Three-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 another, called Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people, so that they love him greatly.  But the priests and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself out to be the Son of God.  And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said that he was the ‘King of the Jews.’”

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.