The Story of The Other Wise Man by Van Dyke, Henry, 1852-1933
The Story of The Other Wise Man by Van Dyke, Henry, 1852-1933
The Story of The Other Wise Man by Van Dyke, Henry, 1852-1933
BY
DYKE
VAN
HENRY
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1896
ILLUSTRATIONS
——
"'IT IS THE SIGN,' HE SAID"……Frontispiece
"HE CAUGHT IT UP AND READ"……45
"'THERE IS NONE HERE SAVE ME'"……57
"HE HEALED THE SICK"……67
"THE OLD MAN FOLLOWED THE MULTITUDE"……77
"THE OTHER WISE MAN HAD FOUND THE KING"……83
OU know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how they traveled
from far away to offer their gifts at the manger-cradle in Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story of the
Other Wise Man, who also saw the star in its rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not arrive with his
brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was
denied, yet accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probations of his soul; of the long
way of his seeking, and the strange way of his finding, the One whom he sought—I would tell the tale as I
have heard fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the palace of the Heart of Man.
N the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and Herod
reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of Ecbatana, among the mountains of Persia, a certain man named
Artaban, the Median. His house stood close to the outermost of the seven walls which encircled the royal
treasury. From his roof he could look over the rising battlements of black and white and crimson and blue and
red and silver and gold, to the hill where the summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel in a
sevenfold crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of flowers and fruit trees, watered by a score of
streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable birds. But all color
was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep
charm of its silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice half sobbing and half laughing under the
shadows. High above the trees a dim glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper chamber,
where the master of the house was holding council with his friends.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the
sides, rested on his flowing black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the
fire-worshippers.
"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another entered the room—"welcome,
Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome,
and this house grows bright with the joy of your presence."
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in the richness of their dress of many-colored
silks, and in the massive golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian nobles, and in the
winged circles of gold resting upon their breasts, the sign of the followers of Zoroaster.
They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the room, where a tiny flame was burning.
Artaban, standing beside it, and waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it with dry
sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant of the Yasna, and the voices of his
companions joined in the beautiful hymn to Ahura-Mazda:
The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with white; pilasters of twisted silver stood out against the
blue walls; the clearstory of round-arched windows above them was hung with azure silk; the vaulted ceiling
was a pavement of sapphires, like the body of heaven in its clearness, sown with silver stars. From the four
corners of the roof hung four golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods. At the eastern end, behind
the altar, there were two dark-red pillars of porphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which was
carved the figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set to the string and his bow drawn.
The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of the roof, was covered with a heavy curtain
of the color of a ripe pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting upward from the
floor. In effect the room was like a quiet, starry night, all azure and silver, flushed in the east with rosy
promise of the dawn. It was, as the house of a man should be, an expression of the character and spirit of the
master.
He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them to be seated on the divan at the western
end of the room.
"You have come to-night," said he, looking around the circle, "at my call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster,
to renew your worship and rekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has been rekindled on the
altar. We worship not the fire, but Him of whom it is the chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all created
things. It speaks to us of one who is Light and Truth. Is it not so, my father?"
"It is well said, my son," answered the venerable Abgarus. "The enlightened are never idolaters. They lift the
veil of the form and go in to the shrine of the reality, and new light and truth are coming to them continually
through the old symbols."
"Hear me, then, my father and my friends," said Artaban, very quietly, "while I tell you of the new light and
truth that have come to me through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched the secrets of nature
together, and studied the healing virtues of water and fire and the plants. We have read also the books of
prophecy in which the future is dimly foretold in words that are hard to understand. But the highest of all
learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their courses is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life
from the beginning to the end. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. But is not
our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there not many stars still beyond our horizon—lights that
are known only to the dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and the gold-mines of
Ophir?"
"The stars," said Tigranes, "are the thoughts of the Eternal. They are numberless. But the thoughts of man can
be counted, like the years of his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all wisdoms on earth, because
it knows its own ignorance. And that is the secret of power. We keep men always looking and waiting for a
new sunrise. But we ourselves know that the darkness is equal to the light, and that the conflict between them
will never be ended."
"That does not satisfy me," answered Artaban, "for, if the waiting must be endless, if there could be no
fulfilment of it, then it would not be wisdom to look and wait. We should become like those new teachers of
the Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that the only wise men are those who spend their lives in
discovering and exposing the lies that have been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will certainly
dawn in the appointed time. Do not our own books tell us that this will come to pass, and that men will see the
brightness of a great light?"
"That is true," said the voice of Abgarus; "every faithful disciple of Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the
Avesta and carries the word in his heart. 'In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of the number of
the prophets in the east country. Around him shall shine a mighty brightness, and he shall make life
everlasting, incorruptible, and immortal, and the dead shall rise again.'"
"This is a dark saying," said Tigranes, "and it may be that we shall never understand it. It is better to consider
the things that are near at hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own country, rather than to
look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom we must resign our power."
The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feeling of agreement manifest among them;
their looks responded with that indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has uttered the
thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. But Artaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on
his face, and said:
"My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my soul. Religion without a great hope would be
like an altar without a living fire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the light of it I have
read other words which also have come from the fountain of Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of
the Victorious One in his brightness."
He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine linen, with writing upon them, and unfolded them
carefully upon his knee.
"In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers came into the land of Babylon, there were wise
men in Chaldea, from whom the first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of these Balaam the
son of Beor was one of the mightiest. Hear the words of his prophecy: 'There shall come a star out of Jacob,
and a sceptre shall arise out of Israel.'"
"Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacob were in bondage to our kings. The tribes
of Israel are scattered through the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that dwells in Judea under
the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise."
"And yet," answered Artaban, "it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty searcher of dreams, the counsellor of
kings, the wise Belteshazzar, who was most honoured and beloved of our great King Cyrus. A prophet of sure
things and a reader of the thoughts of God, Daniel proved himself to our people. And these are the words that
he wrote." (Artaban read from the second roll:) "'Know, therefore, and understand that from the going forth of
the commandment to restore Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be seven and
threescore and two weeks.'"
"But, my son," said Abgarus, doubtfully, "these are mystical numbers. Who can interpret them, or who can
find the key that shall unlock their meaning?"
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of his girdle and drew out three great
gems—one blue as a fragment of the night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as the
peak of a snow mountain at twilight—and laid them on the out-spread linen scrolls before him.
But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of doubt and mistrust came over their faces, like
a fog creeping up from the marshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with looks of wonder and
pity, as those who have listened to incredible sayings, the story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an
impossible enterprise.
At last Tigranes said: "Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from too much looking upon the stars and the
cherishing of lofty thoughts. It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for the new fire-temple at
Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken race of Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of
light and darkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell."
And another said: "Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and my office as guardian of the royal
treasure binds me here. The quest is not for me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well."
And another said: "In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I cannot leave her nor take her with me on this
strange journey. This quest is not for me. But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou goest. So, farewell."
And another said: "I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a man among my servants whom I will send
with thee when thou goest, to bring me word how thou farest."
But Abgarus, the oldest and the one who loved Artaban the best, lingered after the others had gone, and said,
gravely: "My son, it may be that the light of truth is in this sign that has appeared in the skies, and then it will
surely lead to the Prince and the mighty brightness. Or it may be that it is only a shadow of the light, as
Tigranes has said, and then he who follows it will have only a long pilgrimage and an empty search. But it is
better to follow even the shadow of the best than to remain content with the worst. And those who would see
wonderful things must often be ready to travel alone. I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be a
companion of the pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know the end of thy quest. Go in peace."
So one by one they went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars, and Artaban was left in solitude.
He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a long time he stood and watched the flame that
flickered and sank upon the altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain, and passed out between
the dull red pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the roof.
The shiver that thrills through the earth ere she rouses from her night sleep had already begun, and the cool
Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But where the distant peak of Zagros serrated the
western horizon the sky was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of lambent flame about to
blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, behold, an azure spark was born out of the darkness beneath, rounding itself with
purple splendors to a crimson sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and orange into a point of
white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if the
three jewels in the Magian's breast had mingled and been transformed into a living heart of light.
"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to meet him."
LL night long Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had been waiting,
saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the ground impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the
eagerness of her master's purpose, though she knew not its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high, joyful chant of morning song, before the white mist had
begun to lift lazily from the plain, the other wise man was in the saddle, riding swiftly along the high-road,
which skirted the base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man and his favorite horse on a long journey. It is a
silent, comprehensive friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of words.
They drink at the same wayside springs, and sleep under the same guardian stars. They are conscious together
of the subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak. The master shares his evening meal with
his hungry companion, and feels the soft, moist lips caressing the palm of his hand as they close over the
morsel of bread. In the gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of a warm, sweet breath
over his sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting for the toil
of the day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he calls upon his God, he will
thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb affection, and his morning prayer will embrace a double
blessing—God bless us both, and keep our feet from falling and our souls from death!
And then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat their spirited music along the road, keeping time
to the pulsing of two hearts that are moved with the same eager desire—to conquer space, to devour the
distance, to attain the goal of the journey.
Artaban must, indeed, ride wisely and well if he would keep the appointed hour with the other Magi; for the
route was a hundred and fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that he could travel in a day. But he knew
Vasda's strength, and pushed forward without anxiety, making the fixed distance every day, though he must
travel late into the night, and in the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes, furrowed by the rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisasans, where the famous herds of horses, feeding in the wide pastures,
tossed their heads at Vasda's approach, and galloped away with a thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of wild
birds rose suddenly from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great circles with a shining flutter of
innumerable wings and shrill cries of surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the dust from the threshing-floors filled the air with a
golden mist, half hiding the huge temple of Astarte with its four hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains from the rock, he looked up at the mountain
thrusting its immense rugged brow out over the road, and saw the figure of King Darius trampling upon his
fallen foes, and the proud list of his wars and conquests graven high upon the face of the eternal cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully across the wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down
many a black mountain-gorge, where the river roared and raced before him like a savage guide; across many a
smiling vale, with terraces of yellow limestone full of vines and fruit trees; through the oak groves of Carine
and the dark Gates of Zagros, walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where the people of
Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out again by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling
hills, where he saw the image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall of rock, with hand uplifted
as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims; past the entrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with
orchards of peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meet him; over the broad
rice-fields, where the autumnal vapors spread their deathly mists; following along the course of the river,
under tremulous shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower hills; and out upon the flat plain, where the
road ran straight as an arrow through the stubble-fields and parched meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon,
where the Parthian emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia which Alexander built; across the
swirling floods of Tigris and the many channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the
corn-lands—Artaban pressed onward until he arrived, at nightfall of the tenth day, beneath the shattered
walls of populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and he would gladly have turned into the city to find rest and refreshment for himself
and for her. But he knew that it was three hours' journey yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and he must
reach the place by midnight if he would find his comrades waiting. So he did not halt, but rode steadily across
the stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale yellow sea. As she passed into the shadow Vasda
slackened her pace, and began to pick her way more carefully.
She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her head low, and sighing now and then with apprehension.
At last she gave a quick breath of anxiety and dismay, and stood stock-still, quivering in every muscle, before
a dark object in the shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form of a man lying across the road. His humble dress and
the outline of his haggard face showed that he was probably one of the poor Hebrew exiles who still dwelt in
great numbers in the vicinity. His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, bore the mark of the deadly fever
which ravaged the marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban released it,
the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.
He turned away with a thought of pity, consigning the body to that strange burial which the Magians deemed
most fitting—the funeral of the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise on dark wings, and the
beasts of prey slink furtively away, leaving only a heap of white bones in the sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from the man's lips. The brown, bony fingers closed
convulsively on the hem of the Magian's robe and held him fast.
Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but with a dumb resentment at the importunity of this blind
delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a dying stranger? What claim had this unknown
fragment of human life upon his compassion or his service? If he lingered but for an hour he could hardly
reach Borsippa at the appointed time. His companions would think he had given up the journey. They would
go without him. He would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If he stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed and
fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk the great reward of his divine faith for the sake of a
single deed of human love? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from the following of the star, to give
a cup of cold water to a poor, perishing Hebrew?
"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the holy path, the way of wisdom which Thou only
knowest."
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his hand, he carried him to a little mound at the
foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the garment above the sunken breast. He brought water
from one of the small canals near by, and moistened the sufferer's brow and mouth. He mingled a draught of
one of those simple but potent remedies which he carried always in his girdle—for the Magians were
physicians as well as astrologers—and poured it slowly between the colorless lips. Hour after hour he
labored as only a skilful healer of disease can do; and, at last, the man's strength returned; he sat up and
looked about him.
"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of the country, "and why hast thou sought me here to bring back
my life?"
"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to Jerusalem in search of one who is to be
"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper the journey of the merciful, and bring
him in peace to his desired haven. But stay; I have nothing to give thee in return—only this: that I can
tell thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets have said that he should be born not in
Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had
pity upon the sick."
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda, restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly
through the silent plain and swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her strength, and fled
over the ground like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the sun sent her shadow before her as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey,
and the eyes of Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the Temple of the Seven Spheres,
could discern no trace of his friends.
The many-colored terraces of black and orange and red and yellow and green and blue and white, shattered by
the convulsions of nature, and crumbling under the repeated blows of human violence, still glittered like a
ruined rainbow in the morning light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and climbed to the highest terrace, looking out towards
the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the horizon and the border of the desert. Bitterns stood
by the stagnant pools and jackals skulked through the low bushes; but there was no sign of the caravan of the
wise men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken bricks, and under them a piece of parchment. He
caught it up and read: "We have waited past the midnight, and can delay no longer. We go to find the King.
Follow us across the desert."
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.
"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my
sapphire, and buy a train of camels, and provision for the journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only God
the merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the King because I tarried to show mercy."
HERE was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was listening to the story
of the Other Wise Man. And through this silence I saw, but very dimly, his figure passing over the dreary
undulations of the desert, high upon the back of his camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over the waves.
The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The stony wastes bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The
dark ledges of rock thrust themselves above the surface here and there, like the bones of perished monsters.
Arid and inhospitable mountain ranges rose before him, furrowed with dry channels of ancient torrents, white
and ghastly as scars on the face of nature. Shifting hills of treacherous sand were heaped like tombs along the
horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed its intolerable burden on the quivering air; and no living creature
moved on the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through the parched bushes, or lizards
vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By night the jackals prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made
the black ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting chill followed the fever of the day.
Through heat and cold, the Magian moved steadily onward.
Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered by the streams of Abana and Pharpar, with their
sloping swards inlaid with bloom, and their thickets of myrrh and roses. I saw also the long, snowy ridge of
Hermon, and the dark groves of cedars, and the valley of the Jordan, and the blue waters of the Lake of
Galilee, and the fertile plain of Esdraelon, and the hills of Ephraim, and the highlands of Judah. Through all
these I followed the figure of Artaban moving steadily onward, until he arrived at Bethlehem. And it was the
third day after the three wise men had come to that place and had found Mary and Joseph, with the young
child, Jesus, and had lain their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh at his feet.
Then the other wise man drew near, weary, but full of hope, bearing his ruby and his pearl to offer to the
King. "For now at last," he said, "I shall surely find him, though it be alone, and later than my brethren. This
is the place of which the Hebrew exile told me that the prophets had spoken, and here I shall behold the rising
of the great light. But I must inquire about the visit of my brethren, and to what house the star directed them,
and to whom they presented their tribute."
The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and Artaban wondered whether the men had all gone up to
"But the travellers disappeared again," she continued, "as suddenly as they had come. We were afraid at the
strangeness of their visit. We could not understand it. The man of Nazareth took the babe and his mother and
fled away that same night secretly, and it was whispered that they were going far away to Egypt. Ever since,
there has been a spell upon the village; something evil hangs over it. They say that the Roman soldiers are
coming from Jerusalem to force a new tax from us, and the men have driven the flocks and herds far back
among the hills, and hidden themselves to escape it."
Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the child in her arms looked up in his face and smiled,
stretching out its rosy hands to grasp at the winged circle of gold on his breast. His heart warmed to the touch.
It seemed like a greeting of love and trust to one who had journeyed long in loneliness and perplexity, fighting
with his own doubts and fears, and following a light that was veiled in clouds.
"Might not this child have been the promised Prince?" he asked within himself, as he touched its soft cheek.
"Kings have been born ere now in lowlier houses than this, and the favorite of the stars may rise even from a
cottage. But it has not seemed good to the God of wisdom to reward my search so soon and so easily. The one
whom I seek has gone before me; and now I must follow the King to Egypt."
The young mother laid the babe in its cradle, and rose to minister to the wants of the strange guest that fate
had brought into her house. She set food before him, the plain fare of peasants, but willingly offered, and
therefore full of refreshment for the soul as well as for the body. Artaban accepted it gratefully; and, as he ate,
the child fell into a happy slumber, and murmured sweetly in its dreams, and a great peace filled the quiet
room.
But suddenly there came the noise of a wild confusion and uproar in the streets of the village, a shrieking and
wailing of women's voices, a clangor of brazen trumpets and a clashing of swords, and a desperate cry: "The
soldiers! the soldiers of Herod! They are killing our children."
The young mother's face grew white with terror. She clasped her child to her bosom, and crouched motionless
in the darkest corner of the room, covering him with the folds of her robe, lest he should wake and cry.
But Artaban went quickly and stood in the doorway of the house. His broad shoulders filled the portal from
side to side, and the peak of his white cap all but touched the lintel.
The soldiers came hurrying down the street with bloody hands and dripping swords. At the sight of the
stranger in his imposing dress they hesitated with surprise. The captain of the band approached the threshold
to thrust him aside. But Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were watching the stars, and in
his eyes there burned that steady radiance before which even the half-tamed hunting leopard shrinks, and the
fierce blood-hound pauses in his leap. He held the soldier silently for an instant, and then said in a low voice:
"I am all alone in this place, and I am waiting to give this jewel to the prudent captain who will leave me in
peace."
He showed the ruby, glistening in the hollow of his hand like a great drop of blood.
The captain was amazed at the splendor of the gem. The pupils of his eyes expanded with desire, and the hard
lines of greed wrinkled around his lips. He stretched out his hand and took the ruby.
"March on!" he cried to his men, "there is no child here. The house is still."
The clamor and the clang of arms passed down the street as the headlong fury of the chase sweeps by the
secret covert where the trembling deer is hidden. Artaban re-entered the cottage. He turned his face to the east
and prayed:
"God of truth, forgive my sin! I have said the thing that is not, to save the life of a child. And two of my gifts
are gone. I have spent for man that which was meant for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the
King?"
But the voice of the woman, weeping for joy in the shadow behind him, said very gently:
"Because thou hast saved the life of my little one, may the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His
face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee
peace."
HEN again there was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, deeper and more
mysterious than the first interval, and I understood that the years of Artaban were flowing very swiftly under
the stillness of that clinging fog, and I caught only a glimpse, here and there, of the river of his life shining
through the shadows that concealed its course.
I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous Egypt, seeking everywhere for traces of the
household that had come down from Bethlehem, and finding them under the spreading sycamore-trees of
Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the Roman fortress of New Babylon beside the Nile—traces so
faint and dim that they vanished before him continually, as footprints on the hard river-sand glisten for a
moment with moisture and then disappear.
I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted their sharp points into the intense saffron glow of the
sunset sky, changeless monuments of the perishable glory and the imperishable hope of man. He looked up
into the vast countenance of the crouching Sphinx and vainly tried to read the meaning of the calm eyes and
smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, the mockery of all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said—the
cruel jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never can succeed? Or was there a touch of pity and
encouragement in that inscrutable smile—a promise that even the defeated should attain a victory, and
the disappointed should discover a prize, and the ignorant should be made wise, and the blind should see, and
the wandering should come into the haven at last?
I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel with a Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man,
bending over the rolls of parchment on which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud the pathetic
words which foretold the sufferings of the promised Messiah—the despised and rejected of men, the
man of sorrows and the acquaintance of grief.
"And remember, my son," said he, fixing his deep-set eyes upon the face of Artaban, "the King whom you are
"I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the turbulent kings and peoples of earth shall be brought
to acknowledge the Messiah and pay homage to Him. But this I know. Those who seek Him will do well to
look among the poor and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed."
So I saw the other wise man again and again, travelling from place to place, and searching among the people
of the dispersion, with whom the little family from Bethlehem might, perhaps, have found a refuge. He passed
through countries where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread. He made his
dwelling in plague-stricken cities where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of helpless
misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom of subterranean prisons, and the crowded
wretchedness of slave-markets, and the weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate world of
anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to help. He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked,
and healed the sick, and comforted the captive; and his years went by more swiftly than the weaver's shuttle
that flashes back and forth through the loom while the web grows and the invisible pattern is completed.
It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But once I saw him for a moment as he stood alone at
sunrise, waiting at the gate of a Roman prison. He had taken from a secret resting- place in his bosom the
pearl, the last of his jewels. As he looked at it, a mellower lustre, a soft and iridescent light, full of shifting
gleams of azure and rose, trembled upon its surface. It seemed to have absorbed some reflection of the colors
of the lost sapphire and ruby. So the profound, secret purpose of a noble life draws into itself the memories of
past joy and past sorrow. All that has helped it, all that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic into its
very essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer it is carried close to the warmth of the
beating heart.
Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of its meaning, I heard the end of the story of the Other
Wise Man.
HREE-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away, and he was still
a pilgrim, and a seeker after light. His hair, once darker than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as the wintry
snow that covered them. His eyes, that once flashed like flames of fire, were dull as embers smouldering
among the ashes.
Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the King, he had come for the last time to Jerusalem.
He had often visited the holy city before, and had searched through all its lanes and crowded hovels and black
prisons without finding any trace of the family of Nazarenes who had fled from Bethlehem long ago. But now
it seemed as if he must make one more effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he might
succeed.
It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far
lands all over the world, had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there had been a confusion of
tongues in the narrow streets for many days.
But on this day there was a singular agitation visible in the multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous
gloom, and currents of excitement seemed to flash through the crowd like the thrill which shakes the forest on
the eve of a storm. A secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of sandals, and the soft, thick
sound of thousands of bare feet shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that leads to the
Damascus gate.
Artaban joined company with a group of people from his own country, Parthian Jews who had come up to
keep the Passover, and inquired of them the cause of the tumult, and where they were going.
"We are going," they answered, "to the place called Golgotha, outside the city walls, where there is to be an
execution. Have you not heard what has happened? Two famous robbers are to be crucified, and with them
How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired heart of Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over
land and sea. And now they came to him darkly and mysteriously like a message of despair. The King had
arisen, but He had been denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps He was already dying. Could it
be the same who had been born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had appeared in
heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had spoken?
Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled, doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age.
But he said within himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall
find the King, at last, in the hands of His enemies, and shall come in time to offer my pearl for His ransom
before He dies."
So the old man followed the multitude with slow and painful steps towards the Damascus gate of the city. Just
beyond the entrance of the guard-house a troop of Macedonian soldiers came down the street, dragging a
young girl with torn dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at her with compassion, she
broke suddenly from the hands of her tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the knees.
She had seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.
"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake of the God of Purity! I also am a daughter of the true
religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for
his debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than death."
Artaban trembled.
It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at
Bethlehem—the conflict between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the gift which
he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been drawn from his hand to the service of humanity. This
was the third trial, the ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.
Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness
of his mind—it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come from God?
One thing only was sure to his divided heart—to rescue this helpless girl would be a true deed of love.
And is not love the light of the soul?
He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre.
He laid it in the hand of the slave.
"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which I kept for the King."
While he spoke, the darkness of the sky thickened, and shuddering tremors ran through the earth, heaving
convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.
The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled
the air. The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed
crouched helpless beneath the wall of the Praetorium.
What had he to fear? What had he to live for? He had given away the last remnant of his tribute for the King.
He had parted with the last hope of finding Him. The quest was over, and it had failed. But, even in that
thought, accepted and embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was
something more profound and searching. He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that he
could, from day to day. He had been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for more. And
if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life, doubtless that was the best that was
possible. He had not seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and immortal." But he knew that
even if he could live his earthly life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.
One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the
roof, fell and struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale, with his gray head resting on the
young girl's shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing that he was dead,
there came a voice through the twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which the
notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to see if some one had spoken from the window above
them, but she saw no one.
Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer, and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:
"Not so, my Lord: For when saw I thee an hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw
I thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When saw I thee sick or in prison, and came
unto thee? Three-and- thirty years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor ministered to
thee, my King."
He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard it, very faintly and far away. But now it
seemed as though she understood the words:
"Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast
done it unto me."
A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban like the first ray of dawn on a snowy
mountain-peak. One long, last breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips.
His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of the Other Wise Man, by Henry Van Dyke
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