in the morning of that same day, before it was yet dawn, stephen arose and went away out of the city.
after the supreme renunciation of the night before, he had experienced a strange, a wonderful peace: the world had vanished from out his sight; he felt that he had already entered upon the life beyond. and while he yet marvelled and rejoiced because of this, he slept. how many hours had elapsed before he awoke he did not know; it was dark in the house-place, and the darkness lay heavily upon him like a pall. with the darkness there had also fallen the icy shadow of his approaching doom; before the shrouded face of this awful impalpable presence peace and joy fled away in affright. he strove to pray, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. near by he could hear the regular, peaceful breathing of john and andrew; somehow the sound added an intolerable poignancy to his anguish. for the first time he realized to the full the utter loneliness of the soul. "they love me," he said within himself bitterly,--"but they sleep."
after a time he arose, and wrapping his cloak about him, stole out into the courtyard. the fresh wind as it smote him brought with it a sense of relief. the stars glittered keenly overhead against the dark blue of the heavens; the fragrance of a tall white lily abloom beside the little cistern hung heavy upon the air. an irresistible impulse to go swiftly--somewhere--anywhere--came upon him. undoing the fastening of the outer door, he slipped out, feeling a quick thrill of satisfaction in the fact that he had accomplished this noiselessly. the cocks were crowing as he started swiftly down the street, first one, then another, then half a dozen at once, dying away into silence only to break forth again as some faint challenge from a distance rang out triumphantly.
as yet there was little token of day, but the keeper was drowsily undoing the fastenings of the city gate, in due anticipation of the market-men, who would soon be coming from every quarter. stephen hesitated for an instant, then slipped through the opening without being observed. before him lay the roman road, hard and white, stretching dimly away into the darkness. all the young life in him leapt up at the sight.
"i have but to follow this road," he thought, "it will bring me to safety. and why, after all, should i remain? wicked men have laid a snare for me, and it hath been made known to me in the mercy of god. it must needs be that i escape; i am young, i can and will do good service to them that believe for many years. what shall it profit any man if i perish now?"
he was walking the more swiftly as he communed thus with himself, and hearing, or fancying that he heard, a sound as of pursuit behind him, he thrust his fingers into his ears and ran, the road still dimly unrolling itself out of the darkness before him like a dusky ribbon from the loom of night. after he had gone thus for a long distance--his breath being well-nigh spent and his laboring heart knocking loudly for relief--he paused, and withdrawing his fingers from his ears, listened. there was no sound save the soughing of the wind in the gnarled branches of the trees and the shrilling of insects in the lush grass. he sank down for a moment to rest.
"if i go away now--as indeed those older and wiser than myself have advised--i can remain till the present danger be passed, afterward i can return, and--there is anat. the world is wide, there is no need that we remain at jerusalem. we two will go away into far countries and among strange peoples, that we may spread the gospel among all nations, even as the master commanded. it is right that this should be, else why do these thoughts come to me. as for means for my journey, i have here in my pouch the money with which i was to buy provisions to-day, this would the apostles gladly give me for my present needs--ay, and more. yes, i will go--i must go." and he arose and girding himself resolutely, started once more upon his journey.
"i will go," he repeated to himself more than once. "i must go." but after a time he ceased to walk swiftly; at length he stopped altogether and turned his face toward the east. faint rosy flushes--momently brightening--merged finally into long tremulous beams of pure unearthly light, which shot up as if in an ecstasy of triumph over the conquered gloom. stephen's heart expanded at the sight. he sank upon his knees.
"'blessed art thou, o lord our god, king of the universe,'" he murmured aloud. "'who createst light and formest darkness, who makest peace and createst all things! he in mercy causes the light to shine upon the earth and the inhabitants thereof, and in goodness renews every day the work of creation. blessed art thou, the creator of light!'"
something in the familiar and well-loved words spoken in that dewy solitude seemed to sweep away the paralyzing and unworthy fear from out his soul. he looked at the roman road, showing hard, white and dusty in the morning light, it no longer appeared alluring. he thought again of his resolve to use the money from the almoner's fund to make good his escape, and the honest crimson rose to his cheek.
"i am no better than a thief," he cried aloud. "i will go back; and if it needs be that i suffer, god help me, for the flesh is weak."
as he arose to his feet he saw with a shock of surprise that he had paused near to the little rocky knoll, called, from its strange resemblance to a human skull, golgotha. upon the bald summit of this place of death stood a cross, and upon the cross hung the figure of a man--naked save for his scanty rags which fluttered fitfully in the light breeze, the clear light of the dawn revealing with ghastly insistency his drawn features, and the purple wounds in his hands and feet. at the foot of the cross lay two roman soldiers, evidently detailed to watch the dying man; they were snoring loudly, a half-emptied wine-skin upon the grass between them revealing the manner in which they had beguiled the night watches.
as stephen gazed at this horrible sight, the figure on the cross writhed feebly, the blue lips parted. "god! daylight again, and i live--live--" were the words which gushed out from them in a quavering shriek.
sick with a fear that he could not control, stephen approached the cross, treading carefully lest he should awaken the brutal sleepers at its foot.
"water!" cried the sufferer. "yes, i see it--a brown stream running over its pebbles--a lake deep and cool. i will hide in it, my hands are burning--no, no, they are dead."
"here is water," said stephen in a trembling voice, holding his flask to the lips of the dying wretch--for he hung low, his feet almost touching the ground.
but the man could not drink; he opened his glazing eyes, apparently not seeing the face of angelic pity at his side, for he fell to babbling disconnectedly of many things, mingling frightful curses on his tormentors with prayers to the pagan gods.
stephen sent up a swift prayer for help; he could pray now. "listen!" he cried, not heeding the fact that a group of wayfarers had stopped and were regarding him with open-mouthed amazement. "listen--thou mayest yet be saved. jesus of nazareth can save thee! master, hear--i beseech thee--and save!"
the dim eyes were turned upon him now; there was a gleam of understanding in them. "art thou--jesus--of nazareth?"
"nay, i am but his servant. call upon him quickly to forgive--to save."
"jesus--forgive--save!" gasped the failing voice, then all was still.
stephen looked once into the quiet face of the man on the cross, then down at the soldiers, who were beginning to stir a little. one of them sat up and threw his arms above his head and yawned.
"by bacchus!" he exclaimed. "i must have slept,--a murrain on these night watches, the fellow could not have gotten away." then his eye fell upon stephen. "who art thou?" he cried, springing to his feet; "and what art thou doing here? if now thou hast meddled with the malefactor--ha! the fellow is gone. didst thou give him aught to help him to his death?"
"no, friend," answered stephen quietly. "i but spoke to him of jesus, the redeemer; and if god will, that word hath helped him to eternal life."
the man to whom he had spoken made a motion as if to seize him, but the other, who had also awakened, held him back.
"let be," he said in a low voice; "he hath done no harm; 'tis stephen, the nazarene."
the soldier dropped his arm. "go," he commanded briefly; "we had orders to allow no one near the cross of this man."
stephen bowed his head and passed on. he walked swiftly--as he had done before the dawn--but this time his face was steadfastly set towards jerusalem, and upon it shone the light of a peace which the world had not given, and which from henceforth it was powerless to take away. verily, when the day breaks, the shadows flee away.
