the herdsmen watching flocks on the plains and hillsides, far as old Lebanon, numbers reported to him as their employer; in the cities by the sea, and in those inland, he founded houses of traffic; his ships brought him silver from Spain, whose mines were then the richest known; while his caravans came twice a year from the East, laden with silks and spices. In faith he was a Hebrew, observant of the law and every essential rite; his place in the synagogue and Temple knew him well; he was thoroughly learned in the Scriptures; he delighted in the society of the college-masters, and carried his reverence for Hillel almost to the point of worship. Yet he was in no sense a Separatist; his hospitality took in strangers from every land; the carping Pharisees even accused him of having more than once entertained Samaritans at his table. Had he been a Gentile, and lived, the world might have heard of him as the rival of Herodes Atticus: as it was, he perished at sea some ten years before this second period of our story, in the prime of life, and lamented everywhere in Judea. We are already acquainted with two members of his family—his widow and son; the only other was a daughter—she whom we have seen singing to her brother.
Tirzah was her name, and as the two looked at each other, their resemblance was plain. Her features had the regularity of his, and were of the same Jewish type; they had also the charm of childish innocence of expression. Homelife and its trustful love permitted the negligent attire in which she appeared. A chemise buttoned upon the right shoulder, and passing loosely over the breast and back and under the left arm, but half concealed her person above the waist, while it left the arms entirely nude. A girdle caught the folds of the garment, marking the commencement of the skirt. The coiffure was very simple and becoming—a silken cap, Tyrian-dyed; and over that a striped scarf of the same material, beautifully embroidered, and wound about in thin folds so as to show the shape of the head without enlarging it; the whole finished by a tassel dropping from the crown point of the cap. She had rings, ear and finger; anklets and bracelets, all of gold; and around her neck there was a collar of gold, curiously garnished with a network of delicate chains, to which were pendants of pearl. The edges of her eyelids were painted, and the tips of her fingers stained. Her hair fell in two long plaits down her back. A curled lock rested upon each cheek in front of the ear. Altogether it would have been impossible to deny her grace, refinement, and beauty.
“Very pretty, my Tirzah, very pretty!” he said, with animation.
“The song?” she asked.
“Yes—and the singer, too. It has the conceit of a Greek. Where did you get it?”
“You remember the Greek who sang in the theatre last month? They said he used to be a singer at the court for Herod and his sister Salome. He came out just after an exhibition of wrestlers, when the house was full of noise. At his first note everything became so quiet that I heard every word. I got the song from him.”
“But he sang in Greek.”
“And I in Hebrew.”
“Ah, yes. I am proud of my little sister. Have you another as good?”
“Very many. But let them go now. Amrah sent me to tell you she will bring you your breakfast, and that you need not come down. She should be here by this time. She thinks you sick—that a dreadful accident happened you yesterday. What was it? Tell me, and I will help Amrah doctor you. She knows the cures of the Egyptians, who were always a stupid set; but I have a great many recipes of the Arabs who—”
“Are even more stupid than the Egyptians,” he said, shaking his head.
“Do you think so? Very well, then,” she replied, almost without pause, and putting her hands to her left ear. “We will have nothing to do with any of them. I have here what is much surer and better—the amulet which was given to some of our people—I cannot tell when, it was so far back—by a Persian magician. See, the inscription is almost worn out.”
She offered him the earring, which he took, looked at, and handed back, laughing.
“If I were dying, Tirzah, I could not use the charm. It is a relic of idolatry, forbidden every believing son and daughter of Abraham. Take it, but do not wear it anymore.”
“Forbidden! Not so,” she said. “Our father’s mother wore it I do not know how many Sabbaths in her life. It has cured I do not know how many people—more than three anyhow. It is approved—look, here is the mark of the rabbis.”
“I have no faith in amulets.”
She raised her eyes to his in astonishment.
“What would Amrah say?”
“Amrah’s father and mother tended sakiyeh for a garden on the Nile.”
“But Gamaliel!”
“He says they are godless inventions of unbelievers and Shechemites.”
Tirzah looked at the ring doubtfully.
“What shall I do with it?”
“Wear it, my little sister. It becomes you—it helps make you beautiful, though I think you that without help.”
Satisfied, she returned the amulet to her ear just as Amrah entered the summer chamber, bearing a platter, with washbowl, water, and napkins.
Not being a Pharisee, the ablution was short and simple with Judah. The servant then went out, leaving Tirzah to dress his hair. When a lock was disposed to her satisfaction, she would unloose the small metallic mirror which, as was the fashion among her fair countrywomen, she wore at her girdle, and gave it to him, that he might see the triumph, and how handsome it made him. Meanwhile they kept up their conversation.
“What do you think, Tirzah?—I am going away.”
She dropped her hands with amazement.
“Going away! When? Where? For what?”
He laughed.
“Three questions, all in a breath! What a body you are!” Next instant he became serious. “You know the law requires me to follow some occupation. Our good father set me an example. Even you would despise me if I spent in idleness the results of his industry and knowledge. I am going to Rome.”
“Oh, I will go with you.”
“You must stay with mother. If both of us leave her she will die.”
The brightness faded from her face.
“Ah, yes, yes! But—must you go? Here in Jerusalem you can learn all that is needed to be a merchant—if that is what you are thinking of.”
“But that is not what I am thinking of. The law does not require the son to be what the father was.”
“What else can you be?”
“A soldier,” he replied, with a certain pride of voice.
Tears came into her eyes.
“You will be killed.”
“If God’s will, be it so. But, Tirzah, the soldiers are not all killed.”
She threw her arms around his neck, as if to hold him back.
“We are so happy! Stay at home, my brother.”
“Home cannot always be what it is. You yourself will be going away before long.”
“Never!”
He smiled at her earnestness.
“A prince of Judah, or some other of one of the tribes, will come soon and claim my Tirzah, and ride away with her, to be the light of another house. What will then become of me?”
She answered with sobs.
“War is a trade,” he continued, more soberly. “To learn it thoroughly, one must go to school, and there is no school like a Roman camp.”
“You would not fight for Rome?” she asked, holding her breath.
“And you—even you hate