liars of the prophets? to make of the
Messiah a false Messiah? Is the prophecy of your people so feeble a
thing that I, a stupid stranger, a yellow northling in the Roman harness,
can give the lie to prophecy and compel to be unfulfilled--the very thing
willed by the gods and foretold by the wise men?"

"You do not understand," she repeated.

"I understand too well," I replied. "Am I greater than the gods that I
may thwart the will of the gods? Then are gods vain things and the
playthings of men. I am a man. I, too, bow to the gods, to all gods,
for I do believe in all gods, else how came all gods to be?"

She flung herself so that my hungry arms were empty of her, and we stood
apart and listened to the uproar of the street as Jesus and the soldiers
emerged and started on their way. And my heart was sore in that so great
a woman could be so foolish. She would save God. She would make herself
greater than God.

"You do not love me," she said slowly, and slowly grew in her eyes a
promise of herself too deep and wide for any words.

"I love you beyond your understanding, it seems," was my reply. "I am
proud to love you, for I know I am worthy to love you and am worth all
love you may give me. But Rome is my foster-mother, and were I untrue to
her, of little pride, of little worth would be my love for you."

The uproar that followed about Jesus and the soldiers died away along the
street. And when there was no further sound of it Miriam turned to go,
with neither word nor look for me.

I knew one last rush of mad hunger for her. I sprang and seized her. I
would horse her and ride away with her and my men into Syria away from
this cursed city of folly. She struggled. I crushed her. She struck me
on the face, and I continued to hold and crush her, for the blows were
sweet. And there she ceased to struggle. She became cold and
motionless, so that I knew there was no woman's love that my arms
girdled. For me she was dead. Slowly I let go of her. Slowly she
stepped back. As if she did not see me she turned and went away across
the quiet room, and without looking back passed through the hangings and
was gone.

* * * * *

I, Ragnar Lodbrog, never came to read nor write. But in my days I have
listened to great talk. As I see it now, I never learned great talk,
such as that of the Jews, learned in their law, nor such as that of the
Romans, learned in their philosophy and in the philosophy of the Gr