Chapter 32

A WEDDING IN PALESTINE.

"God, the best maker of all marriages."--_Shakespeare._

For a moment let us look more closely at the little district where the Jewish band found a home after all their wanderings.

They settled at a point where the Jordan River, that strange river flowing for its entire length through a depression one thousand feet below the level of the sea, is cut up by many a cataract; and the rushing noise of the water, carried from its mysterious source at the foot of Mount Hermon, fills the valley with a music not lost upon ears long accustomed to the dry wastes of Arabian deserts. To the north lie plains where cold blasts blow, and mountains whose crests gleam with never-failing snow; yet in the fair vales of Jordan the tempered breeze fans the air with the mildness of a never-ceasing-summer, and the soft alluvial soil is luxuriant with the rich growth of the tropics. To the west the rugged and picturesque mountains of Judea rise, and to the east, at a distance of some ten miles, lie the blue-tinted mountains of Moab, rich in associations of sacred history.

In this favored spot, shaded by waving groves and hidden by vines, was the house of Asru's wife; and at a little distance from it was a well, an old-fashioned well such as is seen only in the East, walled about with ancient and worn flag-stones, between which, at one side, the water trickled and ran over mossy stones to the river below.

A large tamarisk tree waved above it, and in its shade, with one knee resting on the flag-stone, her hands clasped behind her head, and her large eyes fixed upon the mountains of Moab beyond, stood Sherah, ere the sun rose, on one beautiful autumn morning.

An earthen water-pitcher, such as is carried by the girls of the Orient, was beside her, yet she moved not to execute her errand.

The sun arose behind the mountain; the amber sky became golden; the rosy pink clouds changed to radiant silver; the birds sang; the dew glittered; and the sun shone through the leaves of the trees with a flush of green-gold.

The beauty of the scene touched the girl. In a low, clear voice, spontaneous as the song of a bird, she sang: "For the Lord shall comfort Zion; he will comfort her waste places: and he will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the garden of the Lord; joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanksgiving and the voice of melody."

The song brought comfort to her; for was she not soon to leave this fairy spot, this Aidenn, to return to the land of the Mussulman; not the land of--

"Deep myrrh thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks. Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall Orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time,"

but to the bleak, treeless plains of Nejd, breezy with the warm breath of desert-swept winds, bounded by rolling mountains, and dotted by the black tents of those roving hordes of whom it has been said that "their hand is against every man, and every man's hand is against them,"--the fierce, cruel yet generous, impulsive, courteous tribes of the desert.

For Manasseh and Kedar were both going back to the desert tribes, braving the dangers of persecution, that they might exert an influence in christianizing the Bedouin tribes over whom the Moslems as yet had little power. Sherah was going back as Manasseh's wife, and this was her wedding-day. She was willing to go, yet she could not help feeling a little lonely on this last morning in her mother's home.

Presently the call "Sherah! Sherah!" came through the olive groves, and the old nurse hobbled out. The woman was a thorough type of an aged Arab, lean, wrinkled, hook-nosed, with skin like shrunken leather, and a voice like a raven. Yet Sherah knew her goodness of heart, and loved her dearly. She was taking the old woman back with her, for, oddly enough, Zama had never felt at home in the new land, and often craved that her bones might be buried in the old soil.

"Why disturb me, Zama?" said the young woman kindly. "See you not that I am bidding farewell to this dear valley?"

"Aye, aye, child," muttered the old nurse, "but we must put the wedding-gown upon you, and twine jasmine in your hair." She stroked the glossy masses fondly. "Ah, to-morrow it must be braided in the plaits of the matron, and the coins will be placed about my precious one's neck; yet it seems only yesterday that she was a toddling baby at my feet."

The two women, the one tall and lithe as a willow, the other bent and shrunken, took their way to the house. Mary was already there, and assisted in adorning the bride.

The guests arrived, and the simple ceremony was soon over; then the company sat down to the wedding feast. Lois and her sister talked in low tones to the mother of Sherah, who grieved a little at the separation from her daughter. Happy jests and laughter passed about among the young people. Amzi went, with beaming face, from group to group; and Yusuf looked quietly on.

In the midst of the entertainment some one came to the door.

"It is a peddler!" cried one. "Let us see what he has--perhaps another gift for our fair bride."

The young people gathered about the glittering trinkets. Manasseh came near, and, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, placed his hand on the man's shoulder. The peddler looked up, and his face blanched with fear.

It was the little Jew, who, having escaped like an eel from Manasseh's care after the Battle of Ohod, and having become thoroughly frightened at the idea of remaining longer in a war-ridden district, had disappeared like magic from the plains of Arabia, and had become once more the insignificant Jewish peddler in the more secure provinces to the north.

"Do not be frightened," laughed Manasseh. "We no longer take prisoners of war; yet, for the sake of old acquaintance, I claim you to partake of our feast."

The little man was half-dragged to the table and given a place by Nathan, who spoke kindly to him. Yet he did not feel at ease. The stolen cup seemed to point an accusing finger at him; and he ate little, and talked less.

Presently he caught a glimpse of Yusuf. The sight of the man whom he had so nearly delivered to death was too much for him. His little eyes darted about as if suspicious of some design upon his freedom. He could not understand the magnanimity of these people, and, deeming discretion the better part of valor, he sprang from the table, shouldered his pack, and was off, to be seen no more.