defence, and no sooner does He open His mouth to reply than a vile miscreant rushes at Him from the crowd, and deals Him a resounding, staggering blow in the face. Shame, not for Himself but for His assailant, sends the hot blood to His sacred face and out through the wound He has received, and He bows down His head, resolved, from that moment, to endure all in silence. But His silent submission only maddens them the more. They blindfold and buffet Him and spit in His face. One by one these brutal men come before Him, bowing low in mock reverence and haiKng Him, in tones of assumed homage, as their king; and then return to mingle with the crowd that stands around, and make the courtyard ring again with their laughter at the savage humor of the scene. While this fiendish jest is going on within, outside is heard the mighty roar of the surging mob calling on Pilate to pronounce the death-sentence. But Pilate hesitates; he knows the man is innocent; his wife has dreamed a dream of dire calamity to come should He be condemned; and as he looks down from his balcony into the courtyard, even his heart thrills with pity for the poor forlorn prisoner. " Friends," he cries, " this man is innocent." " No," they answer, " He is guilty and He is an apostate and a traitor, and unless you sentence Him we will denounce you to Caesar." " But," he insists, " I cannot be responsible for an innocent man's death." " His blood," they cry, " His blood be upon us and upon our children." "Take," he begs, "take the felon Barabbas and hang him but spare the Christ." But they roar back:
