Chapter III

THE SHEPHERD OF PELLA

Momus drew up his camel.  The woman who had followed halted.  Except for the hurried breathing of their beasts, a critical silence brooded over the moon-silvered wilderness.  The moment was tense with the agony of human bitterness against the immitigable despatch of death.  There could be no thanksgiving for their own safety from those who were not glad to be given life.  Laodice resented her preservation; old Momus, aside from the wound of personal loss sore in his heart, was stricken with the realization of the grief of his young mistress, which he could not help.  He did not raise his eyes to her face when he turned toward her; there was no speech.  In the young woman’s heart the pain was too great for her to venture expression safely.  The silence was poignant with unnatural restraint.

Presently Momus inquired of her by signs if she wished to go on to the lifeless village below the camp.  She did not observe his gestures, and Momus decided for her.  He drove on and the woman, who had wrapped her cloak about her as the biting wind of the hills heightened through the narrow defiles to the north, followed.

But almost the next instant Momus drew up his mount so suddenly that Laodice was roused.  He turned and began to make rapid signs.  Laodice half rose as she read them and pressed her hands together.

“Seven days!” she exclaimed in dismay.  There was silence.

Momus made the camel kneel.  He dismounted slowly, and began to undo the tent-cloth in a roll beside the howdah.  The woman rode up and instantly the mute stepped between her and his young mistress and went on with his work.

Laodice understood the question in the woman’s attitude although, with true sense of an inferior’s place, the stranger did not speak.

“We are unclean,” Laodice said with effort.  “We have come from a pestilential city and we have touched the dead.  We can not enter a town with these defilements upon us, except to present ourselves to a priest for examination and separation.  Furthermore, we must burn our unessential belongings.  If you are a Jewess all these things are known to you.”

The woman extended her hands, palms upward, with a grace that was almost dainty.

“Lady,” she said behind her unlifted veil, “I am an unlettered woman and have been accustomed to the instruction of my masters.  I am obedient to the laws of our people.”

“You would have been in less peril to have ridden alone,” Laodice sighed.  “Our company has been no help to you.”

“We can not say that confidently.  There are worse things than pestilence in the wilderness,” the woman replied.

Momus seemed to observe more confidence than was natural in the ready answers of this professed servant, and before he would leave Laodice to pitch camp, he helped her to alight and drew her with him.  The woman remained on her mount.