“ ‘I testify that I have heard that man blaspheme in calling God his father, and in declaring himself to be one with Him.’
“ ‘Is that blasphemy or is it not?’ Caiaphas bawled. But the Master’s lips never moved.
“The third levite gave way to a fourth.
“ ‘I testify that that man has broken the Sabbath in healing the sick on that day, and further that he has seduced others to break it. On the Sabbath I have heard him order a cripple to take up his bed and carry it to his home. I have heard him also declare that he could destroy the Temple and rebuild it, in three days, anew.’
“Caiaphas turned to the Master. ‘Do you still refuse to answer?’ he asked. ‘Do you think that silence can save you? Have you heard these witnesses?’
“And as the Master still made no reply, Caiaphas lifted his hand and cried, ‘I adjure you by the Eternal to answer, Are you the Messiah, the Son of God?’
“In the breathless silence Jesus raised his eyes. He looked at the high-priest, at the levites, the Scribes. ‘You have said it,’ he murmured, and smiled with that air he has.
“Caiaphas grew purple. He caught his gown at the throat and ripped it from neck to hem. The elders started. I heard them mutter, ‘Ish maveth.’ The high-priest glanced toward them. ‘You have heard this ragged blasphemy?’ he exclaimed; and, turning to where the Scribes stood, ‘What,’ he asked, ‘does the Law decree concerning the Sabbath-breaker?’
“One of them, the book unrolled in his hand, advanced and read:
“ ‘Ye shall keep the Sabbath holy. Whoso does any work thereon shall be cut off from his people.’
“ ‘And what of blasphemy?’
“The Scribe glanced at the roll and repeated from memory: ‘He that blasphemeth the name of the Lord shall be put to death. The congregation shall stone him, as well the stranger as he that was born in the land.’
“Caiaphas closed the fingers on the palm of his left hand, and, raising it, turned again to the elders. ‘Ish maveth,’ they repeated, closing their fingers as he had done.
“I knew then that he was condemned. After all”—and Eleazer looked wearily to the ground—“it was legal enough. Each moment I expected him to give some sign, but, save to affirm the charge of blasphemy, during the entire time he kept silent. Yes, it was legal enough. From where I stood I heard the Scribes say that he would be sentenced at sunrise, and then Pilate would have a word with him. I could do nothing. Caiaphas still fumed. I went out in the court again. In the corridor was Judas. Peter was wrangling with the servants. I did not wait for more. I got away and into the valley and up again on the hill. A cock was crowing, and I saw the dawn. O Mary, the pity of it!”
He looked at his sister. There was no weakness now in her face, nor beauty either. Age must have passed her in the night.
“And I will have a word with Pilate too,” she said.
As a somnambulist might, she drew her mantle closer, and, moving to the wayside, ascended the hill. The silver and green of the olives closed around her, and with them the branching dates. Above, a star left by the morning glimmered feebly. In a myrtle a bird began to sing, and a lizard that had come out to intercept the sun scurried as she passed. Upward and onward still she went, and, the summit reached, for a moment she stopped and rested.
To the east the Dead Sea lay, a stretch of silk. At its edge was the flutter of ospreys feasting on the barbels and breams of the Jordan, which as they enter, die. Beyond was a glitter of white and gold, the scarp of Moriah and its breast of stone, the Tyrian bevel of Solomon, the porphyry of Nehemiah, the marble that Herod gave; ascending terraces, engulfing porticoes, the splendor of Jerusalem at dawn. Between the houses nearest was the dimness that shadows cast; those further away had a scatter of pink; about it all was a wall surmounted by turrets; beneath was a ravine in which was a brook, and a city of booths and tents, grazing camels and fat-tailed sheep.
Through the pines and cypresses Mary passed down to where the olives were. The brook sent a message to her; the blood that had flowed from the sacrifices was in it, and in the fresh morning it reeked a little, as such brooks do. It was here, she thought, the Master had been taken, and for a second she stopped again. The sun now was rising behind her; the color of the sky shifted. Beyond Jerusalem a mountain was melting in excesses of vermilion, and the ravine that had been gray was assuming the tenderest green. The star had disappeared, but from each tree broke the greeting of a bird.
A rustle of the leaves near by startled her, and she looked about, fearful, as women are, of some beast of prey. A white robe was there, a white turban, and beneath it the swart face of one whom she had known.
To her eyes came massacres. “Judas!” she exclaimed, and looked up in that roof of her world where day puts its blue and night puts its black. “Judas!” she repeated. Her small hands clenched, and the rhymes of her mouth grew venomous.
Then the woman spoke in her. “Why did you not kill me first?”
Judas swayed like an ox hit on the forehead. The motion distracted and irritated her. “Can’t you speak,” she cried, “or does hell hold you, tongue and all?”
He raised a hand as though he feared another blow. The gesture was so human and yet so humble that Mary looked into his face. Time, which turns the sweet-eyed girl into a withered spectre, must have touched him with its thumb. His eyes were ringed and cavernous, his cheeks empty.
“You have heard, then?” he
