4 min read

A Childhood Oath Stopped a Highwayman Cold

Two children swore they would never marry without each other's blessing. Years later, she came with gold to buy her release. He refused to take a coin.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Oath Two Children Made
  2. The Woman Who Tried to Buy Her Way Out
  3. What He Did With the Money
  4. Solomon's Answer and Why It Surprised Everyone

The Oath Two Children Made

They were young when they made it, young enough that the oath felt like the most serious thing in the world, which is exactly how children make oaths because they do not yet know how to make them less seriously. Neither would marry without the other's agreement. It was the kind of promise that grows from the absolute trust of childhood friendships, the kind that seems unbreakable because the person making it cannot yet fully imagine the future that will test it.

Then the future arrived.

The girl's parents found her a match she loved. The wedding was being planned. The life she wanted was within reach. And the oath stood between her and all of it, as real and unmovable as it had ever been.

The Woman Who Tried to Buy Her Way Out

She did not pretend the oath had never happened. She did not ask a legal authority to dissolve it through a technicality, though that path was available. She gathered a large sum of gold and silver and went to find her childhood friend, not to negotiate, exactly, but to honor what they had promised each other by offering payment for her release. She wanted to buy his blessing because she thought that was the honest way to acknowledge that a promise had been made and a price was being asked to unmake it.

She found him. She explained what had happened, what she was asking, and what she was prepared to pay.

What He Did With the Money

He listened to all of it. The tradition does not hide that his feelings for her went beyond childhood friendship into something that had been waiting for a different outcome than the one that was now being announced to him. He held the gold in his hands for a moment. And then he gave it back. Every coin. Not as a gesture of wounded pride, not as a form of punishment disguised as generosity. He gave her his blessing freely. He wished her well. He sent her back with empty hands and a complete heart and asked for nothing.

The question of who among them had acted most virtuously was carried to King Solomon as a riddle from the king of Rome. The riddle was designed to force a genuine moral analysis rather than a quick instinctive answer. The obvious candidate is the young man. He gave up his feelings and his money both. Surely the answer is him.

Solomon's Answer and Why It Surprised Everyone

Solomon said it was the highwayman.

Here is what had happened on the woman's journey: she had been stopped by a robber who took the gold and silver she was carrying. She explained why she was carrying it and where she was going and what it had meant. The robber held the money, weighed it, and returned it. He would not profit from the gold of an oath-debt between two people who had kept faith with each other under the hardest possible circumstances. He let her go with the full sum intact.

Solomon's answer was not that the young man's sacrifice was small. It was that the young man acted from love, which is a motive that carries its own reward in the act. He had something to gain from generosity, even if it was only the feeling of his own rightness. The woman's husband acted correctly because the law required it of him. But the robber, the robber had nothing to gain and everything to gain by keeping the gold, and he returned it anyway, for no reason except that he recognized something in the account he could not bring himself to damage.

SolomonWisdomSacrificeKings
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From the tradition

Sources

4 sources

The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Legends of the Jews 5:30Legends of the Jews

It involves King Solomon, wisest of all men, and a knotty problem presented to him by none other than the king of Rome. Now, Solomon, as we know from the Bible and countless stories woven around him, was renowned for his ability to unravel even the most complex situations. The Talmud even speaks of Solomon's wisdom extending to knowledge of animals and their languages (B. Talmud, Sukkah 53a).

So, what was this Roman riddle? It seems there was a young woman and a young man, friends since childhood, who made a solemn vow – a shvuah – never to marry without the other’s blessing.

Years later, the woman's parents arranged her marriage to a man she loved. A happy match, but there was that oath… So, driven by both love and honor, she gathered a generous sum of gold and silver and sought out her childhood friend. She intended to essentially buy his permission.

Here's where the story takes a beautiful turn. Overcoming his own feelings for her, the young man selflessly gave his blessing. He refused any payment, offering only his heartfelt congratulations. Imagine the strength of character that took! Ginzberg, in his monumental Legends of the Jews, highlights how Jewish tradition often elevates acts of selfless generosity, like this one, to the level of true piety.

Now, the happy couple, overflowing with joy, began their journey home. But their path was blocked by an old highwayman, a brigand ready to relieve them of their bride and their wealth. Disaster seemed imminent.

But the bride, quick-witted and brave, told the highwayman her story. She recounted the tale of her oath, her friend's sacrifice, and his ultimate blessing. Then she posed a powerful question: "If a young man could control his passions and desires for me, how much more should you, an old man, fear God and let us pass?" The power of her words, the echo of the young man's selflessness… it resonated deeply. The old highwayman, moved by her story, laid down his weapon and allowed them to continue unharmed.

What a story. It's more than just a nice anecdote; it's a reflection on the power of vows, the importance of selflessness, and the potential for redemption that lies within us all. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, stories like these serve not just to entertain, but to instruct and inspire us to live better lives. It also brings to mind the idea of tikkun (spiritual repair) olam, repairing the world, one act of kindness at a time. Even an old highwayman can be moved to goodness.

So, what do you take away from this tale? Does it make you think differently about oaths? About the choices we make? Perhaps, like me, you're left pondering the ripple effect of a single act of kindness, and how it can change not only individual lives but the very fabric of the world around us.

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Vayikra Rabbah 6:2Vayikra Rabbah

One of those moral quandaries that the ancient rabbis loved to wrestle with. They found wisdom in the most unexpected places – even in the behavior of weasels!

Vayikra Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic teachings on the Book of Leviticus, explores just that feeling in its sixth section. It opens with a verse from Leviticus about hearing the "voice of adjuration," (Leviticus 5:1) which is essentially a public call to testify – to speak up if you know something about a wrongdoing. But what happens when you choose silence?

The text immediately connects this to (Proverbs 29:24): "One who shares with a thief hates himself; he will hear an oath but will not tell." It's a powerful statement, suggesting that enabling a thief is a form of self-hatred. But how does that play out in real life?

Vayikra Rabbah tells a fascinating story about a governor who understood this principle intuitively. This governor had a problem: people were criticizing him for punishing those who bought stolen goods, but letting the thieves go free. It seemed unfair, didn't it? Like he was only addressing half the problem.

So, he devised a clever plan. He gathered all the people together and released weasels, placing food in front of them. The weasels, naturally, grabbed the food and scurried to their burrows to store it. The next day, he repeated the process, but this time, he’d sealed all the weasels' holes. The weasels, finding their hiding places blocked, were forced to bring the food back, showing everyone that the demand for stolen goods – the receivers – were the source of the problem!

It's a vivid illustration, isn't it? The governor understood that without buyers, there would be no thieves. He cleverly demonstrated how the receivers were integral to the crime.

But is observation enough to really grasp the severity of cooperating with a thief? How do we apply this lesson to our own lives? The text follows with a scenario: Reuven steals something from Shimon, and Levi knows about it. Reuven bribes Levi: "Keep quiet, and I'll give you half." The next day, in synagogue, the sexton announces: "Who stole from Shimon?" And Levi is right there, standing among everyone else.

The text then asks a pointed question: Doesn't the Torah already command us, “And he is a witness, who either saw or knew; [if he does not tell, he shall bear his iniquity]?” (Leviticus 5:1) Levi, by accepting the bribe and remaining silent, becomes complicit in Reuven's crime. He now carries the weight of that sin.

It is a powerful reminder that silence in the face of injustice isn't neutral. It's a choice, and it has consequences. We might think we're just staying out of trouble, but as the governor and the story of Levi show us, sometimes the greatest harm comes not from what we do, but from what we fail to do. What would you do in Levi's situation?

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Exempla of the Rabbis, No. 89Exempla of the Rabbis (Gaster, 1924)

A young man rescued a maiden who had fallen into a well, and as they stood there alone he pledged to marry her. Since no human being had witnessed the vow, the two called on the only bystanders present, the weasel and the well, to stand as witnesses to their betrothal. The Talmud preserves this tale in tractate Taanit (Taanit 8a), where Rashi and Tosafot comment on the strange choice of witnesses, and it spread widely through later collections such as Midrash HaGadol on Genesis and the Maaseh Book.

The maiden kept faith and refused every other suitor, but the man forgot his promise and married another woman. The children born to that second marriage met cruel ends: one was bitten by a weasel, and one fell into a well and drowned. The grieving wife pressed her husband until he confessed the broken vow he had made beside the well. Recognizing that the very witnesses he had named were exacting an accounting, he sought out the maiden, reminded her of the weasel and the well, and at last married the one he had pledged himself to.

The rabbis read the story as proof that Heaven guards a promise made in good faith even when no person stands watch. They attach it to the verse praising the one whose eyes seek out the faithful of the land (Psalms 101:6), teaching that constancy in a private vow is seen and rewarded, while a careless oath leaves a man answerable to witnesses he thought beneath his notice.

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Legends of the Jews 5:32Legends of the Jews

A young woman, a youth, and a highwayman are all caught in a web of circumstance, and Solomon needs to determine who acted most nobly. Sounds like the setup for a riddle, doesn’t it? But this is more than just a clever puzzle. It’s about morality, choices, and what it truly means to be honorable.

Solomon, ever the diplomat, turns to the three involved. "I was asked to decide," he says, "which of the three persons concerned acted most nobly – the girl, the youth, or the highwayman – and I should like to have your views upon the question." It's a brilliant move, really. Letting them speak first, revealing their own perspectives, before he, the all-knowing king, delivers his judgment.

The first litigant doesn't hesitate. "My praise is for the girl," he declares, "who kept her oath so faithfully." In a world where promises are often broken, where convenience trumps commitment, this person values unwavering loyalty above all else. It’s a powerful evidence of the importance of keeping one’s word, a concept so central to Jewish ethics.

The second litigant sees things differently. "I should award the palm to the youth," he argues, "who kept himself in check, and did not permit his passion to prevail." Here, the emphasis shifts to self-control, to mastering one’s desires. Imagine the internal struggle the youth must have faced! Choosing restraint over immediate gratification. This is yetzier ha-yetzer, taming the impulse, a key theme in Jewish thought.

And then there's the third litigant. "Commend me to the brigand," he proclaims, "who kept his hands off the money, more especially as he would have been doing all that could be expected of him if he had surrendered the woman he might have taken the money." This is perhaps the most surprising answer of all. This person admires the highwayman's unexpected act of restraint, his ability to resist temptation even when all the odds were stacked against him. He could have taken everything! He could have justified it! But he didn't. What does it tell us about our own expectations? About how low we set the bar sometimes?

Each perspective offers a valuable insight, doesn't it? Loyalty, self-control, restraint. all virtues worthy of admiration. But which one shines brightest in this particular situation? And what does Solomon, the wisest of men, ultimately decide? That's the question, isn't it? The answer lies not just in the actions themselves, but in the intent, the circumstances, and the very definition of nobility.

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