



Produced by Al Haines










[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: "Bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the
Nazarene."]





THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS.

(SANTA CLAUS)

A Story of Duty and Peril.


BY

GRANT BALFOUR,

Author of "The Fairy School of Castle Frank."





TORONTO:

THE POOLE PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED,

PUBLISHERS.




Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine by A. BALFOUR GRANT, in the
office of the Minister of Agriculture.




CONTENTS


Chapter

    I.  Watching for the Prey
   II.  A Ministering Angel
  III.  Still on the Watch
   IV.  The Amphitheatre
    V.  The Influence Working
   VI.  The Indignation of Tharsos
  VII.  The Perplexity of Carnion
 VIII.  Waiting for the Victim
   IX.  In the Arena
    X.  The Lion
   XI.  The Man with the Dagger
  XII.  Discipline
 XIII.  Night
  XIV.  Day
   XV.  Saint Nicholas




THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS

(SANTA CLAUS).



CHAPTER I.

WATCHING FOR THE PREY.

Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the
famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia
Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara.  Look at it well.
Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful
associations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of
the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy.

Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts
of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first
mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again.
The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred
up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity.

The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at
assault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible
pretext, and to shew them little quarter.  If they could arrest the
ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women,
in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply
exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied,
and peace in the city restored.

In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market
place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person
to pass by.  They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was
something like that of a modern detective.

Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the
knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like
shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous
eyes.  To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was
strife or the chance of gold.  He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman,
he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had
travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly
distinguished himself for a time.

Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was
lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy.

Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were passing by--a
picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while
now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were
considered either arrogant, or effeminate.

"Her carriage must have passed," said Demonicus savagely.

"It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by
custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually passes on foot shortly
after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time."

"We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered
Demonicus.  "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a
good excuse I shall invent one.  The bribe," added he with an impatient
gesture, "is too tempting for more delay."

Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus.
When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better
nature would now and again assert itself, as there stole over his
vision a beautiful figure with a noble work in hand.  He wanted the
prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious
it also felt agreeable to suggest delay.  After a brief silence he
remarked--

"There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of
the Triple Arch to-night.  The bishop is away at Myra.  But Orestes,
the shepherd, is to be present, and I promise thee something will be
said that will give us a plausible backing; his words are plain, ay
even bold as the cliffs of Mount Taurus, where he dwells.  Should we
not wait till then, Demonicus?"

"I shall not," answered he, stamping his heavy, sandalled foot
viciously; "it would be our last chance, and the woman might not be
there."

"The lady is sure to be," rejoined Timon, "she is the spirit of the
whole movement."

Demonicus paced about reflecting, and having cooled down, he
mumbled,--"I shall see, but I shall miss no chance before."

Timon now stepped out and looked along the street, then turning
immediately round to his companion with a hesitating, half-regretful
look, he whispered--

"She is coming!"

The face of Demonicus glowed with an evil flame, as he went forward
quickly to assure himself.  The lady with her attendant, a liberated
female slave, was seen approaching on foot, and both men retreated into
the recess and waited.




CHAPTER II.

A MINISTERING ANGEL.

Pathema, the eldest daughter of a prosperous merchant, walked with her
servant Miriam through the crowded street, heedless or unconscious of
danger; then passing two pairs of eyes directed towards her veiled
face, she turned at right angles into the Stenos, a short quiet street
leading towards the river Xanthus.

Without haste, yet her progress was steady and good, with a natural
grace set free by the loose Ionic dress--a cream- _chiton_,
girdled at the waist and falling from the shoulders to the feet in many
folds, and above it a short mantle in gold-brown, bordered with white.
Full of work of a high order, her dark eyes and finely carved mouth
spoke beneficent purpose, while her fair countenance showed an Oriental
seriousness and thought.

Pathema might have spared herself a life of labour and risk and
self-sacrifice.  She might have enjoyed a life of fashion and pleasure
and ease.  Besides this, her beauty and accomplishments could have
easily secured for her a home and affluence, had she so desired.  But
she had cast in her lot with One who had lived a higher life, which in
working-out had made him a man of "no reputation."  Pathema was a
Christian, and as such had made herself a set of determined and
malicious enemies.  Her Christianity could not be mistaken.  There was
no mere form about it, no casual acts of duty, no hysterical nights, no
insipidity, and no compromise,--the gods must go.  It was a clear,
steady, every-day light, peeping up in childhood, and burning brighter
and brighter thro' the years.  Though a lover of knowledge and fond of
reasoning, she wasted no time in a vain jangle about faith and works,
but illustrated both in her daily life.  Encouraged by her parents, and
acting as their medium, and that of other benefactors, she attended to
the wants of a wide circle of sick and poor, both heathen and
Christian.  Like her Lord himself, she went about doing good.  No one
cheered and comforted the members of the Christian community more, no
one was a greater inspiration, and no one was more unassuming.

On the left bank of the Xanthus stood a large residence belonging to a
man of wealth, a business friend of Pathema's father.  In front there
was no altar to Apollo Agyieus, and no statue of any god, the owner
having distinct leanings toward Christianity.  All that met the eye was
a Victor's Laurel tree, behind the house, which was much greater in
depth than width, was a garden, containing such trees as pomegranate,
orange, and fig.

To that house Pathema went.  Ascending the steps and knocking at the
door, she was met by a porter (with his dog), who led her and Miriam
past his lodge and along the narrow passage to the first peristyle--a
partly open courtyard.  Here they awaited the appearance of the
mistress.  On all four sides were colonnades, under which were a
banqueting room, a picture gallery, a library, servants' office,
sitting rooms, and several bed-chambers.  The visitors had not long to
wait.

"Peace be with you!" said the mistress, with a gracious smile.

"Joy to thee!" was the reply.

Entering a chamber on the right, Pathema was gently conducted to the
bedside of Crito, an invalid boy, his parents' pride and tender care.
Crito had received a good education, and, when well, was active, witty
and intelligent.  But he had been hurt internally while wrestling in
the gymnasium with an older lad, and for a time his life hung in the
balance.  Several days had elapsed since Pathema saw him, and he was
now fast asleep.  She did not speak, but looked on him awhile with
earnest anxious eyes.  At length a gleam of hope lit up her face, and
she was about to leave softly when Crito, as if conscious of some
departing force, suddenly opened his eyes.

"Hail!  Pathema; steal not thyself away," said he smiling.

"I steal but a gem of hope--surely a lighter load," was the laughing
answer.

"And yet thou hast left it in my breast, thou absent-minded robber."

Bending down, Pathema kissed his bosom, saying, "And I am glad to leave
it there."

"And go forth hopeless?" queried he.

"Yes," said she, shaking her head in feigned solemnity, and Crito
laughed.

Leaving figures of speech, Pathema expressed her joy that there
appeared to be good ground for hope.  Then they entered into an
animated conversation about the Iliad and the Odyssey, books that the
Hellenic people used as we do Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare, and the
Bible.  Before parting they conversed about the Memoirs of the
Apostles, called in our day the Gospels.

"I love the Nazarene's moral courage," said Crito.

"Yes," replied Pathema, "to be invited, for instance, to dine with a
number of the learned, and without personal provocation to feel
compelled to denounce them as hypocrites, must have been a severe trial
of his courage."

"It seems easier to face wounds and the loss of blood than the loss of
reputation," rejoined Crito.

"It is, but, of course, the full test is to face both.  The applause of
his comrades, of the whole army and of his nation, fires the spirit of
the brave soldier that climbs the frowning walls of a besieged city;
but the Nazarene had not the applause of a single soul when He faced
the certainty of cruel death upon the cross; worse, there was derision,
and He himself even cried out that God had forsaken Him."

"The cross means a great deal," said Crito reflectively.

"It was endured in love for us," was the reply.

"The love was great," remarked the boy.

Pathema now rose up to go, and Crito was very sorry; but he knew that
there were many other poor and tried ones waiting to welcome her, and
he urged himself to resignation.

"Come back on the morrow," said he, "and stay with me longer; I weary
much for thee."

Having kissed her hand respectfully, the boy looked after her wistfully
as she departed like a heavenly angel.

Going next into the humble abode of an old man, whose only attendant
was a little granddaughter, Pathema with her maid proceeded at once to
put the place in thorough order, aiding the slender one with the
heaviest work, such as it was.  The child had always done well, but
stronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in
special dress.  Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather
and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a
charming tale of a Forest Nymph.  Before leaving she placed a silver
coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could
only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic
hand for some distance along the street.

Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a
messenger of mercy.  The harvest-field of suffering and privation was
then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping
instruments--hospitals and "homes"--there were none.  How much
Christianity has done, yet how much to do!

Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of _maza_, barley bread, and figs,
with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity,
she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey
refreshed.

The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple
Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far
beyond.  In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they
came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected,
the hireling having left the day before.  Sadder still, the only one
old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was
able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption.  The sight to
Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of
the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little
nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the
house.

Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper
just a consoling word or two at intervals.  The girl expressed heir
gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant
eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face.
The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble.  She moved
her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at
last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice--"Oh! for breath and rest,
rest."

"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among
the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the
invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.

"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears,
adding to herself in a dreamy whisper--"My father, poor father!"

But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden,
and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long
white _chiton_, and carried her with great tenderness out into the
cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring.

"How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through
the olive branches into the clear blue sky.

"There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that
remaineth for the people of God."

Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace.  Her pet white dove,
flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon
the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek.  She
turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate
creature, forgot her weariness for a time--a little time.  Then she
began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning
look the word father.

The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her
rest again.  This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had
no end.  Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or
release.  Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to
soothe were possible.

The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the
bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid.
His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark _exomis_ (a short
sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails.  As was
common, he was bareheaded.  He had a melancholy foreboding that
calamity was near at hand.  His oxen stood idle in their stall from
early morning.  Noticing with surprised relief that his child was
already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side,
he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved.

"Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man
shook with emotion.  "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as
if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my
little brothers and my poor lonely father."

Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it
tenderly in her own bosom.  Feeling that the spark of life was low (for
the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing,
she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer.

A little interval and then, with pleading face, the simple words of the
child--

"Father in heaven, take into thy kind care my father and brothers;"

And then, with a peaceful