again to the mob and pleaded for the life of his prisoner. He did his diplomatic best—I give the old fox credit for that, but the wolves had smelt blood; they would not be denied.
Pilate made yet one more appeal. Himself he led the prisoner out. A pool of blood had formed where he stood for the scourging. His feet were wet with it and every step he took upon the marble pavement of the Judgment Hall was stained crimson. A Roman Judgment Hall stained with the blood of a man adjudged innocent. That Roman justice which was once our boast may only be laughed at where Pilates are the judges, but anyway, there stood Pilate, his face hot and flushed and angry. With a little push, he sent the scourged man tottering forward to the baluster. The Nazarene recovered his pose instantly. There was no droop to his shoulders, no pathos in his face and no pallor on his cheeks; only a slight tightening of every line of every feature and a certain added rigidity of pose as by sheer force of an unconquerable will, he lifted himself above his pain and above his weakness and above that nausea which scourging causes and stood there, the finest figure of a man that I have ever seen. This, my Marcus, was our hero at his greatest moment; at least his greatest, up to then.
"Behold the man," said Pilate. "Know that I find no crime in him." But those bearded old women rent their skirts again and filled the air with clouds of dust which they tossed high, venting shouts and shrieks of disapprobation. "Away with him," they cried. "Crucify him! Crucify him! His blood be upon us and upon our children." Then I saw the face of Pilate change. In his mad impatience he was yielding, but
