IN THE PALACE GARDEN
The wife of Pilate arose from her couch with a troubled and haggard look
on her fair face. The maid who attended the great lady’s toilet observed
this with curiosity. “There is tumult about the gates of the palace this
morning,” she said, as she combed out the long blonde tresses with a comb
of gold and ivory, preparatory to weaving them into a graceful crown of
braided strands.
The princess shrugged her fair shoulders with a slight gesture of
weariness. “There is always tumult,” she said languidly. “Ah me, ’tis a
dreary place—this Jerusalem. I would I were once more safely at Rome.”
“If my noble lady will but glance into the mirror, she will behold a
fairer sight than even Rome can offer,” said the maid obsequiously, and
skilfully fastened a fresh‐blown rose so that its crimson petals rested on
the white neck of her mistress. “But the tumult of this morning differs
from that of other days, honorable princess,” she went on eagerly. “Diomed
says that the Jews have seized their prophet and are about to put him to
death—if, indeed, they are allowed.”
“What prophet, girl?” demanded the lady, a faint flush stealing into her
pale cheeks. “Every man is a prophet—or a priest, is it not so, in this
hateful Jerusalem? And the prophets have loud voices, and they are always
creating a tumult.”
“I myself have seen this man,” said the girl. “He is quite unlike the
other rabbis, as they call them—of a gentle voice, and a stature majestic.
I bethought me of my gods in Athens. Yet is the man a Jew.”
“His name?”
“His name is Jesus; also they call him the Nazarene.”
The princess uttered a faint exclamation.
“Pardon me, I beseech thee, honorable mistress, if I have fastened that
last plait too tightly,” hastily interposed the maid, withdrawing a
jeweled pin from its place and readjusting it with elaborate care.
“Didst thou say they were bringing the Nazarene here—to the palace?”
demanded the princess, turning her large dark eyes upon her servant.
“Honorable lady, the man is already here, and my lord, the governor, is
attending the case without upon the seat of judgment. The Jews refused to
await the proper hour, and my lord Pilate, with his wonted indulgence,
came forth to them. These barbarians have no hearts, noble lady, they are
without consideration for the sleep of an illustrious Roman. They should
be scourged as slaves.”
“What will they do with him?” muttered the wife of Pilate, clenching her
white hands. “Nay, my lord should have nought to do with this prophet. He
must dismiss the case.”
The maid stared at her mistress in some perplexity. “The morning is warm
and fair,” she said at last. “Will it please your highness to breakfast
upon the terrace? The lady Felicia is already playing in the garden of the
inner court.”
In the secluded spot where slaves had spread a table with the breakfast‐
service of the princess, the morning sun struck sparks of splendor from
burnished plates and crystal, gem‐rimmed goblets. Flowers of every
delicate color and odor, violets from Gethsemane, lilies from the deep
vale of Kedron, roses from the nearer gardens of the palace, heaped a
golden bowl in the center, while around it glowed the richer hues of
fruit, brought from distant parts of the country, and flagons of delicate
wine, cooling in beds of snow fetched from the crown of Lebanon for this
spoiled daughter of Rome.
The lady cast a dissatisfied glance about the garden. “Where is Felicia?”
she asked sharply.
“She was here but a moment ago, noble lady,” replied the maid, who had
followed her mistress with a fan of peacock’s feathers and an armful of
embroidered pillows. “I will call Oonah.”
But neither Oonah nor the child were anywhere to be found, and after a
little the princess began her repast with frowning brows. “There is too
much noise about the place,” she observed in a displeased tone, as she
tasted a silver fig smothered in wine and spices.
The servants glanced at one another with lifted brows. “It cannot be
helped, honorable mistress,” ventured one of them, a young Greek lad,
beautiful as a creation of Praxitiles in his short tunic bordered with
blue. “All the loud‐mouthed Jews of the city, it would seem, headed by
their priests, are surrounding the judgment‐seat before the palace. The
guard would not have admitted them; but my lord, the governor, ordered
it.”
“He could not do otherwise,” said the lady, with a slight curl of her
haughty lip. “But what is it that they are saying over and again? ’Tis a
horrid sound, like the cry of wolves hungering after their prey.”
Again the servants exchanged half‐frightened glances, and again the
beautiful young Greek answered his lady. “’Tis a custom in this Jerusalem
for the governor to release a prisoner at feast time,” he said in a low
voice. “Perchance, the people are demanding this pledge from the
illustrious Pilate.”
The lady’s face cleared. “Ah, it is so,” she cried; “I remember how it
befell last year. My lord will release to them the Nazarene, who is called
Jesus. Is it not so, Diomed?”
The Greek hesitated, and in the moment of silence the child, Felicia,
closely followed by her nurse, rushed into the garden. Her golden hair was
disordered, and her blue eyes reddened with angry tears. “They shall not
scourge the boy!” she cried, stamping her small foot. “I have said it; but
that stupid, wicked Marcus declares that he will do it. Wilt thou not send
for him, mother, and cause him to be punished for disobeying me?”
The princess turned her eyes severely upon Oonah. “Where hath the child
been, and what is all this about Marcus? What has happened?”
Oonah trembled under the cold looks of her mistress. “’Tis the beggar boy
again,” she faltered. “He was beating upon the door of the outer court
like a mad thing, and demanding speech with your highness. But, of course,
Marcus—”
“Marcus is a beast—an animal!” again interrupted Felicia passionately.
“Listen to me, princess, I can explain everything far better than this
stupid Oonah. Dost thou not remember the beggar lad whose eyes were
restored by a King named Jesus? I brought him to this very spot two—three
days ago. The boy amused me with his story. But Oonah thrust him forth
because—”
“I remember,” said the wife of Pilate with a strange look. “What then?”
“The mob wish to kill his Master, the King, and the lad came hither to beg
his life. Marcus was about to scourge him and thrust him forth, but I
forbade it. I say he shall not harm the boy. Do thou command it also, my
mother—and quickly, for Marcus will not obey me.”
“Fetch the lad to me, Diomed,” ordered the lady briefly.
The young Greek obeyed, and presently returned to the presence of his
mistress followed by the irate porter, his big hand buried in the rough
curls of the beggar’s head. Tor presented a pitiable appearance, his
pallid face streaked with tears and dust, his great eyes wide with fear
and horror.
At sight of the princess the child fell sobbing to his knees and lifted
his lean arms in an agony of petition. “My Master—my Master!” he wailed.
And again, “My Master, oh, my Master!”
The wife of Pilate signed to Marcus to release the boy, then she ordered
Diomed to give him wine.
Tor obediently swallowed from the cup which was held to his lips; but not
once did he remove his beseeching eyes from the beautiful haughty face of
the princess. “Thou canst save him,” he whispered.
The lady shook her head. “I fear that I cannot,” she said. Then to the
astonishment of every one present she laid her delicate hand on the
beggar’s rough head. “Tell me why thou dost love this man—this Nazarene?”
she asked softly. “Nay, do not weep and tremble so, child. I will do all
that I can to save him.”
Tor choked back his tears and gazed steadfastly into the exquisite
troubled face which leaned toward him. “I love him—because he loves—me,”
he faltered. “He opened my eyes. He is good. He is the King—my Master. I
love him.”
“Why do the Jews hate him so?” murmured the lady. “In my dream I saw
him—as one altogether lovely, enthroned high above all the gods of Rome
and Greece. Then I saw—” She broke off with a shudder. The wild tumult of
voices in the square without had risen into an awful, insistent iteration
of one terrible phrase.
“What do they say now?” she demanded with slowly‐whitening face, turning
to Diomed, who watched the scene with a satirical curl of his handsome
lips.
“They are demanding the crucifixion of some criminal, your noble
highness,” replied the Greek, smirking courtier‐like. “But why trouble
thyself, dear princess, over the doings of the wild rabble? The man,
Jesus, is no more than a Jewish peasant—a carpenter, they say. What can
such an one be to the fairest princess in—”
“Go, see what is passing without,” ordered the lady, with a look which
froze the insolent smile on the lips of the Greek. “Go, and return
quickly.”
The Greek reappeared almost immediately with a white, scared face. “The
scene without beggars description, noble lady,” he began hurriedly,
answering the command in the eyes of his mistress. “The whole city is at
the doors demanding the crucifixion of the Nazarene. The most noble Pilate
believes him innocent of any crime, and would save him if possible;
but—hear the mob!”
It was impossible to hear anything else. Those awful beast‐like cries
penetrated the ears of the very slaves so that they cowered and trembled.
“My tablets, Maia,” whispered the wife of Pilate. With shaking fingers she
wrote a few words upon the wax. “Take this,” she said, turning to the
Greek, “and give it into the hand of Pilate himself—no other. Go quickly!”
The Greek drew back in manifest terror. “What, art thou afraid?” sneered
the princess. “Hold, I will go myself. Perhaps I can save him so.” She
arose and was descending the steps of the terrace, when the child Felicia
flung herself at her mother’s knees with a scream of terror. “Do not go
out into that dreadful place, mother,” begged the child. “They are
horrible—those Jews. Stay with me!”
The princess paused, hesitated, and finally yielded the tablets into the
outstretched hand of Diomed. “Go—quickly!” she urged.