“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: