CHAPTER XXIII.

A PROMISE.

"How beautiful the hour of early dawn, When the first rays glance up the Eastern sky, When the bright fingers of the fresh'ning morn Draw back the veil of dark obscurity, And give all Nature's beauties to the eye, Her fairest scenes unfolding to the view; The lark with buoyant pinion mounts on high, And on the emerald lawn the pure soft dew Sparkles with every beam which breaks the bright clouds through.

"Thus on the night of ignorance and sin The radiant morning of Conversion breaks, A beam from heaven seems to shine within; And, as the lark his earthly nest forsakes And upward soars towards the source of light,— From bonds of sin the soul enraptured breaks, And—winged by Faith—springs on her upward flight Till that clear day when Faith itself is lost in sight!"

A CHANGE, something like that described above, had come over the spirit of Ali, the Persian. The Amir had never been an enthusiastic follower of the False Prophet, and what Ali had heard and seen during his travels in various lands had extinguished any respect that he had felt for the Mahomedan faith. He had long suspected the Koran to be a tissue of lies palmed upon Arabian credulity by an impostor, a book unworthy of comparison with the Bible, which Ali had sometimes read in a cursory manner. But to leave hold of a false religion is a very different thing from grasping a true one. To extinguish smoky lamps is not a means of calling in the radiant day.

Ali, till he met a simple, true-hearted Christian, was an unbeliever as regarded the power of any faith to change the life. The Amir had been unfortunate in meeting with several nominal Christians, had shrewdly compared their conduct with their creed, and rejected the latter because inconsistent with the former. Ali had, as many do, found a refuge against the shafts of conscience in carping criticism of others; he was not worse, so he thought, than many who believe themselves certain of heaven through the merits of One whose example they do not follow, whose commands they do not obey.

But Ali's eyes were now opened; he looked on himself as stained with sin, and saw in Christianity, such as the Hartleys had embraced, the only means of being saved from eternal condemnation. No longer the Persian listened to Robin's recitals from Scripture in the spirit of a critic; for Ali was thirsting for the water of life, and could not pause to comment on the form of the cup which held it. Robin was delighted, but not surprised, to find that his prayers had been heard, for had he not pleaded with One whom Scripture describes as the Hearer of prayer?

It was at night, during the last halt made before Djauf would be reached, that Ali confessed to Robin his own desire to become a Christian.

Robin's eyes sparkled with joy.

"I will accompany you and your brother to India as soon as it is possible to do so," said the Amir, "study your Scriptures thoroughly, and then receive baptism without delay."

The expressive face of Robin was suddenly shaded, as if by a doubt.

"How, do you not desire me to become a Christian?" asked the Persian quickly.

"I wish it intensely!" cried Robin.

"And have I not already given myself to the Saviour, has Christ not entered my heart?"

"Have you given yourself to Him out and out?" asked the youth. "If Christ have entered your heart are you ready to do His will in all things?"

"My future conduct will show it."

"But what of the past?" said the younger Hartley, looking on the ground as he spoke, for he felt pain in giving pain.

"The past cannot be recalled—you have said that all is forgiven."

"Yes—as far as regards God; but we must make what amends we can to man also. When Christ came to Zacchaeus, the publican received free salvation, but still he said, 'Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor, and if I have done wrong to any man I restore him fourfold.'"

"I do not understand you, boy!" said Ali, and very deep grew the furrow on his brow. "I have taken one life, and I cannot restore it; God does not require an impossibility."

Robin was silent, he knew not how to express what was on his mind: but Ali was resolved to have an explanation.

"If you were in my place what would you do?" asked the Amir.

"I do not know what I should do, but I know what I should feel that I ought to do," replied Robin, with some reluctance.

"What might that be?" asked Ali, looking the young Englishman full in the face with his keen, piercing eyes.

Robin met the gaze as he made reply, "Go to my mother, entreat her forgiveness, and then give myself up to justice."

This was so contrary to any idea which had ever been entertained by the Oriental, that his first emotion was that of astonishment at the childish simplicity which could make so absurd a suggestion. However, Robin was evidently in earnest, the warm blood was mantling even to his brow, and he intuitively clenched his hand as if realising what an effort it would cost him, what courage he felt that it would require to do what he deemed to be right in so terrible a case.

Ali did not lose his temper, but his voice sounded harsh as, after a pause of some minutes, he expressed himself as follows:

"There is no justice—I mean according to English ideas—in Persia. If I became my own accuser, I should but be regarded as a fool. I should not be injured in life or limb, but every hanger on at a corrupt court would seize on the opportunity of robbing me of every piastre that I possess. I should be stripped of all that I have inherited, all that I have made by skilful speculations in jewels and horses since leaving Persia. I should simply be reduced to a penniless beggar; unless, indeed, by speaking out my opinion regarding Mahomet, I should be promoted to the rank of a martyr."

"But surely you should visit your mother?"

"It would be more tolerable to me to own myself a murderer in the palace of the Shah, than to face her whom I have bereaved of her favourite son!" exclaimed Ali. "I would rather enter the den of a lion than the presence of my mother!"

"Would you not enter the den of a lion if the Lord bade you do so?" asked the Knight of St. John.

The struggle in Ali's mind was only shown by the deepening shade on his face, and the slight convulsive movement of the lip. Then he demanded, "Does the Lord command me to go to the mother who cursed me."

"She would forgive you—"

"Never; she would trample me under foot!" interrupted Ali, passionately.

Robin would not, could not believe that any mother could act thus to a penitent son. The English youth had been brought up to feel uneasy until he had asked forgiveness of any one whom he had wronged. He could not imagine how it could be possible for a son to remain year after year under the wrath of a deeply injured mother without imploring her pardon.

"Even if she spurned you," said Robin, "if she refused to listen to you, at least you would have the satisfaction of feeling that you had done what you could."

This was as a new light on the dark pathway of the Persian Amir. That feeling would be a satisfaction, and to obtain it was worth some risk. But still Ali shrank back from so painful a test of obedience to his newly found Lord. There was again a pause of silence, and then the Persian said, "I would only go, if you, my young brother, would consent to go with me."

Such a condition startled Robin; it was almost equivalent to asking him for his freedom or life. He had never anticipated a request to go to Persia, and entirely alter the plans for his future career.

Yet it was not strange—nor even unreasonable—that Ali should desire a Christian companion, and it was important that one so young in the faith should have one. Robin did not stop to weigh consequences, any more than he had paused to reflect on the risk before plunging into the sea to rescue Shelah; holding out his hand to Ali, he cried, "Only set Harold and the others free, and I will go with you—wherever you will!"

Ali grasped the proffered hand, and the compact was silently sealed by that action; the Persian felt that the Englishman would never recall his plighted word. Ali quitted the tent to give orders, and left Robin Hartley to his reflections.

Very, very bitter were those reflections. Poor Robin's thoughts flowed somewhat as follows:—

"Oh! What have I done—what have I said? What a mad promise I have made! It was just like me; always blundering and doing the wrong thing! If I have not some one wiser than myself at my side I am perpetually playing the fool! What! When I have just succeeded in finding Harold, in the first joy of our embrace, must I say to him we only meet to part? I am going to a land which I never expected or wished to visit, with an acquaintance whom I met but a few days ago, one whose character I scarcely understand, and by no means altogether like! Go, Harold, go alone to our beloved father, and tell him that Robin has thrown away his freedom, that he has sold himself to a stranger! And what has induced me to do so?—why have I acted the part of a madman, and sacrificed all my hopes of doing missionary work in India?"

Perhaps Robin's self-reproach was greater than the occasion required. Blundering zeal is sometimes wiser than calculating prudence. Robin's greatest error was that of giving himself no time for reflection, and acting without consideration and prayer. No important step should ever be taken by God's servants without first humbly asking the question, "Lord, what will Thou have me to do?"