intelligence to this attendant, for he turned immediately and left the room, the arch of his back and neck lending him a close resemblance to a condor.
“Ebenezer will tell my father you are here,” declared Aaron. “If heis in one of his more lucid moments, he will probably see you at once.” He studied Basil with an eye as cold as outer space and then said to Adam, “He is very young. Were his qualifications weighed carefully before he was selected?”
“I was so told by Luke.” Adam’s voice carried a bristling note. “Is it not claimed that one Jesus disputed with learned doctors at the age of twelve?”
“That has no bearing,” declared the other sharply. He motioned toward a room opening off the one where they were standing and then addressed Basil. “You will find water there to remove the stains of travel. There will be wine brought in. You,” to Adam, “will have other matters to attend to elsewhere, no doubt.”
“When my master dies, this ungrateful son of a good father will have no further use for my services,” muttered Adam when Aaron had left.
Alone in the inner room, Basil looked about him with speculative eyes, mentally comparing the house of Joseph of Arimathea with the palace on the Antioch Colonnade. It was furnished with a beauty he found somewhat strange, although he realized that the hangings had a fineness of color and texture that gave him a sense of voluptuous pleasure and that the rugs were the best product of the weavers who wrought magic with skilled fingers. It seemed to him that an air of mystery was fostered purposely, whereas the house of Ignatius had been kept wide open, a little noisy by contrast, with the sunlight free to invade every nook and corner. There were other differences. The ornamentation in Antioch had been pure and with a certain feeling for the ascetic; here it approached the point of overelaboration.
The nature of the message the fingers of Aaron had conveyed to the ears of his servant became clear when the latter returned with a jug of wine. It was
vinum acetum
, thin and metallic in flavor. Basil made a wry face and replaced his cup after one taste.
A sound of voices from the interior court of the house drew him to the window overlooking it. He was surprised at the size and beauty of the garden upon which he found himself gazing. It was oblong in shape and filled with a profusion of flowers and small trees. A magnificent fountain stood in the center, throwing a spray of water into the air as high as the latticed windows of the second floor. Birds of brilliant plumage nestled sulkily in the green foliage and occasionally drew attention to themselves with a flap of scarlet wings or an unmelodious cawing. Basil made amental acknowledgment to Joseph of Arimathea: in the matter of gardens Jerusalem ranked well above Antioch.
A very old man had entered the court, leaning on the arm of a girl, and progressing with slow and unsteady steps. Certain that this was the great Hebrew merchant, Basil studied him with eager eyes. The brow of Joseph of Arimathea was unusually broad, and his deep-sunk eyes had both nobility and intelligence. It was a beautiful and generous face. Basil’s fingers itched for his finely balanced hammers and the coolness of his modeling clay.
He was so concerned with the countenance of the venerable merchant that he did not notice the girl with him. This was an oversight, for she was worth a long glance: a small figure in a white
palla
that covered her from neck to sandaled foot; her hair, as black as midnight, in braids hanging over her shoulders; her eyes so concerned with guiding her grandfather’s steps that it was only when she glanced up for a casual moment that they were seen to be bright under finely arched brows.
The voices of the pair in the garden carried clearly to the room where the visitor waited, and Basil realized that they were engaged in an affectionate bickering.
“My dear child!” the old man was saying. “You
“Ebenezer will tell my father you are here,” declared Aaron. “If heis in one of his more lucid moments, he will probably see you at once.” He studied Basil with an eye as cold as outer space and then said to Adam, “He is very young. Were his qualifications weighed carefully before he was selected?”
“I was so told by Luke.” Adam’s voice carried a bristling note. “Is it not claimed that one Jesus disputed with learned doctors at the age of twelve?”
“That has no bearing,” declared the other sharply. He motioned toward a room opening off the one where they were standing and then addressed Basil. “You will find water there to remove the stains of travel. There will be wine brought in. You,” to Adam, “will have other matters to attend to elsewhere, no doubt.”
“When my master dies, this ungrateful son of a good father will have no further use for my services,” muttered Adam when Aaron had left.
Alone in the inner room, Basil looked about him with speculative eyes, mentally comparing the house of Joseph of Arimathea with the palace on the Antioch Colonnade. It was furnished with a beauty he found somewhat strange, although he realized that the hangings had a fineness of color and texture that gave him a sense of voluptuous pleasure and that the rugs were the best product of the weavers who wrought magic with skilled fingers. It seemed to him that an air of mystery was fostered purposely, whereas the house of Ignatius had been kept wide open, a little noisy by contrast, with the sunlight free to invade every nook and corner. There were other differences. The ornamentation in Antioch had been pure and with a certain feeling for the ascetic; here it approached the point of overelaboration.
The nature of the message the fingers of Aaron had conveyed to the ears of his servant became clear when the latter returned with a jug of wine. It was
vinum acetum
, thin and metallic in flavor. Basil made a wry face and replaced his cup after one taste.
A sound of voices from the interior court of the house drew him to the window overlooking it. He was surprised at the size and beauty of the garden upon which he found himself gazing. It was oblong in shape and filled with a profusion of flowers and small trees. A magnificent fountain stood in the center, throwing a spray of water into the air as high as the latticed windows of the second floor. Birds of brilliant plumage nestled sulkily in the green foliage and occasionally drew attention to themselves with a flap of scarlet wings or an unmelodious cawing. Basil made amental acknowledgment to Joseph of Arimathea: in the matter of gardens Jerusalem ranked well above Antioch.
A very old man had entered the court, leaning on the arm of a girl, and progressing with slow and unsteady steps. Certain that this was the great Hebrew merchant, Basil studied him with eager eyes. The brow of Joseph of Arimathea was unusually broad, and his deep-sunk eyes had both nobility and intelligence. It was a beautiful and generous face. Basil’s fingers itched for his finely balanced hammers and the coolness of his modeling clay.
He was so concerned with the countenance of the venerable merchant that he did not notice the girl with him. This was an oversight, for she was worth a long glance: a small figure in a white
palla
that covered her from neck to sandaled foot; her hair, as black as midnight, in braids hanging over her shoulders; her eyes so concerned with guiding her grandfather’s steps that it was only when she glanced up for a casual moment that they were seen to be bright under finely arched brows.
The voices of the pair in the garden carried clearly to the room where the visitor waited, and Basil realized that they were engaged in an affectionate bickering.
“My dear child!” the old man was saying. “You
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