VIII.
“They have him, they are taking him to Pilate.”
It was Eleazer calling to his sister from the turn of the road. In a
moment he was at her side, dust-covered, his sandals torn, his pathetic
eyes dilated. He was breathless too, and, in default of words, with a
gesture that swept the Mount of Olives, he pointed to where the holy city
lay.
To Mary the morrow succeeding her swoon was a pall. Love, it may be, is a
forgetfulness of all things else, but despair is very actual. It takes a
hold on memory, inhabits it, and makes it its own. And during the day that
followed, Mary lay preyed upon by the acutest agony that ever tortured
woman yet. Early in the night, before her senses returned, the Master had
gone without mentioning whither. His destination may have been Ephraïm,
Jericho even, or further yet, beyond the hollows of the Ghôr. Then, again,
he might have loitered in the neighborhood, on the hill perhaps, in that
open-air solitude he loved so well, and for which so often he forsook the
narrowness of roofs and towns. But yet, in view of the Passover, he might
have gone to Jerusalem, and it was that idea that tortured most.
It was there the keen police, the levites, were, and their masters the
Sadducees, who had placed a price on his head. Did he get within the
walls, then surely he was lost. At the possibilities which that idea
evoked her thoughts sank like the roots of a tree and grappled with the
under-earth. To her despair, regret brought its burden. A moment of
self-forgetfulness, and, however horrible that forgetfulness might have
been, in it danger to him whom she revered would have been averted, and,
for the time being at least, dispersed utterly as last year’s leaves. It
had been cowardice on her part to let Judas go; she should have been
strong when strength was needed. There were glaives to be had; the head of
Holofernes could have greeted his. The legend of Judith still echoed its
reproach, and recurring, pointed a slender finger of disdain.
To the heart that is sinking, hope throws a straw. Immaterial and
caressing as a shadow, came to her the fancy that if the Master were in
the neighborhood, at any moment he might appear. In that event it was
needful that she should be prepared to aid him at once beyond the confines
of Judæa. Were he already beyond them, presently she must learn it, and
then could warn him of the danger of return. But meanwhile, for security’s
sake, had he gone by any chance to Jerusalem, some one must be there to
warn him of the plot. She thought of her sister, and dismissed her. Martha
was too feather-headed for an errand such as that. She thought of Ahulah,
but some of those well-intentioned friends that everyone possesses had
told of the misadventure to her husband, and the latter, cruel as a woman,
had spat upon her, and now through the suburbs she wandered, distraught,
incompetent to aid. Her brother occurred to her. It was on him she could
rely. His devotion was surpassed only by her own. Thereupon she sought him
out, instructed him in his duty, and sent him forth to watch and warn.
The green afternoon faded in the hemorrhages of the setting sun. Twilight
approached like a wolf. Night unfurled her great black fan; the moon came,
fumbling the shadows, checkering the underbrush with silver spots. Once a
caravan passed, and once from the hillside came the bark of a dog, caught
up and repeated in some farm beyond; otherwise the night was unstirred;
and as Mary stared into the immensities where lightning wearies and
subsides, a lethargy beset her, her body was imprisoned; but her soul was
free, and in a moment it mounted sheerly to a fringe of the heavens and
bathed in space.
When it descended, another day had come, and Eleazer was calling to her
from the turn of the road. At once she was on earth and on her feet, and
as the brother gasped for breath the sister’s strength returned. There
must be no more weakness now, she knew; it was time to act. She got drink,
water for the feet; then Eleazer, refreshed, continued:
“I ran through the ridge and up to where the two cedars are. I looked
among the cypresses beyond, in the pines where the descent begins, through
the olive groves below and the booths and tents beneath. There was no
trace of him anywhere. I crossed the brook and sat awhile at the Shushan
gate, watching those that entered. The crowd became so dense that it was
impossible to distinguish. I thought I might hear of him in the Temple.
The porch was thronged. I roamed through the Mountain of the House into
the Woman’s Court, and out of it on the Chel. But they were all so filled
with pilgrims that had he been there only accident could have brought me
to him. It was on that I counted, and I went out on Zion and Acra, where
the crowd was less. It was getting late. Beth-horon was dim. I could see
lights in Herod’s palace. Some one said that the tetrarch of Galilee was
there, the guest of the procurator. I went back by way of Antonia to
Birket Israil and the Red Heifer Bridge. I had given up; it seemed to me
useless to make further attempt. Suddenly I saw Judas in the angle of the
porch. With him was a levite. I got behind a pillar, near where they
stood, and listened. The only thing I distinctly heard was the name of
Joseph of Haramathaïm. I fancied, though I was not certain, that Judas
spoke as though he had just left his house. They must have moved away
then, for when I looked they had gone. I knew that Joseph was a friend of
the Master’s, and it struck me that he might be at his house. It is in the
sook of the Perfumers, back of Ophel. I ran there as fast as I could. It
was unlighted. I beat on the door: there was no answer. I felt that I had
been mistaken, anyway that I could do no more. I went down again into the
valley, crossed the Kedron, and would have returned here at once perhaps,
but I was tired, and so, on the slope where the olive-presses are, I lay
down and must have fallen asleep, for I remembered nothing till there came
a tramping of men. I crouched in the underbrush. They passed very close;
some had torches, some had spears. Judas was leading, and as an ape
munches a flower he was muttering the Master’s name.”
Eleazer paused and looked at his sister. She was standing erect, her face
wan, the brow contracted, the rhymes of her lips tight-pressed. Then, with
a glance at Olivet, he continued:
“For a little space I waited. They had ascended the slope and halted.
There was a shout, the waving of torches, then a silence. In it I heard
the Master’s voice, followed by a cry of pain. I hurried to where they
were. They had him bound when I got there. I saw a soldier raising a hand
to his ear and looking at the palm; it was red. Peter was running one way,
Thomas another. I got nearer. Some one, a levite I think, caught me by the
coat. I freed myself from it and escaped up the hill.
“From there I looked down. They were going away. When they had gone, I
went back and found my cloak. While I was putting it on, John appeared.
‘They are taking him to Caiaphas,’ he said; ‘I shall follow. Come with me
if you wish.’ I went with him. On the way we met Peter; he joined us. We
walked single-file, John leading. Beyond I could see the lights of the
torches, the glint of steel. No one spoke. Peter whimpered a little. We
crossed the Kedron and got up into the city. The soldiers went directly to
where Annas lives; they entered in a body, and the door closed. John
rapped: it was opened. He said something to the doorkeeper, who admitted
him. The door closed again. Peter and I waited a little, not knowing where
to turn. Presently the door reopened, and John motioned us to come in. In
the court was a fire; about it were servants and khazzans. I stopped a
moment to warm my hands; Peter did the same. John had disappeared. I heard
one of the khazzans say that they had taken the Master to Annas, and the
others discuss what he would probably do. While I stood there listening,
and wondering what had become of John, I saw the Master being led across
the court to the Lishcath ha-Gazith. I left Peter, and followed. In the
hall were the elders, ranged in a semicircle about Caiaphas. They must
have been prepared beforehand, for the clerks of acquittal and of
condemnation were there, the crier too, and a group of levites and
Scribes. In a corner were some of Annas’ servants. I got among them and
stood unnoticed.
“The Master’s hands were bound. On either side of him was a soldier.
Caiaphas was livid. He looked him from head to foot.
“ ‘You are accused,’ he said, ‘of inciting sedition, of defying the Law,
of blasphemy, and of breaking the Sabbath day. What have you to answer?’
“The Master made no reply.
“Caiaphas pointed to the levites. ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘are witnesses.’
“He motioned; one of them stepped forward and spoke.
“ ‘I testify that this man has incited to sedition by denouncing the
members of this reverend council as hypocrites, wolves in sheep’s
clothing, blind leaders of the blind; and I further testify that he has
declared no one should follow them.’
“ ‘What have you to say to that?’ Caiaphas snarled. But the Master said
nothing.
“The first levite moved back, and at a gesture from the high-priest
another stepped forward.
“ ‘I testify that I have seen that man eat, in defiance of the Law, with
unwashed hands, and consort with publicans and people of low repute.’
“ ‘And what have you to say to that?’ Caiaphas asked again. But still the
Master said nothing.
“The second levite moved back, and a third advanced.
“ ‘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 said; but he evinced no curiosity. He spoke
with the apathy of one who takes everything for granted, one with whom
fate is to have its will. “I have just come from there,” he added, with a
backward gesture. “I never thought that such a thing could be. No, I swear
it, I never did.” Then, in answer perhaps to some inner twinge, perhaps
also because of the expression of Mary’s lips, he continued: “If there is
a new oath, one that has never been used before, prompt me, and I will
swear again, I never did. I thought——”
Mary interrupted him savagely: “There are ten kinds of hypocrisy. You have
nine of them; you will develop the tenth and invent a new one besides.”
At this Judas made a pass with his hands and stared absently at the
ground. “Mary,” he said, “life is a book which man reads when he dies.
During the last hour I have been unrolling it. In its scroll I found
existence a wine-shop where the guest fares so badly that he would go at
once were it not that he fears to call for the reckoning. The reckoning,
Mary, is death. I have called for it. I am about to pay. Let me tell you.
I have no excuse to offer, no forgiveness now to await. My heart was a
meadow: you made it stone. There were well-springs in it: you dried them,
Mary. When I first saw you, you were a dream fulfilled. Others had brought
echoes of life; you brought its song. It was then that I heard the Master
speak. I followed him, and tried to forget. It must be that I failed, for
when I saw you in Capharnahum my blood danced, and when you spoke I
trembled. It was love, Mary; and love, when it is not death, is life. It
was that I sought at your side. You would not listen. Innocence is a
garment. You seemed to have wrapped it about you. I tried to tear it away.
There was my fault, and this my punishment. Your right was inflexible as a
prison-door, and yet always behind it was the murmur of a mysterious
Perhaps. The others turned to me; I turned to you. I forgot again, but
this time it was my duty, my allegiance, and my faith. Mary, I loved the
Master more wholly even than I loved you. He was the Spirit; you were the
flesh. In him was the future; in you the tomb. I thought to conquer both.
While I mixed my darkness with his light, I pursued you as night pursues
the day. On the light I have cast a shadow, and to you I have brought a
blight. But, Mary, both will disappear. The one consolation I cling to now
is that belief. When I delivered him up, it was myself I betrayed, not
him. I am forever dead, and he forever living. While I bargained with the
priests and pretended that my aim was coin, when I led the levites and the
Temple-guard just here to where he stood, during all the hours since I
left you, I tried to escape from that cage we call Fate. Mary, there is
something about us higher than our will. The revenge I sought on you
forsook me before I reached the city’s gate. It is the intangible that has
brought me where I am. I have sworn to you I never thought this thing
could be. I swear it now again. In carrying out the threat I made, I
thought to make you fear my hate and make him greater than he was. His
enemies, I had seen, were many. Those that had believed in him grew daily
less. In Jerusalem his miracles had ceased, and I thought that, when the
levites and the Temple-guard approached, he would speak with Samuel’s
thunder, answer with Elijah’s flame. I thought the stars would shake, the
moon grow red; that he would produce the lost Urim, the vanished Ark, and
so forever silence disbelief. I was wrong, and he was right. Belief is in
the heart, not in the senses; the visible contradicts, but faith is not to
be confuted. No, Mary, the tombs are not dumb. I said so once, I know, but
they answer, and mine will speak. On it perhaps a caricature may be
daubed, and about it prejudice will uncoil. I deserve it. Yet though you
think me wholly base, remember no man is that. Since I met you my life has
been a battle-field in which I have fought with conscience. It has
conquered. I am its slave; it commands, and I obey.”
He drew a breath as though he had more to add, and turned to where she
stood. There was no one there. From an olive-branch a red-start piped to
the morning; over the buds of a pomegranate a bee buzzed its delight;
across the leaves of a myrtle a blue spider was busy with its web, but
Mary was no longer there. He peered through the underbrush, and wandered
to the grove beyond. There was no one. He looked to the hill-top: there
was the advancing sun. He looked in the valley: there were the pilgrims’
booths, the grazing camels and fat-tailed sheep.
“She has gone,” he told himself. “She would not even listen.”
He bent his head. For the first time since boyhood the tears rolled down
his face.
“She might at least have heard me,” he thought, and brushed the tears
away. Others came and replaced them. When they had fallen, there were
more.
“Yes, she might at least have listened. If I had no excuse to offer, at
least I had regret.” For a moment he fancied her, cruel as only woman is,
hurrying to some unknown goal. The tears he had tried to stanch ceased now
abruptly. “She is right,” he mused. “She has left me to conscience and to
death.”
He turned again and went back to where he had stood before. As he crossed
the intervening space he unloosed the long girdle which he wore, and from
which still hung the treasury of the twelve. The bag that held it fell
where the bee was buzzing. One end of the girdle he tossed over a branch;
the red-start spread its wings and fled. He looked about. There was a
stone near by; he got it and with a little labor rolled it beneath the
branch. Then he made a noose, very carefully, that it might not come
undone, and settling it well under the chin, he tied the other end of the
girdle to it and swung himself from the stone.