Rome, for them to put any man to death. Yet Antipas had beheaded

John and come to no grief of it.
And Pilate left them in the court, open under the sky, and took

Jesus alone into the judgment hall. What happened therein I know
not, save that when Pilate emerged he was changed. Whereas before

he had been disinclined to execute because he would not be made a
catspaw to Hanan, he was now disinclined to execute because of

regard for the fisherman. His effort now was to save the fisherman.
And all the while the mob cried: "Crucify him! Crucify him!"

You, my reader, know the sincerity of Pilate's effort. You know how
he tried to befool the mob, first by mocking Jesus as a harmless

fool; and second by offering to release him according to the custom
of releasing one prisoner at time of the Passover. And you know how

the priests' quick whisperings led the mob to cry out for the
release of the murderer Bar-Abba.

In vain Pilate struggled against the fate being thrust upon him by
the priests. By sneer and jibe he hoped to make a farce of the

transaction. He laughingly called Jesus the King of the Jews and
ordered him to be scourged. His hope was that all would end in

laughter and in laugher be forgotten.
I am glad to say that no Roman soldiers took part in what followed.

It was the soldiers of the auxiliaries who crowned and cloaked
Jesus, put the reed of sovereignty in his hand, and, kneeling,

hailed him King of the Jews. Although it failed, it was a play to
placate. And I, looking on, learned the charm of Jesus. Despite

the cruel mockery of situation, he was regal. And I was quiet as I
gazed. It was his own quiet that went into me. I was soothed and

satisfied, and was without bewilderment. This thing had to be. All
was well. The serenity of Jesus in the heart of the tumult and pain

became my serenity. I was scarce moved by any thought to save him.
On the other hand, I had gazed on too many wonders of the human in

my wild and varied years to be affected to foolish acts by this
particular wonder. I was all serenity. I had no word to say. I

had no judgment to pass. I knew that things were occurring beyond
my comprehension, and that they must occur.

Still Pilate struggled. The tumult increased. The cry for blood
rang through the court, and all were clamouring for crucifixion.

Again Pilate went back into the judgment hall. His effort at a
farce having failed, he attempted to disclaim jurisdiction. Jesus

was not of Jerusalem. He was a born subject of Antipas, and to
Antipas Pilate was for sending Jesus.

But the uproar was by now communicating itself to the city. Our
troops outside the palace were being swept away in the vast street

mob. Rioting had begun that in the flash of an eye could turn into
civil war and revolution. My own twenty legionaries were close to

hand and in readiness. They loved the fanatic Jews no more than did
I, and would have welcomed my command to clear the court with naked

steel.
When Pilate came out again his words for Antipas' jurisdiction could

not be heard, for all the mob was shouting that Pilate was a
traitor, that if he let the fisherman go he was no friend of

Tiberius. Close before me, as I leaned against the wall, a mangy,
bearded, long-haired fanaticsprang up and down unceasingly, and

unceasingly chanted: "Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!
Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!" I lost patience. The man's

near noise was an offence. Lurching sidewise, as if by accident, I
ground my foot on his to a terrible crushing. The fool seemed not

to notice. He was too mad to be aware of the pain, and he continued
to chant: "Tiberius is emperor; there is no king!"

I saw Pilate hesitate. Pilate, the Roman governor, for the moment
was Pilate the man, with a man's anger against the miserable

creatures clamouring for the blood of so sweet and simple, brave and
good a spirit as this Jesus.

I saw Pilate hesitate. His gaze roved to me, as if he were about to
signal to me to let loose; and I half-started forward, releasing the

mangled foot under my foot. I was for leaping to complete that
half-formed wish of Pilate and to sweep away in blood and cleanse

the court of the wretched scum that howled in it.
It was not Pilate's indecision that decided me. It was this Jesus

that decided Pilate and me. This Jesus looked at me. He commanded
me. I tell you this vagrantfisherman, this wandering preacher,

this piece of driftage from Galilee, commanded me. No word he
uttered. Yet his command was there, unmistakable as a trumpet call.

And I stayed my foot, and held my hand, for who was I to thwart the
will and way of so greatly serene and sweetly sure a man as this?

And as I stayed I knew all the charm of him--all that in him had
charmed Miriam and Pilate's wife, that had charmed Pilate himself.

You know the rest. Pilate washed his hands of Jesus' blood, and the
rioters took his blood upon their own heads. Pilate gave orders for

the crucifixion. The mob was content, and content, behind the mob,
were Caiaphas, Hanan, and the Sanhedrim. Not Pilate, not Tiberius,

not Roman soldiers crucified Jesus. It was the priestly rulers and
priestly politicians of Jerusalem. I saw. I know. And against his

own best interests Pilate would have saved Jesus, as I would have,
had it not been that no other than Jesus himself willed that he was

not to be saved.
Yes, and Pilate had his last sneer at this people he detested. In

Hebrew, Greek, and Latin he had a writing affixed to Jesus' cross
which read, "The King of the Jews." In vain the priests complained.

It was on this very pretext that they had forced Pilate's hand; and
by this pretext, a scorn and insult to the Jewish race, Pilate

abided. Pilate executed an abstraction that had never existed in
the real. The abstraction was a cheat and a lie manufactured in the

priestly mind. Neither the priests nor Pilate believed it. Jesus
denied it. That abstraction was "The King of the Jews."

The storm was over in the courtyard. The excitement had simmered
down. Revolution had been averted. The priests were content, the

mob was satisfied, and Pilate and I were well disgusted and weary
with the whole affair. And yet for him and me was more and most

immediate storm. Before Jesus was taken away one of Miriam's women
called me to her. And I saw Pilate, summoned by one of his wife's

women, likewise obey.
"Oh, Lodbrog, I have heard," Miriam met me. We were alone, and she

was close to me, seeking shelter and strength within my arms.
"Pilate has weakened. He is going to crucify Him. But there is

time. Your own men are ready. Ride with them. Only a centurion
and a handful of soldiers are with Him. They have not yet started.

As soon as they do start, follow. They must not reach Golgotha.
But wait until they are outside the city wall. Then countermand the

order. Take an extra horse for Him to ride. The rest is easy.
Ride away into Syria with Him, or into Idumaea, or anywhere so long

as He be saved."
She concluded with her arms around my neck, her face upturned to

mine and temptingly close, her eyes greatly solemn and greatly
promising.

Small wonder I was slow of speech. For the moment there was but one
thought in my brain. After all the strange play I had seen played

out, to have this come upon me! I did not misunderstand. The thing
was clear. A great woman was mine if . . . if I betrayed Rome. For

Pilate was governor, his order had gone forth; and his voice was the
voice of Rome.

As I have said, it was the woman of her, her sheer womanliness, that
betrayed Miriam and me in the end. Always she had been so clear, so

reasonable, so certain of herself and me, so that I had forgotten,
or, rather, I there learned once again the eternal lesson learned in