ingled in the crowd of the priests who were warming themselves at
the bonfires. Judas warmed his bony hands morosely at the bonfire and
heard Peter saying loudly somewhere behind him:

"No, I do not know Him."

But it was evident that they were insisting there that he was one of
the disciples of Jesus, for Peter repeated still louder: "But I do not
understand what you are saying."

Without turning around, and smiling involuntarily, Judas shook his head
affirmatively and muttered:

"That's right, Peter! Do not give up the place near Jesus to any one."

And he did not see the frightened Peter walk away from the courtyard.
And from that night until the very death of Jesus, Judas did not see
a single one of the disciples of Jesus near Him; and amid all that
multitude there were only two, inseparable until death, strangely bound
together by sufferings--He who had been betrayed to abuse and torture
and he who had betrayed Him. Like brothers, they both, the Betrayed and
the betrayer, drank out of the same cup of sufferings, and the fiery
liquid burned equally the pure and the impure lips.

Gazing fixedly at the wood-fire, which imparted a feeling of warmth to
his eyes, stretching out his long, shaking hands to the flame, his hands
and feet forming a confused outline in the trembling light and shade,
Iscariot kept mumbling in hoarse complaint:

"How cold! My God, how cold it is!"

So, when the fishermen go away at night leaving an expiring fire
of drift-wood upon the shore, from the dark depth of the sea might
something creep forth, crawl up towards the fire, look at it with
wild intentness, and dragging all its limbs up to it, mutter in hoarse
complaint:

"How cold! My God, how cold it is!"

Suddenly Judas heard behind him a burst of loud voices, the cries and
laughter of the soldiers full of the usual sleepy, greedy malice; and
lashes, short frequent strokes upon a living body. He turned round, a
momentary anguish running through his whole frame--his very bones. They
were scourging Jesus.

Has it come to that?

He had seen the soldiers lead Jesus away with them to their guardroom.
The night was already nearly over, the fires had sunk down and were
covered with ashes, but from the guardroom was still borne the sound of
muffled cries, laughter, and invectives. They were scourging Jesus.

As one who has lost his way, Iscariot ran nimbly about the empty
courtyard, stopped in his course, lifted his head and ran on