CHAPTER X.

The Legend of the Roman Soldier.

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I HAD fastened up several of Percival's pictures on the wall of the room which he now occupied; and in which he received frequent visits from my aunt. On one occasion the following conversation was held between them.

Lady Mar. Percival, I cannot take my eyes from that picture of yours hung in the corner: it is so dramatic in composition, so vigorous in execution. Yet I find it so difficult to trace any connexion between it and any narrative contained in the Bible. I understood from my nephew that you only illustrate passages from Scripture.

Percival. Not exactly so, dear Lady Mar. The connection of my poor fancies with the Scriptures is like that of the mistletoe with the oak. The mistletoe is a weak little plant; of a nature different to, and far less noble than, the tree on which it rests: yet from that tree, it derives both nourishment and support.

Lady Mar. And the mistletoe bears delicate white berries, which serve to make winter brighter. But this picture before me has red berries rather than white ones. Despondency and attempted suicide appear to form its subject. A powerfully-made soldier, evidently a Roman, is about to fall on his own sword, his face expressing the despair which is driving him on to self-destruction. Another man, a Jew, has caught hold of his arm, evidently to prevent the warrior from accomplishing his desperate purpose.

Lady Mar continued: "Please tell us on what branch of the oak your parasite grows. You cannot refuse us anything this evening, as my nephew leaves us for college to-morrow; so to one of us, as you see, this will be the last night of meeting for some months to come."

I thought sadly, "Possibly indeed the last meeting. Shall I find Percival here on my return?"

"I happen to have written out my little Legend," was Percival's reply. "If Seyton cares to read it, and you to listen, it is quite at your service."

"Whilst my nephew reads, I will keep my eye on the picture," said Lady Mar. "I feel a sympathy with that stalwart Roman, who seems in such a desperate plight."

The Legend of the Roman Soldier.

A soldier sought the silence and solitude of a forest; for the presence of his fellow-creatures had become hateful to his soul. The moonbeams, piercing like silver lances between the branches, glimmered on the steel breastplate and arms which had been borne in many a fight.

Marcus was a tried warrior, who had distinguished himself from his comrades by feats of strength and deeds of daring. But now all his spirit was gone: he would not have cared to raise his powerful arm to ward off a blow; nay, he would have welcomed the sharp steel which should cut him off from the earth, which had become to him worse than a prison.

"Now let me end my misery!" exclaimed Marcus. "I am a guilty wretch not fit to live! There is only one good deed which I can perform—use this accursed hand to avenge the innocent blood which it shed."

Clenching his teeth with fierce resolution, Marcus fixed the hilt of his sword firmly between the gnarled roots of a tree; hastily unfastened his breastplate, and flung it clanging on the earth; then nerved himself for the desperate act of throwing himself on the point of his sharp weapon.

But at that moment, the muscular arm of the strong soldier was seized by a Jew, who, unseen in the shade, had watched his movements.

"Madman! In Christ's name forbear!" exclaimed the Jew.

Marcus was startled at the word. "What! Are you one of the followers of Him who died on Calvary?" cried the soldier, drawing back, and surveying almost with fear one whom by a slight exertion of his giant strength, he could have dashed to the ground. "If you be a disciple of Christ, far from staying the execution of justice, you will slay me yourself, and trample my blood under your feet! Take yon sword, and strike home!"

"What hast thou done," asked the Christian, "that thou shouldst bid me slay thee?"

"Hear, if thou wilt; for I can no longer endure to bear my burden in silence. Hear and then strike; for I have well-merited death from the hand of a disciple."

So saying, Marcus flung himself down on the gnarled roots, which afforded a rude kind of seat, and signed to the Jew to take his place on a large stone near.

Asahel, such was his name, obeyed the sign, and prepared himself to listen.

But for some minutes only deep groans were heard from the unhappy Roman, who seemed to shrink from beginning his terrible confession. At last, averting his eyes, he thus began:

"Is it not enough to say that I was one of the Prætorian band on that day—not many moons have waxed and waned since then—when there was darkness and an earthquake; and the Temple curtain was rent in twain."

"What! Thou wast one of those Roman soldiers! Thou didst mock the Blessed One, and crown Him with thorns!"

"I did not!" cried Marcus fiercely. "I was not base enough for that. When I looked at that calm majestic Sufferer, I thought Him more kingly in His robe of mockery, than Pontius Pilate in all his state!"

"When I heard the yelling of the savage mob, thirsty for blood, I said to myself, 'Were I in the place of our Governor, those slaves might shout as they pleased, I would never give Him up, innocent as He is, to fanatic priest or frantic people! I would not so play the coward!'"

Asahel winced, as if some acute pain had suddenly struck him.

"But it was my duty, my detestable office, to execute the sentence which I thought unjust as well as cruel. I was accustomed as a soldier to obey orders without question, and without remorse. Hardened as I am by familiarity with executions, without mercy or scruple I crucified one of the wretched thieves. His yell of agony as I did my work did not even awake a feeling of pity in my heart."

"But it was very different with me when I laid my hand—would that lightning had blasted it!—on the hammer, and did what I would now give my life to undo! He uttered no groan—no curse; He submitted like a lamb in the slaughterer's grasp. He but said—I cannot repeat what He said."

The soldier's head sank on his broad breast, and the strong man wept.

"Christ said, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do!'" said Asahel, softly.

"I was present through all," continued the soldier, when he had recovered his self-command, "I saw the sudden darkness: it fell over me like a shroud! Every hour of that fearful time convinced me the more that I was helping to torture—to murder—One who was more than man. At last, when I heard the faint words, 'I thirst!' I ran; and putting a sponge filled with vinegar on a reed, I moistened the white, parched lips of the Dying."

"Oh that I had done that!" cried the Christian Jew, bursting into tears. "Blessed man! Thou wert the only one, then, to relieve the Saviour's dying anguish!"

The Roman gazed in astonishment at his companion. "I thought, O follower of Christ!" said he. "That thou wouldst abhor me, even as I abhor mine own self."

"I am a thousandfold more guilty than thou art!" cried Asahel. "I was one of the savage mob. It was as if under the direct influence of Satan that I shouted even as they did. I saw Him suffer—and I did not pity! Thou didst act under compulsion. I—I struck Him; and yet I live!"

Marcus started to his feet with something like an imprecation. "Wretch! Thou art beyond pardon!" he exclaimed.

"I have found pardon!" cried the believer. "And where I found it, so may'st thou."

Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, Asahel recounted the wonders of the Day of Pentecost; and repeated, almost word for word, that address of Peter, on hearing which, three thousand sinners were pricked to the heart and repented.

"I was one of that three thousand," said the converted Jew. "I believed, and I was forgiven. The blood which flowed on the cross was a full, sufficient, atonement even for guilt such as mine."

"And will it avail even for me?" exclaimed Marcus, the first ray of hope glimmering on the midnight of his despair.

"Did Christ not pray for thee, O brother? And art thou not already forgiven?"

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