_Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est!_ [Illustration: _THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR_] XVII THE GUARD OF THE SILVER STAR Our eyes are now growing accustomed to the subdued light, and off in one corner of the cave where the gloom is very deep, a form is slowly coming into view. Dark, indistinct, immovable; it would be possible for a worshipper to come and go, and never see that shape at the end of the altar; but by day and by night it is always there—the Moslem guardian of the Silver Star. That is why there is a garrison in the church above. The soldier is half-fed and paid not at all, and his blue uniform is ragged and dirty; but he holds a modern repeating rifle in his hand as he stands there by the hour without moving a muscle, ready when need comes to face valiantly any odds in the performance of his duty. He needs to be brave; for when the Christmas season comes round, Bethlehem is thronged with worshippers of the Prince of Peace. They fill the church to overflowing. They rush down the narrow stairways that lead to the little cave, and there they crowd and curse and fight for a glimpse of the Silver Star; so that sometimes the air grows foul and the lamps burn even more dimly and women faint and strong men fall down and are trampled to death in the horrible confusion. And quiet does not come with the passing of the Christmastide; but all through the year the monks from the convents above quarrel over the possession of the little shrine, and open warfare is not uncommon. Then the rival parties snarl and scratch; they seize heavy lamps and holy candlesticks from the altars, and priestly garments are torn and priestly heads are broken, until soldiers from the Turkish garrison come down and assist the sentry in clubbing the unruly ones into submission. I often wonder what the silent sentinel thinks about as he stands there hour by hour, watching the smoky lights that glow above the Silver Star. [Illustration: _SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN_] XVIII THE SONG OF THE KNEELING WOMEN We turned in sadness of heart to shake the dust of Bethlehem from our feet. Up out of the cave and out of the transept we hurried; but then we took the wrong door, and instead of reaching the public square, we found ourselves in the church of the Franciscans. It was the time of the vesper service, and among the shadows of the unlighted nave there stretched long lines of kneeling women. They were all natives of Bethlehem, with the tall white headdress whose spotless cleanness is in such contrast to the costumes of most Palestinian villagers.