He
had meditated much upon death. He did not like it, nor did he like
those who tried to harmonise it with life. On this side, beautiful
life; on the other, mysterious death, he reasoned, and no better lot
could befall a man than to live--to enjoy life and the beauty of
living. And he already had conceived a desire to convince Lazarus of
the truth of this view and to return his soul to life even as his body
had been returned. This task did not appear impossible, for the
reports about Lazarus, fearsome and strange as they were, did not tell
the whole truth about him, but only carried a vague warning against
something awful.
Lazarus was getting up from a stone to follow in the path of the
setting sun, on the evening when the rich Roman, accompanied by an
armed slave, approached him, and in a ringing voice called to him:
"Lazarus!"
Lazarus saw a proud and beautiful face, made radiant by fame, and
white garments and precious jewels shining in the sunlight. The ruddy
rays of the sun lent to the head and face a likeness to dimly shining
bronze--that was what Lazarus saw. He sank back to his seat
obediently, and wearily lowered his eyes.
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