for the guard to report but myself was there and saw the watch changed. All was as we had left it.
The next day was the Jewish Sabbath and again I found myself in the garden when the morning watch was changed. "All's well," they reported. "Hath nothing chanced?" "No," they answered, stolidly. I was foolish, Marcus. I was provoked with them for their indifference. Why had not something chanced? "Have you seen nought?" I asked. "No," they said, "except some women who come and sit under yonder tree and weep and wail through the night." "Where are they?" I asked. "I will talk to them." "They are gone," they answered. "There are two of them. They come at night. They have been here these two nights now." "Do you see no men about?" I queried. "No," they answered, "none come."
I came in with the men who had been relieved but in my own mind I made appointment to keep the watch that last night myself, and it is well, too, Marcus, that I did, for what wonder was wrought in yonder garden with its gnarled olive-trees, with its feebly dripping fountains and with its few and scraggly flowers I cannot of a verity say, but something wonderful, which I now try to describe to thee, my thoughtful friend, while yet it seems to make its largest impression on my mind.
I reached the garden in the evening, just at sunset. The rays stealing in through an opening in the trees fell full upon the hard surface of the stony crypt and were given back in a gleam of gold. At the moment I thought it was curious, but now it seems to me prophetic as I recall what golden light I saw streaming from that crypt ere yet another day had dawned. I looked to the purple
