The last flare of the sunset was falling on the walls of Jerusalem, staining them crimson, and flooding all the enchanting circle of the hills that lie round the city with rosy light. Low down in one of the depressions, where the long sun-rays could not reach, and the olive-trees looked grey in the twilight, stood the grim, white Monastery of the Holy Virgin. The air was sweet and cool here, far from the pollution of the city, and the evening sky stretched fair and radiant above the purple hills. Unbroken quiet reigned, and only one thing in the landscape moved-the figure of a girl ascending swiftly a narrow, stony road under the shadow of the wall. She seemed burdened with many things that she was carrying, and oppressed with some haunting fear, for she looked back frequently, and then pressed on with redoubled speed. The stony track brought her at last to the corner of the enclosure of olive-trees belonging to the monastery; it branched here, one path leading straight to the gates of the building, the other skirting the olive-wood plantation, and then passing on out into the barren hills and open country towards Jericho. The girl took the second track, and here, under the friendly shade of the sheltering trees, she walked more erect and easily. When she reached the farther corner of the plantation she stopped and listened, gazing round her. There was no sound, the light was failing, the hush deepening. “Nicholas,” she breathed in a clear whisper, leaning on the low stone plantation wall, “are you there?” A rustling of some long robe against bushes answered her-the olive branches were pushed aside, and the figure of a Greek priest came from between them. With a smile of intense joy on his face he leant over the wall, and clasped the girl’s two soft hands in his.

“Esther!” he whispered back, “you have come; you have decided then, you are ready?”

“I am quite ready,” answered the girl, pressing close to the wall and lifting her face; the last gleam of gold light from the rising ridge to the west touched it, and showed it was very fair. “If you are sure it is right, if you have faith in Jéhovah to lead us.”

The priest’s face, pale and emaciated, with the rapt look of the visionary stamped upon it, lighted up suddenly with a new exaltation.

“I am quite sure. Last night when I was praying, still in doubt, before the great crucifix, I heard a voice from above saying: ’Nicholas, you are absolved from further prayer and penance here. Go forth with the maiden you love and serve Me in the world. The joy of human hearts singing to Me in grateful praise is more pleasing to Me than these groans and tears and prayers. I have created the blue sky and the laughing seas and the green hills; go forth and see my works, and praise Me.’”

The Jewish girl had listened intently, her face as rapt as his while he spoke, the fire of joy glowing in her eyes.

“Come, then, at once,” she murmured in an ardent whisper, and Nicholas stepped over the low boundary into the hill road, now wrapped in darkness. Before them still glimmered dimly the white outlines of the monastery behind the trees. The man stood motionless, gazing at them, the girl’s hand tightly clasped in his and held against his breast.

“The agony, the misery I have suffered behind those walls,” he muttered, “for sixteen years!”

“It is over,” murmured the girl; “come away to the hills; we have no time to lose.”

She stooped to gather up the objects in the road. “I have brought you these things,” she said confusedly, hardly audibly. “Change into them quickly, and then follow me up the road. No, I will take all the rest,” she added, as he took the bundle of clothing she gave him and stretched out his hand for the other smaller things. “Hasten, Nicholas, it is so dangerous here!” With this parting entreaty she went on up the road carrying the bundles.

After she had gone a little way she paused and listened-all was quite still-the stars now showed fitfully in the deepening purple of the sky, a little breeze blew gently up from the wilderness towards Jerusalem. The girl sat down by the wall, with her back against it, and her hands clasped round her knees. Her face had a strange, wonderful beauty as she sat waiting, white-skinned and softly-moulded, with resolute, dark eyebrows drawn straight across the calm forehead. A few moments passed, and then Nicholas approached; his flowing priest’s robes were gone, the high, straight, black hat of the order was no longer on his head: it was bare, and the long uncut hair, as the Greeks wear it, was twisted in two thick fair coils round his head. Esther sprang up, untwisting a broad sash from her waist.

“Take this! No wait! let me twist it round your head-yes, so. Now it looks like a Jewish turban. You have the robe and the hat with you?-yes, bring them, bring them,” and they hurried on, fleeing away from the monastery. Esther knew a short track across the hills which in a little while joins the great main road to Jericho, that descends down and down through the bare rolling hills of the wilderness to the fair plain of the Jordan and the shores of the Dead Sea. For the first few miles they sped on in silence with clasped hands, the night wind rushing against their faces, and no sound coming to their ears but the occasional whine of the hungry hyenas, prowling over the stony, starlit hills. In the man’s breast swelled an exaltation beyond all words: it lifted him up so, that his feet seemed flying over the rugged ground without touching it; the night-wind filled his veins with fire: his brain seemed alight and glowing. For years past the bare stone walls of his monk’s cell had given him pictures painted by his fevered fancy of such a walk as this through starlit, open spaces-a walk to life and freedom. For years his hot, caged feet had paced the stone cell floor, aching to pass the threshold; and for the last month ever since from amongst the olive-trees he had seen the fair Jewish girl pass by, a new vision had come upon those white-washed walls to add its torture to the rest. Evening after evening he had stolen out at sunset to see her pass, as she came and went from the little cluster of Jewish houses on the ridge beyond the monastery and watched the sunlight play upon her brows and hair. Could this thing, so divinely beautiful, be the creation of the devil to destroy men’s souls? His reason revolted against it. If so, the warm sunlight and radiant sky and air, the flowers and the purple hills, his weary eyes strained out to must be also the devil’s work, for all these things were akin, and the woman passing amongst them was but the masterpiece made by the same hand.

“Say,” he had said wearily, one night, to a monk passing him like a silent shadow on his way to his cell. “Is all the world the work of the devil?”

“Nay, brother, what blasphemy!” returned the other, startled beyond measure. “It is all the work of God” and Nicholas had passed into his cell well pleased. And the next evening he had called softly to the masterpiece of the Creator, as she went by, and the girl, startled and fearful at first, had spoken a few words out of sheer pity for the hungry, lonely soul looking out so wistfully at her; and then how soon had come other meetings, the plan to escape-that final vision which had seemed to justify him,-and now the flight!

“Will the boat be there! will they wait for us?” he asked eagerly, as they walked swiftly on.

“Yes, I heard the boat was coming over from the Jewish Colony beyond the Dead Sea, and I sent word down it was to take me in it when it left again,” the girl replied, “We shall get down there to-morrow evening; we will go to old Solomon’s house; he will let us stay with him one night, and in the morning we must get down to the shore and the boat.”

Nicholas pressed her hand as they walked on. How wise she was, this little Jewish girl! She had lived her short life in the world, and knew her way about in it so well. And he, so much older, felt like a child beside her, after all those long, deadening, numbing years in the monastery.

Five miles more of the white, stony road were traversed, winding in and out, but always descending between the barren desolate hills of the wilderness, and then Esther said with a little sob in her voice:

“We must stop here now and rest, I am so tired. I cannot go any further to-night.”

“Tired?” he echoed wonderingly. Could he ever feel tired now? His feet seemed borne on wings. But he stopped, and bending over her, lifted and carried her tenderly from the starlit road to a large rock jutting out from the hillside. Here, in the shadow on the farther side, they lay down, and the girl fell at once into the deep sleep of utter bodily fatigue. The man lay open-eyed clasping her to him, his brain on fire with freedom, listening with joy to the cries of the wandering wild animals amongst the hills.

The following evening, late, they reached the plain. The wilderness lay behind them, and in front, beyond the green darkness of the trees, they knew the starlight was gleaming on the Dead Sea. The heat down here was suffocating, and their weary feet moved on slowly through the village-a collection of a few white flat-roofed houses, which are all that now mark the spot where stood once the rich, mighty city of Jericho. In the last house shone a light, and Esther led Nicholas towards it.

Solomon was waiting for them, and had prepared for them his best upper room-a little narrow apartment, with windows facing towards the sea-where supper was laid, and opening from this a tiny sleeping chamber. A swinging lamp hung over the centre table, and Solomon’s younger brother waited on them. Esther, with the dust of the road washed from her skin, looked very fair, sitting under the light of the lamp, her eyes glowing with the mysterious fires of love and joy, and the two Jews sat listening to her eagerly as she talked to them, telling them the news of her family and friends in Jerusalem.

“If I could only go up to the city,” sighed the younger man. “But I cannot walk, and I have no horse,” and he grew sullen and dejected and said no more, while the elder continued to ask and be answered a hundred questions about the life and doings of the city.

That night, past midnight, when the whole plain of Jericho lay wrapped in a deep hush, and not one light gleamed in the darkness of the village, a carriage drawn by two foam-covered horses thundered down the last steep descent of the road from Jerusalem into the village, and dashed through it straight to Solomon’s dwelling. Esther, asleep in the upper room, with Nicholas’ head pillowed on her shoulder, heard the clatter of wheels and awoke suddenly, all her body growing rigid with terror.

“Nicholas, awake! they have followed us!” She sprang from the bed, and opening the window noiselessly, looked out. The night was quite dark, but by straining her eyes she could descry the form of a covered carriage below, and two dark figures stood hammering on the house-door. The sounds rang reverberating through the dwelling, and disturbing the still, calm air without, laden with the scent of myrtle and orange-flower. A window above opened, and the old Jew looked out.

“Who knocks?” he called.

“Priests from Jerusalem, from the Monastery of the Holy Virgin. One whom we seek is within; let us enter.” Esther drew back into the room, and saw Nicholas standing behind her, his face haggard with despair. “Jéhovah, then, is not with us.”

Esther pressed his hand.

“Esther is with you,” she murmured softly. “You shall not go back, they shall not touch you. Give me your priest’s clothing, and stay here.”

Before he could answer she had snatched up the garments and was gone, fastening the door behind her. Outside on the stairway she met old Solomon, coming slowly down to answer the imperative summons from below.

“Delay all you can in admitting them,” she whispered, then ran past him, fleet of foot, up the stairs to the Jews’ room-the door stood open as Solomon had left it. She entered, and stood within in the darkness.

“Hiram,” she called softly, “you wished to go up to Jerusalem. Now is your opportunity. Get up, put on these things, and the priests will take you back in their carriage.” She heard the man rise and bound to the floor.

“Is that you, Esther? Have they sent from the monastery to take Nicholas?”

“Yes,” returned Esther in an agonised voice. “But you will not let them take him? See, Hiram, they cannot hurt you; they will not recognise you, nor suspect you here in the darkness, in the dress of Nicholas. You need not speak. They will hasten you into the carriage. To-morrow when they discover you, it will be too late for them to overtake us. We shall be gone, and you they will not want. They cannot put you in their monastery. They must release you, and you-will be at the gates of Jerusalem.”

Her low voice, thrilled with her agony of fear and suspense: there was the very soul of persuasion in it. As she pleaded in the darkness, she heard the man breathing quickly, and shuffling his feet on the floor. He was hesitating. He longed to go up to the city, but this seemed a dangerous expedient. Yet it would serve Esther, and she was very fair, and was of his own kindred. There was a noise and clamour downstairs beneath them-the sound of the slow unbarring of bolts, and angry voices without. Esther drew nearer, and her voice grew sharp with fear:

“Hiram, as they are pushing you to the carriage, I will throw myself into your arms, and you shall kiss me your last farewell, as if you were Nicholas.”

In the darkness she felt that the man stretched out his hand.

“Give me the clothes; I will go.”

Esther threw them into his arms, and darted out, closing the door, and hung over the stair-rail. There was no light, but she could hear the heavy footsteps coming up. Nearer they came, and nearer, stumbling, and Solomon’s step behind, as he followed the priests, grumbling and protesting. Now they were almost opposite the door of the room where Nicholas crouched waiting.

“He is not here! he is not here!” wailed out Esther’s voice suddenly from above, and the priests hearing her, rushed up the stairs to where she stood, passing by, forgotten, the door of the lower room.

Rigid and tense she stood before the door as if guarding it, her arms outstretched before it. The first priest pushed her roughly on one side, the second opened the door, and beyond, dimly outlined against the open window square, was visible the draped figure and heavy hat of a priest. With a shout of triumph they darted forward, and Esther gave a great cry of wild despair. The priests dragged him out unresisting, and forced him down the stairs. No word came from him. Solomon, leaning back against the wall to let them pass, stretched out his hand to the weeping Esther; but she passed him, crying and hurrying after her lover. Down in the passage the large door stood wide, showing the waiting carriage in the dim starlight of the sultry night. As they pushed him to the door, he suddenly wrested himself free for an instant, and Esther rushed into his arms.

“Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas! Good-bye!”

The priests seized her by the shoulder, wrenching her away, and one hurled her with a fury of loathing back into the darkness of the passage. Then they forced their prisoner forward, stumbling, resisting, to the carriage. The door snapped to, the horses plunged forward, and the carriage thundered away into the night. Esther picked herself up from where she had fallen in the passage, and bruised and trembling, but with a joyous smile, rushed up the narrow stairway.

“Solomon!” she said, whispering in the old Jew’s ear, “Hiram has gone in the place of Nicholas! Nicholas is safe here. Oh, help us to get to the sea!”

Solomon shook with laughter as he heard-for a Jew loves dearly a clever ruse-and he stroked Esther’s soft hair as she stood by him.

“Light us a lamp, and let us get away to the shore, that we can embark and be away on the water at dawn, before they discover it and return,” Then she passed by him and entered the room where Nicholas awaited her. Solomon trimmed a lamp and a lantern for them, and put up some bread and meat for their journey, his shoulders shaking with inward chuckles as he did so.

“Hiram a priest!” he repeated to himself; “that is a joke indeed, and Esther, what a quick brain she has-a true daughter of Israel!” and Esther was murmuring within to Nicholas:

“Jéhovah has saved us. Now let us hasten down to the sea.”

The next morning, when the dawn broke soft and rosy over the fair plain of Jericho, the sea that is called the Dead Sea, yet seems, in its glorious wealth of colour and sparkling brilliance to be rather the emblem of Life, glowed and flashed like a huge sapphire in the sun’s rays, and at its calm edge, that meets the shore without a ripple, swayed gently the ship of the pilgrims from the Jewish Colony.

Nicholas and Esther sat side by side watching the pilgrims’ oars dip quietly in perfect rhythm as they sang. And the song of praise went up through the golden air, and echoed back to the sunny, silent strand vanishing behind them.