shoulders of Jesus, he uttered a loud
exclamation of pain, but this was all: he allowed himself to be
patiently invested with the red cloak.

'Now, take thy sceptre, O great king!' added another soldier, kneeling
before the young man, and placing in his hand the centurion's
walking-stick; then all, with loud bursts of laughter, repeated, 'Hail
to the King of the Jews, hail!'

A great many of them kneeled before him out of mockery, repeating:

'Hail, O great King!'

Jesus retained in his hand this mock sceptre, but pronounced not a word;
this unalterable resignation, this angelic sweetness, so struck his
tormentors, that, at first they were stupified; then, their rage
increasing in proportion to the patience of the young Nazarene, they
emulated each other in irritation, exclaiming: 'This is not a man, it is
a statue!'

'All the blood he had in his veins has left him with the rods of the
executioner. The coward, he does not even complain!'

'Coward!' said a veteran in a thoughtful air, after having long
contemplated Jesus, although at first he had been one of his most cruel
tormentors: 'No, he is no coward! no, to endure patiently all that we
have made him suffer, requires more courage than to throw oneself sword
in hand on the enemy. No!' he repeated, drawing aside, 'no, this man is
no coward!'

And Genevieve fancied she saw a tear drop on the grey moustache of the
old soldier.

The other soldiers laughed at the compassion of their companion, and
exclaimed:

'He does not see that the Nazarene feigns resignation that we may pity
him.'

'It's true! within he is all rage and hatred, tho' outside he is so
serene and compassionating.'

'He is a bashful tiger invested with a lamb's skin.'

At these insulting words Jesus contented himself with smiling mournfully
and shaking his head; this movement made the blood fall in a spray
around him, for the wounds made on his forehead by the thorns still
bled.

At sight of this blood, Genevieve could not help murmuring to herself
the chorus of the children of the mistletoe, mentioned in the recitals
of her husband's ancestors:

'Flow, flow, blood of the captive! Fall, fall, incarnate dew! Germinate
and grow, avenging harvest!'

'Oh,' said Genevieve to herself, 'the blood of this innocent, of this
martyr, so basely abandoned by his friends, by this people, poor and
oppressed, whom he cherished, this blood will return on them and their
children. But may it also fertil