And so it seemed to me a thing most natural that this young intimate of Jesus should recognize in heaped up linens and folded head-tires the ministering living hand, the accustomed presence of his master, and say with solid assurance as I do now, He is alive.
I know, dear Marcus, that what I write is a jungle of confusion; yet I think there are no contradictions. I have communicated to you my state of mind, the progress of my thoughts, and what I saw in the tomb when I entered with the two men. Of all that happened I have carefully set down, even to the panicky cries of a flying soldier, and of all that I saw, except in that single ecstatic glance when, peering through the open door, in the streaming light of ineffable glory my eyes rested upon that which I have no words nor will to communicate to another, lest it be lost to me.
I have not yet made report to Pilate. Already the story that the body was stolen is current in the streets. I passed the last watch of soldiers, crouching, terror-stricken, in the hall as I came here. They gazed at me out of fear-troubled eyes. They expect death itself for their cowardice.
Before noon I must stand before Pilate and recount the events of the night. Should I falsely tell him that we were overpowered by a sudden rush of numbers and his body borne away by friends, he will believe me and dismiss me with a chiding. If I tell him truly, he will think I am lying, and fly into a rage, ordering me to Rome and to Cæsar probably to await the executioner's sword.
Wherefore if this be my last letter to thee, good
