me word again, that I may come and worship him. To your going there shall be no let or hindrance. Peace be with you!”
And, folding his robe about him, he left the chamber.
Directly the guide came, and led them back to the street, and thence to the khan, at the portal of which the Greek said, impulsively, “Let us to Bethlehem, O brethren, as the king has advised.”
“Yes,” cried the Hindu. “The Spirit burns within me.”
“Be it so,” said Balthasar, with equal warmth. “The camels are ready.”
They gave gifts to the steward, mounted into their saddles, received directions to the Joppa Gate, and departed. At their approach the great valves were unbarred, and they passed out into the open country, taking the road so lately traveled by Joseph and Mary. As they came up out of Hinnom, on the plain of Rephaim, a light appeared, at first wide-spread and faint. Their pulses fluttered fast. The light intensified rapidly; they closed their eyes against its burning brilliance: when they dared look again, lo! the star, perfect as any in the heavens, but low down and moving slowly before them. And they folded their hands, and shouted, and rejoiced with exceeding great joy.
“God is with us! God is with us!” they repeated, in frequent cheer, all the way, until the star, rising out of the valley beyond Mar Elias, stood still over a house up on the slope of the hill near the town.
It was now the beginning of the third watch, and at Bethlehem the morning was breaking over the mountains in the east, but so feebly that it was yet night in the valley. The watchman on the roof of the old khan, shivering in the chilly air, was listening for the first distinguishable sounds with which life, awakening, greets the dawn, when a light came moving up the hill towards the house. He thought it a torch in some one’s hand; next moment he thought it a meteor; the brilliance grew, however, until it became a star. Sore afraid, he cried out, and brought everybody within the walls to the roof. The phenomenon, in eccentric motion, continued to approach; the rocks, trees, and roadway under it shone as in a glare of lightning; directly its brightness became blinding. The more timid of the beholders fell upon their knees, and prayed, with their faces hidden; the boldest, covering their eyes, crouched, and now and then snatched glances fearfully. After awhile the khan and everything thereabout lay under the intolerable radiance. Such as dared look beheld the star standing still directly over the house in front of the cave where the Child had been born.
In the height of this scene, the wise men came up, and at the gate dismounted from their camels, and shouted for admission. When the steward so far mastered his terror as to give them heed, he drew the bars and opened to them. The camels looked spectral in the unnatural light, and, besides their outlandishness, there were in the faces and manner of the three visitors an eagerness and exaltation which still further excited the keeper’s fears and fancy; he fell back, and for a time could not answer the question they put to him.
“Is not this Bethlehem of Judea?”
But others came, and by their presence gave him assurance.
“No, this is but the khan; the town lies farther on.”
“Is there not here a child newly born?”
The bystanders turned to each other marveling, though some of them answered, “Yes, yes.”
“Show us to him!” said the Greek, impatiently.
“Show us to him!” cried Balthasar, breaking through his gravity; “for we have seen his star, even that which ye behold over the house, and are come to worship him.”
The Hindu clasped his hands, exclaiming, “God indeed lives! Make haste, make haste! The Savior is found. Blessed, blessed are we above men!”
The people from the roof came down and followed the strangers as they were taken through the court and out into the enclosure; at sight of the star yet above the cave, though less candescent than before, some turned back afraid; the greater part went on. As the strangers neared the house, the orb arose; when they were at the door, it was high up overhead vanishing; when they entered, it went out lost to sight. And to the witnesses of what then took place came a conviction that there was a divine relation between the star and the strangers, which extended also to at least some of the occupants of the cave. When the door was opened, they crowded in.
The apartment was lighted by a lantern enough to enable the strangers to find the mother, and the child awake in her lap.
“Is the child thine?” asked Balthasar of Mary.
And she who had kept all the things in the least affecting the little one, and pondered them in her heart, held it up in the light, saying,
“He is my son!”
And they fell down and worshipped him.
They saw the child was as other children: about its head was neither nimbus nor material crown; its lips opened not in speech; if it heard their expressions of joy, their invocations, their prayers, it made no sign whatever, but, baby-like, looked longer at the flame in the lantern than at them.
In a little while they arose, and, returning to the camels, brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, and laid them before the child, abating nothing of their worshipful speeches; of which no part is given, for the thoughtful know that the pure worship of the pure heart was then what it is now, and has always been, an inspired song.
And this was the Savior they had come so far to find!
Yet they worshipped without a doubt.
Why?
Their faith rested upon the signs sent them by him whom we have since come to know as the Father; and they were of the kind to whom his promises were so all-sufficient that they asked nothing about his ways. Few there were who had seen the signs and heard the promises—the Mother and Joseph, the shepherds, and the Three—yet they all believed alike; that is to say, in this period of the plan of salvation, God was all and the Child nothing. But look forward, O reader! A time will come when the signs will all proceed from the Son. Happy they who then believe in him!
Let us wait that period.
There is a fire
And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire Beyond the fitting medium of desire; And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire Of aught but rest. —Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
