scrutable. My soul has been bathed in mystery, I have seen the spirit of the cosmos itself, or indeed I must say himself, for the spirit is a man, and the man is God. At least so it seems to me. But there has been none to teach me. If there be a school or cult that did forecast the mystery of last night, and indeed methinks I see signs that such there is, I am not yet admitted to their circles.
Remember that I write thee wide-eyed; that the lids have not fallen over these wondering orbs of mine since I looked into the face of the living Jew, who, three days before, I saw bound with the spell of death, wrapped in the cerements of the grave and as dead, I swear, Marcus, as any mummy in the pyramids that peep over thy shoulder as thou readst what I write. You will not question that I am disturbed, but rather ask if I but interpret the facts aright? Do I apprehend the phenomenon? Have I seen what I think I saw, or do I but dream and totter into dotage?
Let me then set down in order the events which have transpired in these three marvellous nights since last I wrote to you and you yourself shall judge.
To begin with, we lifted the noble Jew down from the cross with the blood of a spear thrust that had searched his heart drying on the glistering white side of him. Evening was coming and there was a great hubbub and knocking about of old graybeards among the Jews. The morrow was one of their high days it seemed, and it would be an unclean thing for the dead to hang upon the cross over this day, and so they were for hustling them into graves at once. Off they bundled to Pilate, which was agreeable enough to me, for I am always glad to be rid of such a business. To save time and vent my
