Chapter 8

John stared hard at his prison-door and drew a deep sigh.

‘Begin at the beginning then,’ he said huskily, ‘and tell me everything.’

So Esther began at the beginning and told him everything she could remember: the wistful, hurrying pilgrimage on the road, the great mass of people in the field, the placid voice that reached far and tugged hard at your heart, the silent, breathless, yearning multitude, the uncanny sensation of peace.

‘I can feel a little of it yet,’ she went on dreamily. ‘While he spoke, this peculiar peace laid hold on me so fully that I wished—above all things—that I might possess it for ever.’

Conscious that John had come out of his moody reverie, and was giving her better attention, she turned toward him and continued: ‘I think that everyone in the vast crowd must have felt the same way. I found myself hoping that he would not stop, for while he spoke my heart grew still—and all the things that ever have troubled me were forgotten.’

‘Apparently his voice wrought a strange spell on the minds of the people,’ reflected John.

‘Surely you should know, sir,’ said Esther, ‘for when I heard you speaking to a great crowd, everyone listened intently to your voice.’

‘But the Carpenter’s voice was different, I think.’

She nodded her head slowly, and groped for the words that might define that difference without hurting him.

‘Your voice, John, stunned me—and made me afraid of the days to come. The Carpenter’s voice stilled me—and gave me peace. I feel a little of it today; but it is leaving me, and I am sorry.’ Again she was silent for a time. ‘Do you know,’ she went on, suddenly confident, ‘I believe that if one could really get acquainted with him—and stay close beside him for a while—one might learn how to keep it!’

‘Perhaps there are others who feel the same way,’ wondered John. ‘Does he seem to have any close friends about him?’

She didn’t know. She had not noticed any special companions with him, on the knoll or when he departed.

‘Why don’t you try to meet him face to face, Esther?’ suggested John. ‘If he is so gentle and kindly disposed, might he not be willing to talk with you?’

‘But what right would I have to intrude upon him when he is already so overburdened and weary?’

‘Go to him with a message—from me!’ said John, in a tone of command. ‘Say to him that I have given my life to foretell the coming of the Anointed One. Ask him if he knows anything about that—about me! Ask him—in my name—if he is the One I foretold or are we to expect another!’

Esther gave a little smile and shook her head.

‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do that, John. He isn’t the sort of person one walks up to with such a query.’

‘But I must know! Can’t you see that my very life depends on my knowing? Will you not try?’

‘Let me think about it,’ she said soberly. ‘That’s a very large assignment—for a girl.’

‘I agree,’ conceded John. ‘It is indeed a large assignment—for a girl—or for anybody; for a rabbi, or the High Priest, or the Tetrarch himself! But you have already undertaken a very serious and dangerous errand which shows the courage that is in you. Do this—for me!’ He challenged her silent indecision with urgent eyes, and waited.

‘I will try,’ she whispered.

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