CHAPTER XV.
THE same night that Caiaphas was pacing his terrace—raging madly, like a wild beast deprived of its prey; baffled in his ambitious schemes, cheated of his dreams of vengeance, growing each moment more infuriated, more malevolent, more determined—a middle-aged woman was kneeling on the stone floor of a poor cottage at Nazareth. The whole room was dimly lighted by a candle standing on a stone shelf built into the wall.
The face was beautiful, more from expression than from feature. The brow, especially, impressed one by its whiteness, but the eyes turned up towards heaven were full of tears, and the corners of the lips, that prayed so fervently and met each moment in such reverence but to form words of piety and devotion, were drawn downwards, as if in agony. Yet there was no despair, no passionate vehemence on the face or in the prayer, only a meek, submissive pleading for resignation; and as, every now and then, a salt tear rolled down the gentle, fragile cheeks, it was swallowed meekly, as though such tears were symbols of a revolt to be subdued.
A soft footfall moved close up to the door; then a light hand rapped gently on it. Mary rose like one returning from a trance. She held her hand to her heart one moment, not in physical fear, but with
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