It was not Pilate's indecision that decided me. It was this Jesus that
decided Pilate and me. This Jesus looked at me. He commanded me. I
tell you this vagrant fisherman, this wandering preacher, this piece of
driftage from Galilee, commanded me. No word he uttered. Yet his
command was there, unmistakable as a trumpet call. And I stayed my foot,
and held my hand, for who was I to thwart the will and way of so greatly
serene and sweetly sure a man as this? And as I stayed I knew all the
charm of him--all that in him had charmed Miriam and Pilate's wife, that
had charmed Pilate himself.

You know the rest. Pilate washed his hands of Jesus' blood, and the
rioters took his blood upon their own heads. Pilate gave orders for the
crucifixion. The mob was content, and content, behind the mob, were
Caiaphas, Hanan, and the Sanhedrim. Not Pilate, not Tiberius, not Roman
soldiers crucified Jesus. It was the priestly rulers and priestly
politicians of Jerusalem. I saw. I know. And against his own best
interests Pilate would have saved Jesus, as I would have, had it not been
that no other than Jesus himself willed that he was not to be saved.

Yes, and Pilate had his last sneer at this people he detested. In
Hebrew, Greek, and Latin he had a writing affixed to Jesus' cross which
read, "The King of the Jews." In vain the priests complained. It was on
this very pretext that they had forced Pilate's hand; and by this
pretext, a scorn and insult to the Jewish race, Pilate abided. Pilate
executed an abstraction that had never existed in the real. The
abstraction was a cheat and a lie manufactured in the priestly mind.
Neither the priests nor Pilate believed it. Jesus denied it. That
abstraction was "The King of the Jews."

* * * * *

The storm was over in the courtyard. The excitement had simmered down.
Revolution had been averted. The priests were content, the mob was
satisfied, and Pilate and I were well disgusted and weary with the whole
affair. And yet for him and me was more and most immediate storm. Before
Jesus was taken away one of Miriam's women called me to her. And I saw
Pilate, summoned by one of his wife's women, likewise obey.

"Oh, Lodbrog, I have heard," Miriam met me. We were alone, and she was
close to me, seeking shelter and strength within my arms. "Pilate has
weakened. He is going to crucify Him. But there is time. Your own men
are ready. Ride with them. Only a centurion and a h