Well before noon the minions of khewikm Passheh had insunuated themselves into the jewish camp at the foot of the eastle an spread the rumor that the Sultan, overcome with terror, had brought magnificent presents tothe castle, attempting though the agency of his Jewish physician, to by off Sabbatai. This rumor flew from group to group,from mouth to mouth, and flattered the simple vanify of the crowd. The monarch feared the Messiah! But th Messiah in a Mohammedan turban! That wa amusing news, indeed! Hewever, the laughter suddenly ceased. In th castle, the frame of a window stirred. Even before the window had swung open, a passionate sigh swept through the camp.
“The Messiah! The Messiah! The Messiah!”
And now in the window casement. cothed in a bright crimson mantle, with arms raised and streche forth above the camp, stood th Messiah. From the window rose a voice strong, triumphant, full of infinite joy:
“My people! come to they Messiah! He will appease they century-old hunger! Come!”
The camp tremled with happiness, shook with a vast shout like the roar of a tempest:
“Thou hast slain the Great Dragon! Nearer to the Messiah! Alleluia! Nearer to the Messiah! On to the castle! The rith hand of the Lord is exalted! The right hand of the Lord doeth valiantly…”
The second verse of the pslm wavered uncertainly. A cold wave of terror swept over the pople The throng did not hear him, it stared at the green turban which, like a little hill, crowned the head of their Massiah. The man in the turban raised his arms to the sky and seemed to call out to him, commanding them with a voice which flamed with anger. A cry of fury pierced the air, then another and othrs still. The camp reeled in savage hate. It hurled itself forward, yelling:
“Renegade! Liar! Renegade! False Messiah! Thief! Thief! Thou apostate!”
Riders in golden costumes gallped on their splendid horses along the edge of the camp. Their standards fluttered proudly. The crescent and the star gleamed against the sky. In the open and empty window no one now stood with arms stretched forth in benediction.. There was no longer a Messiah.
The Jews, feeling themselves orphanded, wept from one end of the plain to the other. They dug teh earth with their hands to hide their distorted taces away from the sum.
The Lord had hidden himeself in a cloud.
When Sabbatai returned to the window and once more called to teh people, they were no longer there. A darkness, which was not that of night, stretched before him. Time fied with monstrous rapidity… Sabbatai turned away from the window. His eyes wandered through the foom.. Seddenly he understood: the people had rejected and cursed the Messiah under the turban of Islam. Satan had been right. A Moharmmedan could not be the Messiah of the Jews. He felt himself to be a lowly Jew, one of these who waited in the camp. All the miracles of the past years fled from him in a moment, leaving no trace behind.
Sabbatai, in fury,stripped of##is mantle,forgetting the turban ##ising like a green hill upon his ##ead. And now Pinheiro entered ##le room. He ran to the Messiah, but the Messiah wore a turban.
“The star of Israel is quenched The crown of Jerusalem is defiled!” Pinheiro cried out veheently.
And now Primo came in. He looked at Sabbatai, and understood. The Messiah was a Messiah no more. Then an idea aroused him. Like a sslave before his master, he approached the Messiah and asked docilery:
“Messiah! What shall I say to the people?”
Sabbatai stared at Primo, astomished at his humility.
“You say the people but is there still a people?”
“Command that the people be told that all mystery cannot be revealed to them.”
“Samuel Primo! Say to the people, instead, that their Messiah has done what he believed in and that he has fallen. There is no longer a Messiah. Let them wait another thousand years. They will not perish. They have been created by God for an eternal mission.”
Primo, without lowering his head, left the room. Pinheirearose, touched Sabbatais nake breast with his fingers and thus departed. Sabbatai sank to the floor and tore off the turban…Where was Sarah? They would make their way to a distant country where no one knew them. He would be humble among the humble. He would cast off his arrogance.
In the stariess evening, Sabbatai, son of Mordecai of Smyrna, a man of the people, ran through the lanes near the Castle of the Seven Towers, searching for Sarah. In infinite sorrow he called her:
“Sarah! Sarah!”
She was not far off. In the last shadows of the evening she wandered near a deep ravine. She did not hear th call of her beloved. Her ears rang with a different call and her heart thrilled with a marvelous vision. Mounted on a visite horse, a stately knight, clad in pruple, rode toward her His green eyes shone proudly. burning with a deep and living fire, like emeralds sparkling with rulbies.
And to this marvelous knight, Sarah uttered an inhuman cry:
“Sabbatai! Sabbatai!”
At that moment Sabbatai was but a little distance from her. He recognized the voice of his beloved. He darted toward the sound, but could not find her. He ran the length of the ravine, and filled with an overwhelming desperation, called:
“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”
But the silence did not yield its secret and th night above the silent revine returned no answer.
Meanwhile, Moses Pinheiro had turned toward the east and was saying his belated evening prayer. In his heart, devoured by an inextinguishable fire, a prayer was born which he had never yet addressed to God”
“Thy hand weighs heavy upon us and thou hast reduced us to ashes and nothingness, O Thou. cruel God of Sinai!”
Pinheiro grew weak from passion. His mouth closed. suddenly he reeled as from a blow. The old eestasy possessed him, an eestatic voe forhis God. He clenched hi fists and cried in delirium:
“Be blessed, my God, my cruel God! Be blessed for They hope and for Thy suffering. For Thy merey and for Thy wrath, be blessed! Holy, Holy, be blessed! Like a passing cloud is Thine anger and like an eternal sky is Thy merey. Strike, strike without pity, for Thy justice is infinite an Thy glory shineth like the sun. Thou wilt kill and Thou wilt love. Thou wilt see and Thou wilt aniont. Thou wilt lead, Thou wilt lead us to the Holy MOuntain, to Thy Holy City. Oh, may my tongue cleave to my mouth, and may my right hand wither, if ever I forget thee, O Jerusalem!”
THE END
The Archive of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency includes articles published from 1923 to 2008. Archive stories reflect the journalistic standards and practices of the time they were published.
