For the first four nights of his wandering he had not known where he was going, but on this fifth night he discovered.  He was on the way to Bethlehem—­beautiful little Bethlehem curving on the crest of the Judean mountains and smiling down upon the fairness of the fairest of sweet valleys, rich with vines and figs and olives and almond-trees.  He dimly recalled stories he had overheard of its loveliness, and when he found that he had wandered unknowingly toward it, he was aware of a faint sense of peace.  He had seen nothing of any other part of the world than the poor village outside which the hovel of his bond-mistress had clung to a low hill.  Since he was near it, he vaguely desired to see Bethlehem.

He had learned of its nearness as he lay hidden in the undergrowth on the mountain-side that he had begun to climb the night before.  Awakening from sleep, he had heard many feet passing up the climbing road—­the feet of men and women and children, of camels and asses, and all had seemed to be of a procession ascending the mountainside.  Lying flat upon the earth, he had parted the bushes cautiously, and watched, and listened to the shouts, cries, laughter, and talk of those who were near enough to be heard.  So bit by bit he had heard the story of the passing throng.  The great Emperor Augustus, who, to the common herd seemed some strange omnipotent in his remote and sumptuous paradise of Rome, had issued a decree that all the world of his subjects should be enrolled, and every man, woman, and child must enroll himself in his own city.  And to the little town of Bethlehem all these travelers were wending their way, to the place of their nativity, in obedience to the great Caesar’s command.

All through the day he watched them—­men and women and children who belonged to one another, who rode together on their beasts, or walked together hand in hand.  Women on camels or asses held their little ones in their arms, or walked with the youngest slung on their backs.  He heard boys laugh and talk with their fathers—­boys of his own age, who trudged merrily along, and now and again ran forward, shouting with glee.  He saw more than one strong man swing his child up to his shoulder and bear him along as if he found joy in his burden.  Boy and girl companions played as they went and made holiday of their journey; young men or women who were friends, lovers, or brothers and sisters bore one another company.

“No one is alone,” said Zia, twisting his thin fingers together—­“no one! no one!  And there are no lepers.  The great Caesar would not count a leper.  Perhaps, if he saw one, he would command him to be put to death.”

And then he writhed upon the grass and sobbed again, his bent chest almost bursting with his efforts to make no sound.  He had always been alone—­always, always; but this loneliness was such as no young human thing could bear.  He was no longer alive; he was no longer a human being.  Unclean!  Unclean!  Unclean!