Chapter 17

THE FATE OF DUMAH.

"Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console."--_Colton._

And now began a veritable reign of terror for the Jews of Medina. The first evidence of the closing of Mohammed's iron hand was shown in his forcing them to make Mecca, rather than Jerusalem, their kebla, or point of prayer. Many refused to obey this command, and were consequently dragged off to await the pleasure of the prophet.

At first the keenest edge of Moslem vindictiveness seemed to be directed against the bards or poets, for the power of stirring and pathetic poetry in arousing the passionate Oriental blood to revenge was recognized as an instrument too potent to be overlooked.

Ere long even the form of imprisonment was, to a great extent, set aside, and the knife of the assassin was set at work. Among those who thus fell were Kaab, a Jewish poet who strove to incite the Koreish to aggressive measures against the Moslems; and Assina, a young woman who had been guilty of writing satires directed against the prophet himself.

Yusuf and Amzi became greatly alarmed for the safety of Dumah. Every possible means of rendering assistance to the poor singer seemed to be cut off. They could not even find any clue to his whereabouts, and feared that he, too, had fallen beneath some treacherous blade.

As yet, Amzi and Yusuf had been permitted to wander at will. For hours and hours did they roam about the streets seeking for some clue to Dumah's place of imprisonment, but all efforts were futile, until one day Amzi heard a faint voice singing in the cellar of one of the Moslem buildings. He lay down by the wall, closed his eyes, and strained his ears to catch the sound. It was assuredly Dumah, singing weakly:

"Oh, why will they not come, The friends of Dumah! For living death is upon him, And the walls of his tomb close over, Yet will not in mercy fall on him. Does the sun shine still on the mountain, And the trees wave? Do the birds still sing in the palm-trees, And the flowers still bloom in Kuba? And yet doth Dumah languish

"But Dumah's friends have forgotten him, Nor seek him more, And even the angels vanish, And the tomb is all about him: O Death, come, haste to Dumah!"

The voice sank away in a low wail, and Amzi sprang up. His first impulse was to rush in and batter at the door of Dumah's cell; his second, to call words of comfort through the wall. Yet either would be imprudent and might ruin all, so he hastened home to Yusuf.

"I will go to him immediately," said the priest.

"But how?"

"In disguise if need be," was the reply.

"In disguise!" exclaimed Amzi. "Friend, with your physique, think you you can disguise yourself? Not a Moslem in Mecca who does not know the figure of Yusuf the Christian. Nay, Yusuf, your friend Amzi can effect a disguise much more easily. Here,"--running his fingers through his gray beard,--"a few grains of black dye can soon transform this; some stain will change the Meccan's ruddy cheeks into the brown of a desert Arab. The thing is easy."

"As you will, then," said the priest; and the two were soon busy at work at the transforming process.

With the garb of a Moslem soldier, Amzi was soon, to all appearance, a passable Mussulman, with divided beard, and chocolate-brown skin.

He set out, and, having arrived at the door of the sort of barracks in which Dumah was imprisoned, mingled with the soldiers, quite unnoticed among the new arrivals who constantly swelled the prophet's army.

With the greatest difficulty, yet without exciting apparent suspicion, he found out the exact spot in which Dumah was confined. Upon the first opportunity he slipped noiselessly after the attendant who was carrying the prisoner's pittance of food. Under his robe he had tools for excavating a hole beneath the wall, and his plan was to step silently into the room, secrete himself behind the door, and permit himself to be locked in, trusting to subsequent efforts for effecting the freedom of himself and Dumah.

Silently he glided into the darkened room behind the keeper. All within seemed dark as night after the brighter light without; but Dumah's eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could see more clearly. He penetrated the disguise at once.

"Amzi! Amzi!" he cried out delightedly, "you have come! You have come!"

Amzi knew that all was undone.

"Treachery!" called the keeper.

The Moslems came pouring into the room. Amzi was overpowered, and pinioned on the spot.

"What means this?" cried Asru, the captain of the guard.

"Treachery, if it please you," returned the keeper. "An asp which has been in our camp with its poison-fangs hid! No Moslem, but an enemy--a friend of this dotard poet!"

"Search him!" was the order.

The tools were found.

"Aha!" said the captain. "Most conclusive proof, wretch! We will teach you, knave, that foxes are sometimes trapped in their own wiles. Off with him! Chain him!"

Amzi was hurried off, and Asru strode away to execute some other act of so-called justice. He was a man of immense stature, heavy-featured, and covered with pock-marks, yet his face was full of strength of character, and bore traces of candor and honesty, though the lines about the mouth told of unrestrained cruelty and passion.

At home Yusuf waited in an agony of suspense. The day passed into night, the night into day, the day into night again, yet Amzi did not come. Yusuf could bear it no longer. Anything was better than this awful waiting. Only once he almost gave up hope and cried in the words of the Psalmist, "O Lord, why castest thou off my soul? Why hidest thou thy face from me?" Then like balm of healing came the words, "Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee; he shall never suffer the righteous to be moved."

Dressed in his quiet, scholarly raiment, and quite unarmed, he set out in search of Amzi. Arriving at the place, he saw none whom he knew. He was stopped at the door.

"I wish to see the captain who has command here," he said.

"You are a peaceable-looking citizen enough," said a guard, "yet we have orders to search all new-comers, and you will have to submit, stranger."

Yusuf was searched, but as neither arms nor tools were found upon him, he was allowed to have audience with the captain.

"Ah!" said Asru, recognizing him at once. "What seeks Yusuf, a Christian, of a follower of Mohammed the prophet?"

"I seek but the deliverance of two harmless, inoffensive friends," he replied.

"A bold request, truly," said the other. "Yet have I not forgotten my debt of gratitude to you. I have not forgotten that it was Yusuf who nursed me through the foul disease whose marks I yet bear, when all others fled;" and he passed his hand over his pock-marked face.

"Of that speak not," returned Yusuf, with a gesture of impatience. "'Twas but the service which any man with a heart may render to a needy brother. However, if you are grateful, as you say, you can more than repay the debt, you can make me indebted to you, by telling me aught of Amzi, the benevolent Meccan, whose hand would not take the life of a worm were he not forced into it."

"He is here in chains," said Asru haughtily, "as every spy who enters a Moslem camp should be."

"Amzi is no spy!" declared Yusuf emphatically.

"His sole object, then, was to free that half-witted poet?" asked Asru, incredulously.

"It was none other. He loves him as his own son, as do I. Amzi would suffer death willingly, Yusuf would suffer death willingly, would it spare that poor, confiding innocent!"

The priest's eyes were flashing, and his tones bore witness to his earnestness. He did not notice, nor did Asru, a pair of bright eyes that peered at him from the chink of the doorway; he did not know that a face full of petty, vindictive spite was partially hidden by the darkness without, or that two keen ears were listening to every word he said.

"Yusuf," returned the captain in a low tone, "you are the only man who has ever seemed to me good. Your words, at least, are ever truth. You wonder, then, that I follow the prophet? Simply because the excitement of war suits me, and"--he shrugged his shoulders with a laugh--"it is the best policy to be on the winning side. Most of these crazed idiots believe in him, and fear that he will work enchantments upon them if they do not; but the doctrine of the sword and of plunder goes farther with a few, of whom Asru is one. Because I believe in you, Yusuf, I shall try to carry out your request. But it would cost me my life were it found out, so it must be seemingly by chance. Rest assured that, bad as I am, cruel as I am, I shall see that Yusuf's friends have some 'accidental' way of escape."

So spoke Asru, nor knew that a pair of feet were hurrying and shuffling towards the prophet, while a soldier kept guard at the door.

"May heaven bless you for this!" cried the priest. "So long as Amzi and Yusuf breathe you shall not lack an earthly friend."

"Tush!" exclaimed the captain. "'Tis but the wish to make old scores even. You serve me; I serve you. We are even."

"Then I shall leave you," said Yusuf, rising with a smile.

Asru opened the door.

"Hold!" cried a guard. "By order of the prophet, Asru is my prisoner!"

"Wherefore?" cried Asru, attempting to seize his dagger.

"Because, though it is politic to be on the winning side, it is not always safe to be a traitor and to countermand Mohammed's orders," replied the prophet's musical voice, as the soldiers gave way to permit his advance.

Asru freed himself and dashed forward, wielding his dagger right and left, but it was a rash effort. He was instantly overpowered and bound hand and foot. The priest shared the same fate.

The prophet looked down upon the captain. "Asru," he said, "you whom I deemed a most faithful one, you who have proved false, know that death is the meed of a traitor. Yet that you may know Mohammed can show mercy, I give you your life. For the sake of your past services I grant it you, and trust that, having learned obedience and humility, you may once again grace our battle-fields nobly. Guards, chain him, yet see that he is kept in easy confinement and lacks nothing. Send me Uzza."

The Oman Arab came forward. He was a dark-browed man, under-sized, and with one shoulder higher than the other. His eyes were long and narrow, with a look of extreme cunning about them, and his mouth was cruel, his lips being pressed together so tightly that they looked like a long white line.

"Upon you, Uzza, O faithful, as next in command, I confer the honor of the position left vacant by Asru. Do thou carry out its obligations with honor to thyself and to the prophet of Allah."

Uzza prostrated himself to the ground.

Mohammed turned to Yusuf. "Whom have we here? What said you in your accusation, Abraham? An accomplice of Asru, was it?"

The little peddler, the silent watcher at the door, came forward, hopping along as usual, but with malignant triumph in his face.

"This, O prophet," he said, making obeisance, "is not only an accomplice of Asru, but a sworn enemy of the prophet of Allah and of all who believe in him."

"Why, methinks I have seen him before," said Mohammed, passing his hand over his brow. "Is not this the gentle friend of Amzi?"

"He is the friend of Amzi," returned the Jew, "but even Amzi lies in chains as a spy among the Moslems."

"I had forgotten," said the prophet. "Yet what harm hath this gentle Meccan done?"

"He is Yusuf, the Magian priest," said the Jew. "And believe, O prophet of Allah, the Magians are your most bitter enemies."

Uzza started and leaned forward with intense interest. Yusuf felt his burning gaze fixed on his face.

"What proof have you that this is a Magian priest?" asked the prophet, wearily.

"See!" exclaimed the Jew.

He tore back the priest's garment, and there was the red mark of the torch outlined distinctly against the white skin.

"Ha!" cried Uzza, starting forward, the veins of his forehead swelling with excitement. "The very mark! The secret mark of the priests among those who worship fire and the sun! This, O Mohammed, is not only a priest, but a priest who has fed the temple fires, and as such has been pledged to uphold the Guebre religion at whatever cost."

Yusuf said nothing.

"Can you not speak, Yusuf?" asked Mohammed. "Have you no word to say to all this?"

"It is all true, O Mohammed," replied Yusuf, quietly. "It is true that in my youthful days I was a priest at Guebre altars. Now, I am not Yusuf the Magian priest, but Yusuf the Christian, and a humble follower of our Most High God and his Son Jesus."

"Dare you thus proclaim yourself a Christian to my very face?" exclaimed Mohammed. "Magian or Christian, ye are all alike enemies. Off with him! Do with him as you will, Uzza,--yet," relenting, "I commend him to your mercy." He turned abruptly and left the apartment.

Yusuf was immediately taken and thrown into a close, dark room. He was still bound hand and foot.

The little Jew entered, and sat down with his head on one side.

"Now, proud Yusuf," he said, "has come Abraham's day. Once it was Yusuf's day; then the poor peddler, the little dervish, was scourged and chained, and well-nigh smothered in that vile Meccan chamber. Now it has come Abraham's day, and Yusuf and Abraham will be even. How does this suit your angelic constitution? Angelic as you are, you cannot slip through chains and bolted doors so easily as the little Jew. Oh, Yusuf, are you not happy? Uzza hates you; I saw it in his face. Did you ever know him before?" The Jew's propensity for news was to the fore as usual.

Yusuf answered nothing.

"Tell me," said the Jew, giving him a shake, "what does Uzza know of you?"

"He knows," said a thin, grating voice from behind, "that Yusuf's hands reek with the blood of Uzza's only child, the fair little Imri, murdered in the cause of religion; and ere I could reach him--yes, priest, with vengeance in my heart, for had I found you then your blood would have blotted out the stain of my child's on your altar!--the false priest had fled, forsaken the reeking altar, left it black in ashes, black as his own false heart. And then, that vengeance might be satisfied, was Uzza's blade turned against the aged grandmother who had delivered the little one up to Persian gods. O priest, your work is past, but not forgotten!"

"Uzza," cried the priest, "I neither ask nor hope for mercy. Yet would God I could restore you your child! Its smile and its death gurgle have haunted my dreams through these long years! 'Twas in my heathendom I did it!"

"That excuse will not give her back to me," said Uzza, stepping out of the room with the Jew, as the warden came with the keys.

It was not Uzza's purpose to bring about Yusuf's speedy death. As the cat torments the mouse which has fallen into its power, so he resolved to keep the priest on the rack for a considerable length of time.

Hearing of the conversation between him and Asru, he knew that exquisite torture could be inflicted on the priest through Dumah, and determined to strike at him first through the poor singer. Dumah's execution was, accordingly, ordered.

Early one morning, Amzi, looking out of a little chink in his window through which the bare court-yard below was visible, was horrified to see a scene revolting in its every detail, and over which we shall hasten as speedily as may be.

There in the gray morning light stood Yusuf, bound and forced to look on at the death of the bright-haired singer, whose sunny smile had been as a ray of sunshine to the two men.

Amzi looked on as if turned to stone--heard Dumah's last cheerful words, "Do not weep, Yusuf; it will be all flowers, all angels, soon. Dumah is going home happy,"--then, he fell on his face, and so lay for hours unconscious of all. Reason came slowly back, and he realized that another of the tragedies only too common in those perilous days had taken place.

"I am going home happy," rang in his ears. The cold moonlight crept in, shining in a dead silver bar on the ceiling. Amzi lay looking at it, until it seemed a path of glory leading, for Dumah's feet, through the window and up to heaven.

"I am going home happy." Was that home Amzi's home too? Ah, he had never thought of it as his home, though he remembered the words--"In my Father's house are many mansions." He imagined he saw Dumah in one of those bright mansions, happy in eternal love and sunshine, while he, Amzi, was without.

For the first time in his life Amzi was concerned deeply about his soul; and now there was no Yusuf to answer his questions. Ere another day had passed he, too, might be called upon to undergo Dumah's fate. He could not say "I am going home happy." How, then, might this blessed assurance be his? He strove to remember Yusuf's words, but they seemed to flit away from his memory. His whole life appeared so listless, so selfish, so taken up with gratification of self! At last he seemed a sinner. How could he obtain forgiveness?

He turned over in agony, and the little stone tablet fell against his bosom. With difficulty, on account of the manacles on his hands, he drew it forth and traced the words with his finger.

"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

As when a black cloud passes away from the moon and a flood of brightness fills the whole air below, so the light burst upon Amzi. He saw it all now! His talk with Yusuf on the love of God came back to him, and he shouted aloud with joy:

"Praise the Lord, he hath set me free!"

"Then for the sake of mercy, help me to get out of this too," said a voice from the other side of the partition. It was Asru.

"Alas, my friend," returned Amzi, "chains are still on my body. It is my soul that soareth upward as an eagle."

"Wherefore?"

Amzi read the verse of Scripture aloud.

"I have heard somewhat of that before," said Asru. "Read it again."

Amzi did so, and explained it as well as he could. Asru listened eagerly. This new creed interested him by its novelty, especially since he was in forced inaction and had nothing else to think of. But it also appealed to a heart which had some noble traits among many evil ones; and as Amzi talked, sorrow for his sins came upon him.

"But the promise cannot be given to such as I," he said, wistfully. "A long life of wickedness surely cannot win forgiveness."

"O friend," returned Amzi, eagerly, "'believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.' How often did they tell me those words and I would not believe, could not understand!"

And then Amzi told the story of the thief on the cross, as he had read it and talked it over with Yusuf. His voice thrilled with eagerness, and, on the other side of the wall, Asru wept tears of repentance. To him too, the door was opening, and a great longing for the love of Christ and for a better life filled his bosom. So they talked until the noise of the awakening Moslems in the passage without rendered it impossible for them to hear each other. But joy had come to both Amzi and Asru within the prison-walls.