Close, so close that she must have heard the dripping of the blood as it trickled upon the stones at the foot of the cross and when she sobbed, he turned his luminant eyes upon her with a look of infinite compassion. Nodding to the young man, he said, "Mother, behold thy son!" And to the son he said, "Behold thy mother," and the mother turned and the young man folded her to his breast, then tenderly he led her away. It was his own mother. He had provided for her. His father did not appear. Who he is I cannot make out except that in his prayer, it seemed as though he called God his father. Not a god, nor the gods, but God, and he spoke to him as to that personal constituent force that makes and is the universe. Several times the man spoke, muttering incoherent things, words I could not comprehend, and then at the ninth hour he died. It was sudden, unexpected. I had thought that such a figure might last in life for two or three days but, no, he died. I have seen men die, as you know, and my accustomed ear caught in a moment the sound of his going. I drew close—he whispered as to the shadows that bound us all together, "It is finished. Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Then he sighed and was dead. In the instant, the earth trembled. Not a shock nor yet a thing of violence. It seemed as though the earth shuddered and then was still. Instantly, the shadows were dissipated. The light came. The clear and gentle rays of the sunshine fell upon the thing of the cross. My eyes were glued upon it. In death a beautiful composure had come to him. The body swung straight down from the arms. The head had collapsed upon the chest. The soft beard swept the bosom. His long lashes drooped and kissed
