Part 2

"The usurper seduces them still," replied the old man. "Many hate the King's good laws; many take pride in what they call their independence; most will not listen, or will not believe. They mock the King's messengers, and declare that they are impostors, that their messages are a delusion, and some even persist in declaring that there is no King, and no country beyond the sea."

"But the Black Ship is not a delusion!" said Hope. "It must come from some land. What proof have these ambassadors given? Have they ever been in the land beyond the sea?"

"They gave many proofs, but I bring you better news than this. A few years since, the King's Son came Himself. Many of us have seen and spoken with Him. He stayed many days. He spoke words of such power, and in tones of such tenderness as none who heard can ever forget. We could trace in His features the lineaments of the statues we had defaced. Some of the worst rebels among us were melted to repentance, and fell at His feet, and besought His pardon. I was one.

"He gave us not only His pardon, but His friendship. But His enemies prevailed. Especially the amulet-makers organised a conspiracy against Him; they feared for their trade, and secretly prepared to drive Him from the island. He had come alone, for He came not to compel but to win. And He came for another purpose, which, until He was gone, we could not comprehend. The conspirators triumphed. One day they came in force and seized Him. Alas, a base panic seized us who loved Him, and we fled.

"They bound Him with thongs, they treated Him with the most barbarous cruelty and the basest indignity and drove Him to the sea. We thought a fleet and an army would have appeared to avenge His insulted majesty, and proclaim him King with power, or bear Him in pomp away. But to our surprise and dismay, nothing came for Him but the Black Ship, and the Dark Form bore Him from us, as if He had been a rebel like one of us.

"He had told us something of the probability of this before it happened, but we could not comprehend what He meant. Never were days of such sorrow as those which passed over us after His being taken from us. His enemies were in full triumph; they mocked our Prince's claims, they insulted us, they threatened us, but all they could say or do was nothing in comparison with the anguish in our hearts.

"For what could we think? He we had loved and trusted was gone, borne off in triumph by the very foe He came to deliver us from. We hid ourselves in caves and lonely beaches by the sea, and recalled to each other His precious words, and gazed out over the sea with a vague yearning, which was scarcely hope, and yet kept us lingering on the shore.

"On the third morning, in the gray light of early dawn, one of us saw Him on the shore—one who had owed Him everything, and loved Him most devotedly. She called us to come. One by one we gathered round Him. Some of us could scarcely believe our senses for joy. But it was Himself; the solid certainty of that unutterable joy grew stronger. And then He told us wonders, how He suffered all this for us—had borne this indignity and captivity in obedience to His Father's will, to set us free—had gone in the Black Ship itself to the heart of the enemy's country, and alone trodden those terrible regions of lawless wickedness to which he seeks to drag his deluded victims, and alone vanquished him there.

"He stayed with us some days, and talked with us familiarly, as of old; but how glorious His commonest words were—how overpowering His forgiving looks—how inspiring His firm and tender tones, I can never tell. He could not remain with us then. He said we must be His messengers, and win back His rebels to allegiance; we must learn to be brave, to speak and suffer for Him, and to act as men; and He promised to come again one day with fleets and armies, and all the pomp of His Father's kingdom.

"But, meantime, He said the Black Ship should never more be a terror to any of us who loved Him; for He himself would come in it each time. He would be veiled, so that none could see Him but the one He came for; but surely as the Black Ship came, instead of the Dark Form, He would come Himself for every one of us, and bear us home to His Father's house to abide with Him, and with Him hereafter to return."

There was a breathless silence, broken only by the mother's sobs.

She clasped her hands, and murmured—

"Then it was He—it was surely He himself who came and took my babe. No wonder my darling smiled, and was willing to go."

The mother and the children that very evening received from the stranger the medal which was worn by all those who returned to their allegiance. It was a Black Ship, surrounded with rays of glory, and behind it the towers of a city.

Never were a happier company than the four who gathered round the cottage table that evening. They were too happy, and had too much to ask, to sleep. And far into the night the questions and answers continued, every reply of the old man's only revealing some fresh endearing excellence in the King and the King's Son, until they longed for the Black Ship to come and fetch them home.

"If only," said little May, "it would fetch us all at once!"

"That the King will do when He comes with His armies in the day of His triumph. Till then, my child, this is the one only sorrow connected with the Black Ship for those who love the King. We go one by one, and blessed as it is for the one who goes, it must be sad sometimes for those who are left."

"Why do not those who go to Him ask Him to come quickly?" asked Hope.

"They do," replied the old man. "'Come quickly' is the entreaty of all who love Him here and beyond the sea; but His time is best. And, meantime, have we forgotten the multitudes who are still deceived by the usurper, to whom the Black Ship is still a horrible end of all things, and the Veiled Form of the King of Terrors?"

Hope rose and stood before the old man.

"Mother," he said, "it is for this we must live. Think of the desolate hearts in the homes around us. Think of the thousands who know not our blessed secret in the White Town."

The old man rose and laid his hand on Hope's head.

"My King!" he said. "When wilt Thou come for me? Is not my work done? Will not this youthful voice speak for Thee here as my quivering tones no longer can? Wilt Thou not come? I have many dear ones with Thee; but when Thou wilt is best."

Then he persuaded them all to lie down to rest, and he himself composed himself quietly to sleep.

But in the night, a wondrous light filled the room—a wondrous light and fragrance. The mother woke, and the children, and they saw the old man standing, gazing towards the door, which was open. There stood a Veiled Form, dark to the mother's eyes as the dreaded form she knew too well; yet its presence filled the room with the light as of a rosy dawn, and the fragrance as of spring flowers. The old man's hair was silvery, and his form tottering as ever, but in his face there was the beauty of youth, and in his eyes the rapture of joy.

"Farewell, my friends," he said; "your day of joy will come like this of mine. Thou art come for me at last—Thou thyself. I see Thy face, I hear Thy voice; I come—it is Thou."

A hand was laid tenderly on his hand, and they walked away together into the night.

But as the mother and children looked after him from the door, they saw the Black Ship, only at its prow was a star. And as it passed away, the mother, and Hope, and May thought it left a track of light upon the sea.

The three had henceforth enough to live and suffer for. To the lonely fishermen's huts went May and her mother, into the White Town went Hope, and everywhere they bore their tidings of joy. They had much to suffer, and many mocked, and against them also the amulet-makers combined, and would not listen. But some did listen, and believe, and love, and to such, as to the mother, and Hope, and May, the Black Ship, instead of a phantom of terror, became a messenger of surpassing joy.

The Ruined Temple.

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THE Temple was in ruins, and the Priestess sat, a captive in chains, among its broken and scattered fragments.

It had been a temple of the most ancient form, open to the sky, beautiful beyond any temple upon earth, beautiful and sacred, and some remnants of its beauty hung about it still—fragments of exquisite carvings and broken shafts of graceful columns. But everything was shattered and out of place, the window tracery shivered in a thousand fragments and strewn on the ground, columns prostrate, sacred vessels lying rusted among the weeds, the pure spring which had gushed from beneath the altar choked up and dry, and instruments of sacred music mute and broken on the ground.

On the walls in some places were the traces of violence, but it was remarkable that they seemed to have been assaulted only from within. Indeed, the temple had been a fortress, so impregnably situated and built, that except from within, not one stone could ever have been displaced.

This was, in fact, the saddest part of its history. The temple had been desecrated before it had been ruined, and in its ruin it was a temple still, but, alas! no longer sacred to Him in whose honour it had been reared.

Many senseless or loathsome idol-images were carved on the walls, strangely contrasting, in their shapelessness or deformity, with the symmetry of every fragment of the original structure. On the broken altar in the centre stood an image of the Priestess herself. This was the earliest idol which had entered there, and with the entrance of this, the ruin had begun. The Enemy who had, with subtle flatteries, introduced this idol, had ever since had access to the temple, and step by step the Priestess had sunk beneath his power. He had led her into wild orgies, in which she herself had defaced the delicate tracery and torn down the walls; and when she awoke from the frenzy and wept, as sometimes she would, he silenced her tears with blows or with mocking threats of the vengeance of Him to whom the temple had been consecrated.

Sometimes, however, she woke to a moment's full consciousness of the desolation around her, and then she would wail and lament until he seemed to fear some unseen Friend would hear; and at such seasons he grew more gentle, and renewed the old persuasions and flatteries by which he had misled her first. He would even encourage her at times, when all other methods failed, to try and collect the scattered stones, and repair the breaches in the shattered walls and re-string the broken harp, for he knew well her puny efforts must fail, and that no hands but those of the builder could ever restore the ruin she had wrought.

So, after a few faint endeavours, she, as he expected, would give up in despair, and sit cowering hopelessly on the ground afraid of him, afraid of Him whose priestess she was, afraid of her own voice.

In such bitter hours, he would again grow bold, and mock her with the memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance seemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he would point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken altar. He would shew her the beauty still lingering in its marred and weather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours and tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the sweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses; and she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of herself.

But with the pure spices which made it sweet, the enemy had mixed a narcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her brain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until, in a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her miseries. And ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain which, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year making her range of action narrower and her movements less free.

Wild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers, prowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had ministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls and sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous music.

Thus, day by day, the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration became more complete.

But it happened one spring, that two little singing-birds came back from the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their nest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time which often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen priestess, she scarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full of thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of winter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on her heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which no spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a melancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, and she watched those two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked.

At last, the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs, and the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation.

"How desolate this place is," said the mother-bird.

"And it was once so beautiful," replied her mate.

"Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked.

"None can rebuild but the hand that built," was the mysterious reply.

"But would not the architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not he who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better done than that."

"That is the difficulty," was the reply. "The priestess does not know he is so good, and is afraid to utter his name. If she only called him, he would come."

"Is he near enough?"

"He is always near."

"Are you sure?" said the mother-bird. "What can we do to help her?"

"I do not know," replied the mate, "except it is to sing his praise. Perhaps she may listen, and understand one day how good he is."

So all the spring, the little happy creatures chirped and sang, until the nestlings were fledged, and the whole family flew away.

But their songs had penetrated deep into the priestess' heart. And one night, when the Enemy was absent, and the wild beasts prowling far away, she threw herself on the earth before her desecrated altar, and lamented and wept. But for the first time her lamentations, instead of solitary, hopeless wailings, echoing back from the ruined walls, became a broken cry for help.

"Thou, if thou art indeed so good—if thou art indeed near, come and help me," she sobbed; "repair my ruins, and save me."

And for the first time, as she wept and implored, she felt the weight of her fetters binding hand and foot, and, clasping her chained hands, she cried more earnestly, "Come and set me free!"

And before the day dawned, a voice came softly through the silence—

"I will come."

But with the morning light, how bitter was the sight which burst on her aching eyes! All had been as desolate long before; but she had never seen it as she saw it now. Noisome beasts, which prowled fearlessly around her; skulls and ghastly skeletons of their murdered prey strewn about; on the ground the broken, rusted harp; on her hands the heavy chain; and, worse than all, the door she had opened to the Enemy ever open, and inviting his approach.

Too surely he came. He mocked her hope until it appeared baseless as a dream; and nothing seemed real, but the ruin to which he scornfully directed her gaze, and the chain which now, for the first time without concealment, he held up triumphantly, dragging her by it to every corner of the polluted and ruined temple, to show her how complete and hopeless the ruin was. Then drawing the links tighter than before, so that they galled and wounded her wrists, he led her to the image of herself, which he had adorned, and painted, and so often flattered. He dragged off the tinsel ornaments, and effaced the delusive colouring, and left her, at last, face to face with the defaced and broken idol, saying—

"This is the worship you yourself have chosen. Pursue it still. There is no other for you."

She could not bear to gaze on it; and as he went, she fell prostrate on the altar steps, and hid her face on the stones. Yet still, though with but a feeble hope, she sobbed out—

"If thou art good—if thou canst help me, come,—oh, come, and set me free!"

Weariness at last brought sleep, and in her dreams she saw a lovely vision of the temple as it once had been. White columns gleamed, sweet and solemn music sounded, and she herself ministered in white robes at the altar, before a Radiant Form, on which she could scarcely for a moment gaze.

The awaking from this dream to the desolation around her was more terrible than all she had felt before. It must have bereft her of reason, but for the echo of three cheering words, which seemed to have awakened her—

"I will come."

The next day, with the light of that radiant vision on her heart, she dragged her fettered limbs to the altar, and strove with her feeble and trembling hands to tear that marred image from the shrine. But in vain. It was too firmly imbedded there; and she could only turn her face from it, and weep, and cry for help.

And before the next morning's dawn, help came.

In the night, a heavenly visitant descended; and with human words, in a language she had not spoken for years, but every word of which melted her heart like the accents of her mother-tongue, he touched her chains, and they fell off.

He spoke, and the wild beasts fled, howling; he touched her broken harp, and it was restrung and tuned; he touched the dry and choked up channel of the sacred spring, and it welled forth pure and fresh from beneath the altar; he touched the idol on the shrine, and it fell, and in its stead shone that wondrous Radiance which she had seen in her dream. Then he poured on her head the fragrant oil of consecration, and clothed her in a white vestal priestly garment, and placed the restrung harp in her hand, and rose again to heaven.

At first her joy knew no measure. She gazed on the sacred shrine, and in its glory at times she perceived the lineaments of the form of Him who had done all this for her. She touched her harp, and the sweet strings responded as if they knew her hand; she sang holy songs in that old, long-forgotten, yet familiar tongue, so heavenly and happy that the wild beasts would not venture near, and the morning-birds were silent to listen. She bathed in the newly-opened fountain and drank of it, and as she drank, her strength and her youth came back.

For a time her joy was without cloud or measure; but as the daylight returned, the desolation or the ruined temple struck sadly on her heart. It was indeed a sacred place once more, and she its consecrated priestess; but was this ruin never to be repaired?

She began to cleanse the sacred vessels and to sweep the earth of all the refuse and dry bones which had been gathered there. And then, with her renewed strength, she set herself to collect the broken fragments of the columns, and tried to piece together the shattered tracery and the delicate carvings of flower and foliage. But it was in vain. She could indeed bring the shattered fragments together and see what they had been, but she could not join them, or replace one prostrate shaft or capital.

And as she sat down mournfully before her shrine, tears dimmed her eyes, so that she could scarcely see the Radiance there, and, falling on her harp-strings, would have rusted them and marred their sweetness; whilst in the silence, a voice, too long and bitterly familiar, was heard at the door. Turning round, she perceived the form of the Enemy there, whilst behind him glared fierce and hungry eyes, and in her terror, the harp almost fell from her hands.

But she threw herself on her knees before the altar, pressed the harp convulsively to her heart, and cried, "Will these ruins never be repaired, these doors never closed against my enemy and thine?"

The pressure of her trembling fingers drew forth some plaintive strains, like the wind on Æolian strings; but low and plaintive as they were, the enemy disappeared, and the wild beasts fled howling from them.

Then she began to perceive the power of her harp, and drew from it a song of joy and triumph. And as she still gazed on the radiant shrine, a veil seemed to be withdrawn from it, and she perceived that it was a window, so that the light streamed through it, not from it.

Wondering, she gazed, until, penetrating further and further through the light, she saw in the depths of heaven a Temple like her own, only perfect, glorious beyond comparison, and full;—full of worshippers robed and singing like herself, and full of that wondrous radiance which streamed from the heavenly form she had seen.

She laid her harp upon the shrine, and to her surprise the strings began to quiver of their own accord. An electric current united them to the harps in the heavenly temple, and they vibrated in exquisite harmonies the echo of the harmonies above.

And with the heavenly strains, came a voice divine and human, mighty as the sound of many waters, yet soft and near as a whisper in her ear:

"Here all ruins are repaired, the enemy cannot enter here, but here thou shalt dwell for ever."

And softly floated down these other words:—

"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

The Jewel of the Order of the King's Own.

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