do. The High Priest did not reappear, Zahara’? curtains were closely Drawn. Once Lazarus heard or fancied that he hoard her laugh and call ; “ Rebecca ! ” But he had only his fancy for his content. “It is a dull day,” said the officer sullenly. “What have you done, sir builder, that I should bs stationed in this stupid post all day ?'’ Lazarus lifted his head and stared at the fellow, “Verily,” said the officer, “I believe you know not any more than I do. it must be some whim of the High Priest. Hs' aboundeth in them. I shall make known to him that you are quite innocent at all events.” “ Innocent of what?” cried Lazarus. The officer gave a short, sharp laugh. Perhaps unconsciously, perhaps intentionally, his conspicuous headdress inclined hy au almost impercc; ;do motion toward the women’s portion of the palace. Lazarus worked on in silence. His heart was sore within him. He felt humiliated to no end and angered for no cause, and disturbed without hope of restoration. “I am become a miserable man,” thought Lazarus. “ Would to God that I had never struck a nail into the palace of the High Priest! Would to God that I had never ! seen ” But he could not, or he did not, finish the sentence. Better to have seen her ——. I Oh, better to have seen ZLibara, by a hundred fold of what she cost him ! Lazarus could not imagine himself now, without having seen Zahara. “We have but six days’work upon the palace left,” said one of the artists with a sigh of relief. “ six days ? ’ cried Lazarus. “ Yes, you arc right; it is but six days.” “It might even he completed in five,” suggested an industrious workman, “if these fellows were not so insufferably lazy.” “ Possibly,” replied Lazarus, standing back to survey the repairs, “you are correct. Xt might—it may—be done in five.” ( To he continued. J