University of Virginia Library

Act IV.

Judas.
(Two months have elapsed).

Scene I.

—Room in Mary's house. Mary and Jesus conversing.
Mary.
My heart grows lighter. When, two months ago,
We met, all hope had vanished, but thy face
Brought back sweet hope and dreams of days gone by.
Jerusalem was changed; with thee within it
The sinful city fair and holier grew,
For through the eyes of man a God can shine
Filling the rocky wilderness of life
With everlasting sunlight—thou art God,
For God is love and goodness, and thou art
The spirit of love and goodness.

Jesus.
I and God
Are one, for through my voice the Father speaks,
Sending good news to mortals. Man and God,
At war through all the ages, now at last
May meet in holiest peace; what prophets spake
In me the Son of Man shall be fulfilled,
Though not as men would have it. They would crown
My brows with earthly fame,—but not for fame
Left I the eternal heavens; I came to seek
The poor, the lost, the sad, the wandering sheep,
The dark of soul, the guilty—bidding all
Believe that in the Father's watchful heart
Dwells love for each and all, and boundless pity.
Thee have I saved; and women in time to come
Saved by the sons of men shall bear thy name,
The name of Magdalene, and so shalt thou
Redeem the coming ages: all the world
May be redeemed through love, and I through love
Will surely save it.

Mary.
But the world is dark,
Full of all evil, horror, murderous crime.
Man's world is crimson with the blood of man,
And woman is man's slave—as I have been—
Man's slave, and yet man's tempter.

Jesus.
Have thou faith
In me and in the Father. Unto God
A thousand years are but a moment's space:
The God who made the worlds can save the worlds:
God made the sinner,—but he also made
The heart that loves the sinner, even mine.
My heart is as God's heart, and God's is mine:
Yea, through our hearts, the Father's and my own,
Flows love that shall redeem the very vilest
And lift the lowest to a throne on high,
Pure in the starlit heavens. Believest thou?

Mary.
Lord, I believe that thou art sent to save
The world.

Jesus.
The world will in the end be saved,
And by my death,—but ages yet will pass,
Ages of strife and anguish, ere the end.
I came not to bring peace: I came to send
Upon the earth a sword, and to reveal
The secrets of all hearts; I came to found
A Church whose warrior-sons shall spread the news
Of God's eternal kingdom far and wide,
Till in the end this earth whereon we stand,
This blood-stained earth, shall be a fitting place
For God to dwell in: then will I return
And reign thereon with thousands of the saints,
And evil's form shall vanish.

Mary.
Lord, when thou
Returnest thus with thousands of the saints,
Let me be with thee; leave me not alone
Within the starlit heavens, when earth is thus
Made starlike by thy presence,

Jesus.
Nay, I speak
Of unknown ages dim within the far
Unfathomed future, but thy dreams are all
Dreams of to-day. Yet rest thou well content:
No lamb of all my flock but shall be safe
Through all eternity, and all my lambs
My hand shall lead for ever.

Mary.
I believe.

Scene II.

Street in Jerusalem.
(Enter Judas).
Judas.
Here is the place appointed. Never lose
A chance of winning friends, when friendship means
The power to achieve your purpose. Man alone
Is helpless, but two friends can sway the world
And—if one friend's a woman—heaven as well,
With yawning hell beneath it.
(To the Rabbi Ben-Aaron, who now enters).
Greeting, Sir.

(Mary enters on the opposite side of the stage, unseen by Judas and Ben-Aaron, and listens).
Ben-Aaron.
Hail, friend—you guess my purpose? When one hates
The mind is quick, and keen to apprehend
Hate in another, hatred of the same
One person. You and I with equal hate
Hate—

Judas.
Jesus?

Ben-Aaron.
Just so. And we both desire—

Judas.
The death of Jesus.

Ben-Aaron.
Not so fast, my friend!
You're over-hasty, and you choose your words
With brutal rashness. “Death's” a gloomy word:
I never use it—never think on death
Indeed—I think of love and maidens' lips,
But not of death and darkness. Choose your words,
I pray you, with more niceness; you offend me.

Judas.
Nay! life's not long enough for mincing words
With your damned learned caution. I'm a man
Accustomed to steer straight towards certain ends.

Ben-Aaron.
Yes, Judas; but when steering straight implies
The passage of your ship o'er dangerous shoals,
Why then steer crooked—you will sooner reach
Your lawful end in that way.

Judas.
Lawful end!
We two have nought to do with lawful ends;
We hate and plot, that's all.

Ben-Aaron.
Nay! plotting means
A thousand different things. I plot to found
God's empire upon earth; I plot to bring
To man God's own Messiah.

Judas.
Cease from lies.
You plot—I also plot—to murder Jesus,
The man whom Mary loves.

Ben-Aaron.
I said before
Your rough words make me shiver. Pray be gentle!

Judas.
Wolf that you are—the light within your eyes
Means murder.

Ben-Aaron.
Nay, my very hasty friend,
I mean not murder—but the Jews mean murder.
This man, this Jesus, hated by the priests,
Will surely perish—at their hands, not mine
(The Romans being the executioners)—
If—if this one thing—if he can be brought
To avow himself Messiah.

Judas.
Now I see.
Your lamblike gentleness will charge itself
With this most saintly task: you'll draw the man
To his destruction, prating all the while
Of God and heaven and goodness.

Ben-Aaron.
Is not that
Better than shouting murder in the streets?

Judas.
Far better, doubtless—so the end be reached.

Ben-Aaron.
Faint heart, how soon you tremble! If the end
Be not reached—if my plan at last should fail
Through cowardice of Jesus—then your plan
Comes to the front.

Judas.
I have not any plan.

Ben-Aaron.
There, friend, your lying begins, in your eyes
Lurks murder likewise, ready forth to spring
Red-handed, at its moment.

Judas.
If I said
I had a plan, what then?

Ben-Aaron.
Merely to say
That I will treble what the high priest offers
(You see, I've probed the matter), if your plan
Succeeds where mine has failed.

Judas.
Most generous master,
Too gentle even to utter murder's name,
I take you at your word, and, more than this,
Your plan will not succeed—I know the man—
He is not wrought for greatness—heroes wade
Through blood to empire, but this man will shed
No man's blood save his own.

Ben-Aaron.
Still violent words!
Step this way—we will ratify our bargain
Half in advance (I'll be more generous still!)
But, if you love me, no more murderous words;
They make all life look dismal.

Judas.
Not a word!

(Exeunt Ben-Aaron and Judas).

Scene III.

A rocky spot in the vicinity of Jesusalem. Rabbi Ben-Aaron pacing backwards and forwards, soliloquising.
Ben-Aaron.
The plot works badly. Who can trust a woman?
I toiled with genius, and my genius wrought
Well at the first; I lured the coy young maid
Who would not hear my suit at Nazareth
Up to Jerusalem—there younger lips
Pleaded my cause far better than my own.
Mary succumbed to love—well backed by gold
(Gold adds such charm to love)—a Roman won her,
Won her, forsook her,—just the usual tale:
Then I stepped in—and lo! the coy young girl
Was coy no longer; what a difference now
Twixt Mary of Nazareth and the passionate Mary
Who brought the Roman gallants to her feet!
How much can love do in a little space:
Foolish past words are those who would aspire
To win a virgin's lips—such lips are cold;
Let others, younger men, have all the toil
Of nobly training in the ways of love,
Then step you in, and reap what they have sown
—As I stepped in, and won the prize at last.
But oh Ben-Aaron, subtle wise Ben-Aaron,
Lord of the world through knowledge which is power
In heaven, on earth, beware now lest the prize
Escape; of all things slippery far the most
Softly elusive is a woman's heart.
A woman's love through phase on phase proceeds:
With passion it commences—then she is wooed—
With ardour she responds,—so for a season
Passion is mutual; then she older grows;
Pursued by man no longer, she pursues;
She, wooed not by the young, must now in turn
Pay court to youth—upon youth's fiery lips
Imprint the kiss of woman's ripening passion;—
Then this too fails her, change again succeeds;
Next comes religion's hour—the dormant force
Of sentiment that sleeps in every woman
Springs to the front—she now believes in heaven,
In God, in saints, and she must yield her heart
To some strong saintlike man who represents
God, heaven, and future joys,—so it goes on;
That, always, is the story. Now to-day
My plans are baffled by this selfsame fact:
I stole from Jesus Mary's youthful form,
Both form and heart, succeeding there superbly;
To-day he wins her back—to-day he wins
With tenfold force in that the exultant hosts
Of heaven are on his side—I none the less
Can fearless front the moment—if I fail,
Then Judas' rougher method may succeed.
But fail I shall not—nay, did ever yet
An atheist fail? Of all things strong I think
An atheist is the strongest, for he wields
The eternal weapons of the ephemeral God
In whom the credulous sons of men believe,
Plays on the faith of others like a harp,
And draws forth witching music. Even so
I, atheist, will defy this heaven-sent saint,
Win back the woman, and destroy the man,
For am I not Ben-Aaron? Soft—he comes;
I've lured him forth, pretending that a man
Lay sick and needed help.

(Enter Jesus).
Jesus.
Where is the man?

Ben-Aaron
(bowing).
The man is here, for I am sick at heart
Seeing how redemption lingers. Oh, my son,
That thou with Israel's future in thy hands
Shouldst thus slow-footed loiter by the way!
Why not proclaim thyself the true Messiah?
All foes will cower before thee, all our race
Will rally round thee, and thou shalt renew
Onec more the glorious past of Israel.
Eight years ago, in that strange desert spot
By Jordan's banks, I set before thee things
Of solemn priceless import: now again
To-day Ben-Aaron opens all his heart
To thee and craves an answer. Time is ripe;
Unnumbered followers wait for thy command
To flock to arms; Jerusalem will hear
With wild fierce ardour their strong rallying cry;
Thou shalt be lord of all our race—it may be,
Lord of the Roman world—then lord of man:
A kingdom measureless may be thine own,
And all if thou wilt do one simple thing,
Trust me, me wise Ben-Aaron—for I've gleaned
In lonely places knowledge such as thou
In thy young simple heart hast never dreamed of.
Knowledge is God; there is no God but knowledge:
Knowledge have I pursued for years on years,
Climbing sure-footed o'er the arduous way
That leadeth to the heights where knowledge dwells;
Now have I found the God, and grasped his form—
Held in embrace, though mortal, him the vast
Dim fluctuant form that from the eyes of men
Recedes for ever,—I, a man, have found
The eternal God, and now am one with him;
For I have gathered in one eager brain
All knowledge—yea, I die not, being old,
For knowledge is the everlasting life.
And now I bring to thee my priceless stores
Of knowledge, and I offer thee the whole
Because I love thee—yea, I love thee well:
I have no son—but thou shalt be my son,
My well-beloved, if thou wilt hear my words
And, using me for guide, wilt climb the hills
Of knowledge, worshipping my God with me.

Jesus.
Knowledge is not the everlasting life,
But love is God and everlasting life.
Thou knowest not the Father, who reveals
Not to the wise but to the humble soul
The priceless secrets of eternity:
Yea, therefore said I, “Suffer little children
To come to me—forbid them not,” for these
Have seen my Father's face, the face that hidden
In ceaseless cloud-folds still evades the wise.
Children have seen the Father: thou hast seen
Not the true features of the Father-God,
For thou hast wrecked thy soul to apprehend
Not God but merely the grand works of God,
The treasures in his palace—these are fair,
Yet barter not the undying soul for these;
The sun, the stars, the lilies of the field,
These are the works of God, but not in these
Is God supremely manifest,—he speaks
Not in the thunder, shines not in the rays
Of fiery lightning, but in humble hearts
He whispers, “I am love, and love is King.”

Ben-Aaron.
Knowledge is God: but wilt thou hear my words?
The time is ripe; lose not the golden moment
Once more I offer thee the help that surely
Will lead thee on towards unexampled ends.
For this thy miracles have paved the way:
By signs the unthinking populace is led;
Let but a star shoot glimmering o'er the sky,
The brainless herds with trembling hearts predict
Strange woes and ruin of cities—use thy skill—
Thou art, I know it, a cunning conjuror;
Thy fame is now established—turn that fame
To good account.

Jesus.
My weapons are not carnal,
And this world's clamorous warfare is not mine.
My kingdom, founded in the hearts of men,
Shall outlast earthly kingdoms.

Ben-Aaron.
Thou believest
In shadowy lives to come, but I believe
In this the golden present.

Jesus.
Heaven and earth
Shall pass away; my words shall never pass.

Ben-Aaron.
A thousand poets' tongues have said the same.
Where are they now?

Jesus.
No noble work can die.
Nay: ever it bears fruit.

Ben-Aaron.
Although the men
Who wrought the work rot slowly underground,
Preaching to worms and beetles! Give to me
The gracious present with its sunny gleams;
I leave your heaven with all its pallid ghosts
To love-sick youths and maidens.—Once again,
And for the last time, wilt thou work with me,
Delivering thus thy race?

Jesus.
To work with thee
Were wholly to destroy the race I love,
Nay more, would die to save, for thou art base
And barren is base labour. I will toil
Alone, will bear, alone, the griefs of all,
The sins of all, till all men's griefs and sins
Vanish when God from time's dim mountain-tops
Speaks and leads forth the morning.

Ben-Aaron.
Then I speak!
What is thy God to me? A stormier God
Than thine within the eternal darkness dwells:
His am I, him I serve—the God who stirs
The waves to madness, who blindfolds the stars
With his own hands lest any star should lead
One storm-tossed ship to haven; him I serve
Whose heaven is gloom, whose heart from age to age
Conceives and sends forth sorrow: though thy God
Be love he is servant to a mightier Lord,
The Lord who making man set deep in man
The changeless love of sin that brings forth fruit
Blood-red, and will for ever. Hate is God
Behind thy God and o'er him, as the dark
Follows and rules the light; thy God is weak
Beside the strength of mine, for all the world
Bears witness to the force of him who slays
Or, slaying not, slowly tortures.

Jesus.
Yet the weak
Can bring to nought the strong. The world is dark,
And shall be dark for ages—till the light
I bring shall slowly penetrate the dark
And change man's grief to gladness. I am light,
And light shall vanquish gloom.

Ben-Aaron.
Thou dreamest, thou,
That Mary loves thee, that her heart is changed.
She is mine, not thine; not to the saint who saves
A woman's soul through endless time belongs,
But to the man who wins her girlish beauty.
Take thou her soul, for I have won her lips,
And these are safe from thy most saintlike touch—
In hell I will await her. Go thy way:
Redeem the race of man—it needs redemption;
Redeem thou Mary—for she needs redemption;
Then, if thou canst, redeem and save thyself
For surely man shall slay thee—I, Ben-Aaron,
Promise thee that—for thou hast striven to steal
The one thing that for just one moment made
A dark soul see the sunshine.

(Exit Ben-Aaron).
Jesus.
Go thy way,
For all ways lead to God, though those that man
Chooses lead round through darkness. True it is
That now the Lord of darkness rules the earth;
This is his hour, the Father lets him rule;
One fleeting moment only—far beyond
The darkness shine the unsullied hosts of stars,
Though these may fade from vision orb by orb
As darkness closes round me. Yet I trust.

(Exit Jesus).

Scene IV.

—In the Garden of Gethsemane. The night of Wednesday.
Judas.
You've met me here. For this at least I thank you.
I know you deem me just a mere rough fellow,
Enamoured as you are of pink-cheeked Jesus:
That beardless subaltern in the ghostly army,
That delicate lieutenant of the angels,
Holds such a place—I know it—in your heart
That there's no room for rough and honest worth.
But still you've met me.

Mary.
As I promised—yes.

Judas.
I love you—always have loved you. Will you kiss me?

Mary.
Remember, other men have loved me—pause;
Are you content to take a cast-off beauty?
You, Judas, such a peerless knight-at-arms,
Who might win some untouched and spotless damsel,
What, you put up with charms at second hand!
My estate of beauty's heavily mortgaged—yes,
Trespassing fingers have been busy there
And stolen some flowers; I will be honest with you.

Judas.
When a man loves with strong true vigorous love
He loves the woman—body, soul, and spirit;
He loves her for herself, not for her history.
If you will let me taste your priceless kisses
For nought save sheer mad love, what does it matter
To whom in olden days you chose to sell them?
By all God's heaven—if any God there be
To hold those glimmering strange star-torches steady—
When on your lips I cool the love I burn with,
What will it matter then what happened before?
Nay, I shall like you all the better for it,
For I shall feel as if all other lovers
Were husbands, and as if, each time we kiss,
I robbed them of their rights with joyous laughter!
But kiss me now—the starlight is not jealous.

Mary.
First tell me—I have much to ask you—listen—

Judas.
Listen? You chill the warm love on my lips.

Mary.
You have a grudge against the man who helped me
When no man else would heed or help.

Judas.
Again!
Again that man's name—ever must he come
Between me and the only heaven I seek,
The heaven whose starlight flashes from your eyes,
Whose phraseless rapture your embrace contains.

Mary.
His heart is nobler than your heart can dream.

Judas.
You love him—all he dreams about is heaven:
That pleases woman; when her lust's played out,
She loves to dwell on thoughts that soothe the soul.
The darkness suits her first, for in the dark
Woman can sin her fill, fearless, unseen;
Yea, crowd the darkness with as many lovers
As there are kisses panting on her lips.
But when her hours of fierce desire are over
She'll change her mood, discover that the dark
Is rich with golden stars, and to each star
Tag on a moral meaning and a use:
Yes, that is woman.

Mary.
All you know of her
Is gathered from your own black loveless heart.
You are of those who, having first degraded,
Debauched, debased, then swear that God's hand made
Woman as man's hand leaves her.

Judas.
If God made
Woman, it must have been in some loose hour.
Indeed I rather hold that tales I've heard
Bandied among the learned Roman folk,
Tales of their goddesses and gods, are true.
It seems their Jupiter's a lecherous god:
Aye, if the whole wide realm of heaven were pure,
Full of pure gods, or pure and calm-browed men,
Let but one fair sweet woman enter there
—Fair as thou art, with those soft child-eyes, Mary!—
Soon resonant heaven would ring from side to side
With orgy-songs and chants of wild desire,
The gods would fling their sceptres to the stars
To hold, and Jupiter no more would rule,
For woman's spirit, the spirit of lust, would reign.
How many lovers had you, ere this Jesus
Stilled in you with his words the passion of earth
And roused in you the passionate lust of heaven?
Fifteen?

Mary.
Be sure of this, whatever men
Loved me or said they loved me, never one
True-hearted woman loved a snake like you.

Judas.
Snake—snakes are slippery things that twist and crawl;
Women are more like snakes than men, methinks.
Am I more snakelike than that soul of yours,
That body of yours, which having tested first
The souls and bodies of half a hundred men
Now seek to recreate and rest themselves
And win again some savours as of youth,
Some sense of freshness, in the arms of this
Enamoured foolish youth of Galilee?
Snake! Snake thou art, and wilt be to the end.
What is more snakelike than to seek to drag
Down to thy level with all thy mincing ways,
Thy harlot's tricks, thy lying floods of tears,
Thy false repentance, one who though I hate,
Hate him for thy sake, curse him and would slay him,
Is still a prince of men?

Mary.
But if I said
I loved you after all, and was but playing
At love with Jesus—well, what would you say?

Judas.
Are you in earnest?

Mary.
Am I in earnest! Come,
Come nearer—take this kiss—a woman's proof.

Judas.
Your angry words?

Mary.
Mere childish pettish things!
What, you a man, and heed the words of woman!
Oh, woman's words are wayward as the wind,
Lighter than lightest tuft of thistledown:
Her anger's just a sudden lightning gleam
That flashes forth, then passes, nothing more.

Judas.
Your eyes flashed more than mere ephemeral wrath.

Mary.
The eyes that flashed with ire can flash with passion.

Judas.
You called me a snake.

Mary.
But snakes are lovely things.
Have you not seen their supple bodies twine
Round a girl's neck with amorous caresses?

Judas.
A man's hot anger does not cool so soon.

Mary.
Judas, you are a very child in love.
What, know you not that when a woman loves
She hates, aye loathes, herself at times for loving,
Rebels against the slave within herself,
Rages against the man to whom she's slave,
And just because she never will be free
Exults in playing at freedom? Know you not . .
Your lips again—and closer . . know you not
That, when a woman loves, she sometimes shakes
And tests the chains she is content to wear
And—just for the sweet sake of being mastered—
Pretends to master him whom she would serve.
Now tell me, friend—I long to hear t told—
What is your plan? I know you have a plan
For baffling Jesus and his followers
And, being yours, the plan is doubtless wise.
You should have told me of it; I was nettled,
Angry—what woman likes being left i' the dark?
“Judas keeps secrets from me;” so I said—
“Then Judas cannot love me; I could never,
Loving a man, keep secrets hidden from him.”
Tell me your secret?

Judas.
Will you swear to keep
The thing I tell you deep within your soul,
Buried in silent darkness?

Mary.
I will swear
To utter it to no man. (Aside)
Is not Jesus
A God and not a man? I have not lied.

Judas.
Listen! The die is cast. To-morrow night
Jesus will watch within Gethsemane.
Some mere half-dozen disciples will be there,
All cowards, powerless any of them to aid.
The rulers and the chief priests all are with me:
Pilate will be won over, for the Romans,
Distrustful in this turbulent city, dread
The effect of Jesus' doctrines on the Jews;
They are ripe for a revolt, for these strange doctrines
Are spreading widely, and, in fact, this man
Has focussed all the people's discontent:
A thousand swords would do less keen-edged harm
Than this man's single tongue, for now that he
Proclaims himself the prophet who should come
All who would thrust aside the Roman yoke
Are eager to ally themselves with him.
This Pilate sees; his dread is fairly roused;
And, though he has the Roman stern contempt
(I share it!) for our nation's petty squabbles,
In his own interest he is bound to act.
The arguments the priests will bring to bear
Cannot but move him—they will argue thus:
“This man, this Jesus, calls himself a King,
King of the Jews—we have no king but Cæsar;
Jesus proclaiming that he is a King
Is traitor to Tiberius—he defies
And tramples on the imperial power of Rome;
If thou supportest Jesus, look to it!”
So they will argue, and it follows clearly
Pilate must listen to them—else he falls.
In this way all will work together well:
Romans and priests, our laws, the Roman laws,
The Roman jealousy of self-made kings,
Our Jewish hatred of a self-made prophet,
Pilate, the Sanhedrim, your servant Judas—
We all shall work together for one end,
The downfall of this man who won your heart
And drew your burning gaze from earth to heaven
Not that I would pretend that Ananias,
Myself, the priestly throng, and Caiaphas,
Are wholly in earnest, wholly patriotic:
We use the Roman Governor as a tool,
To you I avow it,—yes, I avow it freely.
In fact, we care about as much for Cæsar
As Cæsar cares for Father Abraham.
Still, Cæsar's most convenient for our purpose,
So you will hear us all, no doubt, to-morrow
With one voice shouting, “Long live noble Cæsar!
Let all the enemies of Cæsar die!
This man's an enemy—so to death with Jesus!”
To-morrow night a guard will be collected:
This I shall lead unto Gethsemane;
There Jesus doubtless will be praying—watching
The stars, not dreaming of the rays that flash
Keener than star-rays from the Roman sword-points.
He prays—we wiselier act—all for the good,
The good, mind you, of the sublime tradition
Handed straight down from Moses and the Prophets.
Well, when we find him praying, I shall steal
Silent upon him, take him unawares,
Kiss him upon the forehead (not the lips—
To you I leave the lips) and say, “Hail, Master!”
That is the signal, duly preconcerted.
Then they will seize him, bind—if he resists—
And drag him to the house of Ananias.
After inquiry—brief—conducted there
They'll take him to the house of Caiaphas
Where he will find the Sanhedrim assembled
(All's nobly planned) and there with show of trial
A formal sentence of death will be pronounced,
Which Pilate will be bound to ratify
And which, with his approval, will be carried
In some few short hours into execution.
Is all quite plain?

Mary.
Indeed, you have plotted well.
The air strikes cold. I must be moving hence.

Judas.
You'll meet me again—you'll give me what I long for?

Mary.
I'll meet you again.

Judas.
Why should we part to-night?
Would not to-night be fittest for our love?
To-morrow there'll be business to attend to.
May I not win reward for all my toil
Within those arms of yours, whose soft embrace
By heaven I swear shall never gladden Jesus!
Draw back among the bushes.

Mary.
Not to-night.
I'm tired to-night, but when to-morrow's over
. . Who knows then what may happen? Now good-night.

(Exit Mary).
Judas.
I think I've won her, but a woman's wayward,
Best not to count upon her—I'll away
To Miriam's house, the hot young jade expects me.
A long night's practice at the kissing trick
May be of use, and Miriam's mouth is sweet,
Though queenlier, doubtless, are the lips of Mary.

(Exit Judas).

Scene V.

Another part of Gethsemane.
(The night of Thursday. Jesus alone).
Jesus.
Yea, love is sweet, and love is pure—God made
Woman for helpmate, not for curse and snare.
I know that Mary loves me; I have saved
Her soul from devilish thraldom worse than death,
Thraldom of fiends, and baser yoke of man:
Her eyes, through which the eyes of devils gleamed,
Have won the royal look of woman now,
The royal look of love my Father set
Within the eyes of woman, whom he made
That through her soul his soul might flash on man
Light lovelier than the light of stars or sun.
Yes, I have saved her: may I not possess
The thing I save, and seal it as mine own?
Must I, alone upon the mountain-side
Seek through the silent portals of the night
My Father's face, when it may be the way
Lies nearer, even the road to heaven and home,
Through woman's love,—when, it may be, her hands
Are readiest to unbar the eternal gates.
—And yet it may be in the years gone by,
Epochs of life now wholly past from sight,
The perfect love of woman was mine own.
It may be then I loved as others love
And won as others win; it may be, then,
Some girl with dark hair darker than the night,
Eyes brighter than the night's whole wealth of stars,
Loved me as men are loved,—that I possessed
As men possess, and when the morning came
Forgot the dawn while gazing in her face,
Yea, wondered that the morning ever came.
So sweet a joy being left within the night.
(Enter Mary, unseen by Jesus. She listens).
This well may be: it may be I have grown
Through lives past number to a higher life
Wherein a nobler love first feels its way
Towards statelier realms of mysteries unseen.
I give up love to win a priceless love,
Love beyond measure, love that shall not die
But mix itself with passion of the years
And mingle with the ages yet to be.
No woman through all time but shall be glad
Through me: I take, as it were, the stars of night
Unnumbered, endless, and with these I crown
The future; never in one most distant land
With evil cities, through whose dismal streets
Still as of old the lost sad women go,
Never in any city of furthest time
Shall any poor lost woman heavenward lifting
Her soul in sorrow fail to feel some throb
Responsive from my soul within the sky:
To even the saddest I will say, “Rejoice!”
For even the humblest I will save a star.

Mary
(advancing towards Jesus).
But, Lord, the common paths of love are sweet:
With weary heart man struggles on alone,
But woman gives him ardour for the fray,
Force for the combat; when the combat's o'er,
Woman can bring him rest unspeakable.
Me thou hast saved from the wild lusts of men,
The passions that destroy—now let me in turn
Save thee from evil men who would destroy:
The path to safety is open still—to-night
If thou wilt fly with me, we can escape—
I know the road—and in the mountains hide
Till all the clamour of pursuit is o'er.
Then I will be thy faithful servitor,
Thy sister, friend, thine handmaid, what thou wilt
—I love thee, Lord—and I will follow thee,
And thou shalt teach me secrets of the stars
And of God's holy heaven beyond the stars
Wherein in spirit thou dwellest, for I know
Thou art the king of whom our prophets spake,
The spotless just Messiah who should come.

Jesus.
Mary, thou lovest, and thy soul is true,
But yet thou understandest not my heart.
The love of earth is sweet, but sweeter love
Than thou hast dreamed of shall one day be thine.
I came from God to hallow earthly love:
Thou sawest this when, nine long years ago,
I blessed the marriage at Cana, giving wine
For water—that is how my Father gives;
Yea, ever he bestows a nobler gift
Than that men crave for—man would ask one star,
But lo! God crowds the heaven with countless stars
—Look up; above us through the purple sky
The golden endless constellations gleam.
And so it is with love: a love more deep
Than man has dreamed of, or than woman dreams,
Shall be the lot of woman and of man.

Mary.
I love thee, Lord.

Jesus.
Thou deemest that thou lovest,
But love is grander than thy loftiest dreams.
Listen:—long ages since in other lands
I lived; my spirit that here on earth to-day
Clothed in this flesh thou seest, in other forms
Hath dwelt: it ne'er began, it hath no end.
Straight from the bosom of the Father-God
My spirit sprang, but in full many a form
On earth 'twas forced to live that I might learn
All lessons needful, conquer lower aims,
Lower desires, until at last I won
The everlasting strength of soul whereby
The world shall be redeemed from sin and death.
Thou, too, hast lived: aye, we have met before.

Mary.
Before, my Master?

Jesus.
We have met before,
And thou hast loved me in far other days.
Yea, Mary, when I drew thy soul to mine
Through very force of love, didst thou not feel
That that strange power which softened and renewed
Was just the sense of former love revived?
Thou art mine, because thou never hast been aught
But mine; thy lips were mine, as virgin-pure
As the first dew-drop drawn up by the sun,
Ages before Jerusalem was built:
Yea even on other stars, diversely wrought
From this small wayward star whereon we stand,
Our spirits in other forms have met and loved.
And now to-day I lift thee and redeem;
I purge away thine intervening guilt,
For thou hast left me, Mary, and hast sinned—
I purge away thy guilt of years, thy strange
Adultery of the ages vast, unknown;
I draw thee back to me for thou art mine.
But not in any earthly fashion of love
Shall now our souls be one: we have reached a point
At which the mist-clad dreams of ages past
May melt in air and vanish—golden-clear
Upon the darkling background of my death
Shines our accomplished love's eternal dawn.
One we have been, and shall be, but the road
Lies through the darkness. Yet believe in me.

Mary.
Lord, I believe—but when thou diest, if this
Indeed must be, let me too follow thee,
Let me die with thee; if, as thou dost say,
Our lives in other lands, in other years,
Have been one life, let not those lives to-day
By any touch of death or touch of man
Be rent apart, dissevered; when the crowd
Of soldiers led by Judas comes for thee
(Aye, even now I fancy through the dark
I see their torches gleam)
Let me die first—let some rough soldier's spear
Thee seeking pierce my bosom, that the blood
Forth-flowing, plenteous from the gaping wound,
May wash me clean from that adultery
Whereof thou speakest, and restore my soul
Maiden in death and spotless to my Lord.

Jesus.
Nay, Mary, as through all the ages past
I, loving thee as no soul else will love,
Have ever led thee along the upward road—
The road that seeks the untrodden mountains first,
Then, when these are surmounted, still aspires
Beyond the trodden mountains to the stars
By foot of man untrodden, unrevealed
To eyes of man—so let it be to-day.
Again I show the road, and though it lead
Far past all mountains, and beyond the stars,
Even through death's darkness, where the Father's hand
That holds the stars may for a moment seem
To cease to uphold and guide me, still I know
My Father even in the darkness rules,
And though the fiends of hell—who will resent
The world's supreme redemption through my death—
May round me gather in a lurid throng,
Or, if death's horror take another form
More dread, more awful, silence of the void
Press with a speechless terror on my brain
And through that silence ring one lonely cry
“There is no God,” then all be still once more,
Though this be so, yet even without the stars
Upon the Father's starlike soul I rest,
Even in the silence wait till he shall speak.

Mary.
They come.

(She flings her arms round Jesus and waits, gazing in the direction of the torches).

Scene VI.

Antechamber in the house of Ananias. Peter sits warming himself at a fire. Miriam, Rebecca, and Anna, waiting-maids of Ananias, move about conversing. Confused sound of voices from the hall within.
(Enter Mirza, excited and breathless).
Mirza.
Do you know what's happened? It's come off at last,
The great event we all have been predicting—
Jesus is seized.

Miriam.
Of course he is—he's here

(pointing to the inner chamber).
Mirza.
One woman struggled wildly with the soldiers—
('Twas Mary Magdalene, the courtesan;
You know her, girls—who in this town does not?)
Her face and neck were bleeding from their blows:
They flung her roughly aside, then pounced on Jesus;
The man resisted not,—not half a man,
I think—I would at least have scratched their eyes!
They bound him, led him here—you know the rest.

Anna.
And what of Mary?

Mirza.
Mary? She was left
Half lifeless on the ground; one soldier stooped
And once more struck her.

Rebecca.
Well, it served her right;
Who asked her help, I wonder? (Addressing Miriam)
Somewhat changed,
This woman, from the sunny-featured girl
Who by that crystal fount at Nazareth
Sang to us—you remember?

Miriam.
I remember.
In those old days she only saw the flowers
Beside the stream of love, but now she knows
That stream has waves blood-red . . and yet . . and yet . .
Rebecca, I could find it in my heart
To envy her—her life has been a dream
Of love and passion—all the world of man
Sighs at her feet.

Rebecca.
The dream is over now:
She loves, and love brings anguish.

Anna
(addressing Mirza and pointing to Peter).
Was not he
With Jesus?

Mirza.
Yes.

Miriam.
I know him. Oftentimes
I've seen the curious couple pass our door
—Oh! how my cheeks have ached with laughing at them—
Peter and Jesus—followed by a troop
Of girls I would not look at; jades whose faces
Would scare away the very boldest man,
So they must turn to the angels—last resource.
Well, it's all over now, their dream of heaven!
Better have let the next world quite alone
And spent a joyous time in this—what say you,
Rebecca?

Rebecca.
That you're right—I also have seen them.
You're right all round: I hold that life was given
To girls for pleasure—that God made the sun
Bravely to shine along their yellow hair
And turn the lustrous loose locks into gold;
The stars to give them light to find their lovers,
The sweetest flowers that lovers' tongues might say,
“No flower hath half the sweetness of your breath!”

Mirza.
Rebecca, you're poetic! If the sun
Can turn our lustrous loose locks into gold
It is that gold hair may be as a net
Wherein the eager hands of men may fling
Their gold and silver, jewels, and the like—
How I love trinkets!—If I were with Jesus
Oh he should work a miracle for me,
Change all the stars to jewels and hang them all
Round the smooth ivory pillar of my neck—
Then I would love him!

Anna.
I would love him too
If he would work a miracle for me,
Remove these freckles and this loathsome mole
That mars my neck's soft whiteness—look, it spreads
Its brown misshapen hideous patch just here—
Below my dress, that's fortunate, though Mirza,
There are occasions when—

Mirza.
The mole is seen.

Anna.
Yes: Japhet said the other night he thought
It was a crawling spider—how I hated
The mole and Japhet too!

Mirza.
Japhet's brown face
Would match the mole.

Anna.
Japhet's brown face! I think
His face is godlike; as to Ephraim's face
It's nothing better than a pimply mass.

Miriam.
Soft now, don't quarrel—let us ask this man,
This Simon Peter—Cephas, as they call him—
Let's ask him each in turn—don't let him hear
Our whispers—let us ask him each in turn
Whether he was with Jesus, 'twill be sport
To see him blush and stammer.
(To Peter).
Sir, were you
With Jesus? Surely I saw you in the garden?

Peter.
I was not in the garden.

Rebecca.
I have heard
That you are chief among this man's disciples?

Peter.
I am not of his followers.

Mirza.
But I saw
With my own eyes your right hand draw your sword
And with it strike good Malchus.

Peter.
Curse you, cease
Your chattering folly—I tell you once for all
I never knew the man.

Anna.
Hark! what an hour
For cocks to crow; this bird has sense to opine
That somewhat strange is stirring.

(Exit Peter).
Rebecca
(watching Peter from the window).
He's crying! What a soft-heart thing it is;
First lies to save repute—then sorry for it.
Come, girls—let's turn our thoughts towards cheerier swains
Than these disciples of a man whose eyes
Are girlish, Mirza, as yours, and not so bright,
Nor with that lurking flash of mischief in them.

Miriam.
They're bringing Jesus out—see, quick Rebecca!
How pale the poor soul looks! They'll take him now
Straight, doubtless, to the house of Caiaphas;
Let's follow and mark the end!

(Exeunt GIRLS, following the crowd that accompanies Jesus to the house of Caiaphas).

SCENE VII.

Room in the house of Caiaphas where the Sanhedrim are assembled.—A mixed crowd of excited people pressing in at the doors, and listening eagerly.—After awhile Peter enters cautiously, and watches from a distance.
Caiaphas.
We have heard three witnesses, and all their speech
Tallies; there can no longer be a doubt
That this man's followers, rough, illiterate, base,
Were growing a danger to the city's peace.
Disturbance on disturbance—in the streets
And in the Temple's courts! aye, surely next
The Roman stalwart arm will interfere
(Just to keep order—saying that we cannot)
—Then blood will flow, and all because of this
Proud-browed impetuous self-styled Son of God!
This must not be: we have heard good Eleazar
Salathiel's son, the seller of oil and wine
There in the Temple's courts—we have heard besides
Aminadab who sells the snow-white doves
And Talan, money-changer, son of Pharez:—
These all depose—aye, with one voice depose—
That Jesus, shouting through the Temple Courts
Ran, using violent gestures, violent words;
Then—more than gestures, words—that Jesus seized
Their stalls and overturned them, spilt their oil,
Scattered their money, and set free their doves
(That straightway fluttered forth with eager wings),
Saying, “My Father's house was built for prayer,
But ye have made that house a den of thieves:”
More—then he made a small keen scourge of cords
And with that scourge he drove with furious zeal
Talan, Aminadab, and all the rest
Far from the Temple's precincts.
(Turning to the Court).
Ye have heard:
What think ye of this man?

Priests and Elders
(with one voice).
He stands condemned.

Caiaphas.
Yet is there further witness; next we call
Rabbi Jephunneh—he, of good repute,
Proved worthy through long years of highest esteem,
Versed in the law of Moses, learned, wise,
Hath—so we hear—apt evidence to tender
On this the matter in hand.
(Enter Jephunneh the Pharisee).
Thou art welcome, friend.
Speak—without fear—the cause of holiest truth
Clamours for aid.

Jephunneh.
But if my witness bears
Too hard upon him? mercy in my soul
Wrestles with justice; I am soft of heart,
Too soft, I know it—yet the man is poor,
His friends are poor,—it may be that the man
Will yet recant, abjure his dangerous creed,
Cease to stir up the passions of the mob,
Become—who knows?—a sober citizen.

Caiaphas.
Nay, bear thy witness,—time is past for this.
Pity, though fair and bounteous, has its day,
Then steps forth justice—justice stern and fair,
Fairer than pity.

Jephunneh.
Then you bid me speak?

Caiaphas.
Speak.

Jephunneh.
Once I saw this Jesus in the fields:
'Twas on a Sabbath day, the sun shone bright,
And all creation rested—as the Lord
Upon the seventh day rested from his toil.
Jesus and his disciples wandered through
The golden corn-fields, and I met them there;
His followers plucked the golden ears of corn
And rubbed them in their hands—poor hungry folk!
(Here pity speaks again; I stamp it down)—
They ground in greedy hands the ears of corn
And made a sorry meal; I straightway spake,
For all my righteous Pharisaic zeal
Was kindled hot within me—“Why do these
Thy followers thus profane the Sabbath day?”
Then this man: “Hold thy peace, nor interfere.
I know thee, lying false-heart—thou art one
Of that smug-featured strait-laced viperous crew
Who in God's name defile the world of God,
Making creation hideous as themselves.”
(You start? I give you Jesus' very words;
My memory's good—thus he continued) “Liar
Thou art; thy fathers slew the prophets—thou
Dost build their sepulchres; through sea and land
To win one proselyte thy swift steps go,
Then, having gained him, thou dost make him more,
Yea twofold, threefold more, the child of hell
Than thou thyself art: thou dost pray long prayers,
Thou hypocrite—thou cleansest cups and platters
But thou within art full of dead men's bones
And all uncleaness.” Such were this man's words!
I answered not: I never answer violence.
Then he resumed—“The Sabbath day was made
For man, not man for any Sabbath day
Though called of Moses holy; I proclaim
To man the newer Sabbath, even the day
Of love and freedom and sweet fellowship
That shall annul thy Sabbath.” Then he turned
Aside with one long glance of withering scorn
And his disciples turned—they, jeering, turned—
They trampled through the corn, they plucked the corn
In golden handfuls and they flung them, scoffing,
Full in my face.

Caiaphas.
No more—thou hast said enough.
We thank thee for thy kindly courtesy
And for thy true strong witness.
(To the Usher of the Court).
Call Ben-Aaron.

(The Usher calls Ben-Aaron. Ben-Aaron enters).
Caiaphas.
We know thou art indeed most erudite
And, also, this man's friend, but yet thy zeal
For truth and law will outweigh, will it not,
The claims of friendship even? Speak the truth:
Thou shalt be then repaid by truth's own joy
And by high dealing's sweetness,—yea, the God
Of all our fathers shall be glad of thee,
Thou with God's blessing gladdened. What thou knowest
Speak clearly, friend, and fully.

Ben-Aaron.
I will speak.
This man was once my friend: I loved him well—
In his bright youth I loved him, and I grieved,
Wept with his parents, at the unseemly sight
Of his completest downfall, for he chose
Low base companions, held erroneous views
That shocked all those who loved him; not the death
Of John was warning—no, the mantle of John
Fell on his shoulders—he conceived no doubt,
John once removed, that every obstacle
To his Messiahship was swept away,
So from that moment he with eager joy
Posed as Messiah and Saviour of the race.
Little by little healthy-minded folk
Drew off from him; his followers soon became
A motly gathering, an ill-omened crew
Of publicans and harlots—aye, of thieves,
For what are those who seek to rob the rich
For the base lazy poor but arrant thieves,
Bandits and robbers? When this Jesus preached
His gospel to the poor, he drew the crowd
(As preachers such as he in every age
Have drawn the crowd) by promising to spend
Freely the wealth of others for their sakes:
Plunder, swift plunder, plunder sure and large,
Such was the bait he held before the crowd
And they like eager-hearted hungry fish
Rose at it; then the harlots likewise rose,
Rose at their bait—the bait of hopeful days
Held out before them, days in which to walk
In silk apparel, rendering back contempt
Most brazen-faced to those pure-minded folk
Who hitherto had scorned them; modest worth,
Quite at a discount, could attract no more—
No, rags and sin were at a premium now.
With men like these and women such as these
Did this man pass his days, and then, besides,
Glaring imposture, practised in broad day,
Haunted his steps, and he connived at it
(Connived—I use a charitable word;
Others might doubtless choose an uglier term).
What was this raising, but the other day,
Raising of Lazarus, and the blind men healed
At Jericho—what were these cases, friends,
(turning round, and facing the Court)
But gross imposture practised in the name
Of God profaned for private purposes?
The dead man, Lazarus, is alive and strong,
Myself have seen him—spoken since his death
To Lazarus—Lazarus never died at all;
Mere catalepsy—from his deathlike trance
Jesus aroused him, and the thing became
Forthwith a miracle to vulgar folk
For whom all things, all deeds of every day,
Brim o'er with marvel. Then again the woman
In foul adultery seized, who should have been
(But was not) stoned—a grosser case than this
Ne'er laughed in justice' face: the woman's name
Was Timna (concubine to Eliphaz,
The son of Esau—just that very name—
History repeats itself!)—she was not stoned
As Moses bade us, so the jade survives
To mislead others, yea to draw strong men
To their destruction with her mincing ways
That should have ceased for ever—then again
(This damns the man, if ever yet a word
Could damn the utterer) Jesus said to me—
I vouch for this—he said, “I will destroy
Your Temple made with hands, and in three days
Raise up another—”

Caiaphas.
Peace. (Aside)
The thing is ripe.
(Aloud)
Few further words are needed.
(Turning to Jesus).
Answer this,
And answer truth—Art thou the Son of God?

Jesus.
I am; and, likewise, all who love the Father
Shall be the sons of God.

Caiaphas
(rending his clothes).
What further need
Have we of witnesses—ye hear him speak?
Hath he not spoken blasphemy?

Crowd of Priests and Elders.
He hath.

Caiaphas.
What fate deserves he? He who thus puffed up,
Thus egotistic even to madness' point,
Before a grave assembly such as ours
Dares mock the historic faith, sneer at the Law,
And, adding blasphemy to his former crimes,
Now calls himself God's Son?

Priests and Elders.
The man must die.

Caiaphas
(mockingly).
The Son of God must die! Now lead him forth.
During the night let him be closely watched,
Then brought at morning's first convenient hour
To Pilate, who shall ratify our sentence.
It shall be carried out in Roman form,
Although by Moses' law he should be stoned;
But I have ever held it right and fit
To honour Roman customs.—None the less,
That justice may be perfect, let him speak
If aught the man would utter.

Jesus.
All is well.
Now shall I pass beyond your swords and spears,
Beyond thy foolish tongue, thou mocking judge,
Back to the holy heaven from which I came
To judge with righteous judgement all the world.
I came from God, now back to God I go,
But yet on earth my spirit shall ever live,
Deathless, divine, unconquered: tell ye Cæsar
That, though the world lies bowed beneath his feet,
I stand with foot upon his neck to-day;
I whom your laws condemn to suffer death,
Am lord of all the world—aye, lord of Rome,
King of Jerusalem, the Son of God,
Messiah whom the prophets have foretold,
And, more than all, the suffering Son of man.
For man is mine, man's future all is mine;
My empire is not bounded as is Rome's
By rivers, forests, and the bridgeless seas:
Cæsar a poor small straitened empire sways;
My empire is co-equal with the world,
Commensurate with the long march of time,
Based on the affections, stablished in the heart,
Eternal, vast, supreme, impregnable:—
Aye, followers who shall sign upon their brows
And on their children's brows the cross for sign
Shall rule imperial Rome, and in my name
Traverse the seas until they find a land
Circled by storm-winds, guarded by the waves,
Wherein my Church shall flourish, spreading wide
Its branches East and West and North and South
Like some well-watered fruitful growing tree
Beneath whose shadow all the world shall rest.
That is my future. From the cross that now
Your hands prepare, I shall for ever reign.
Stone upon stone Jerusalem shall fall;
Each word the prophets spake shall be fulfilled;
Your tribes shall all be scattered through the earth,
Yea, by the sword all ye who sought the sword
Shall surely perish, but my soul shall live,
Live in the hearts first of the chosen few
Whom I commission in my name to preach
The wondrous gospel of the love of God
First to mine own and then to every land,
Live in their hearts, and then in hearts of all
Who shall believe on me through this their word.
I, mightiest lord of all the kings of men,
I, coming forth from God, return to God;
But, ere my soul reseeks the starry road
And traverses the silence of the night,
I, having first unlocked the golden gate
That leads past all the stars to God's high throne,
Hand to my faithful followers the key—
(turning towards Peter, who gazes tearfully at his Master).
Peter, take thou the key:
Thou art a rock, and on this rock I build
My Church—the hosts of hell shall not prevail
Against it; this I do in token of love
For, though thou didst deny me but just now,
Thou shalt bear witness yet before the world
That I am in truth thy Master and thy King.

Peter.
My Master and my King.

Crowd.
Away with him!

Caiaphas.
Ye have spoken rightly. Lead the man away,
Lest further blasphemy from reckless lips
Damage his cause, and shock the Lord of heaven.

(Jesus is led away, closely guarded).

SCENE VIII.

The Judgment Hall of Pilate. Pilate and Jesus alone.
Pilate.
Speak. Tell me plainly—I love clear plain words—
What mean these people by their strange reports?
Art thou the King of the Jews?

Jesus.
Sayest thou this
Of thine own self, or comes the thought from others?

Pilate.
Waste not thy time in quibbling, time is precious:
Knowest thou not, friend, that with me lies the power
To crucify thee, or to set thee free?

Jesus.
Thou couldest have no power at all against me
Were not that power first given thee from above;
He therefore that delivered me to thee
Is the chief culprit, hath the greater sin.

Pilate.
Am I a Jew? What is the affair to me?
I am sick of settling Jewish petty squabbles.
We have a hundred lordly gods at Rome,
Strong gods, fair goddesses,—thy race proclaims
Its vaunted worship of the eternal One,
And yet, by Hercules, it seems to me
Our muddle of gods gives, after all, less trouble
Than the Jews' matchless One! What thinkest thou?

Jesus.
The Father speaks not through our race alone:
He sends his sun to shine on every land.

Pilate.
Thou sayest this! Thy doctrine, so they said,
Was harsh, fanatical—Believest thou
In Rome and Rome's old gods?

Jesus.
Wherever man
With true heart worshippeth, he finds the Father.

Pilate.
What meanest thou? Who is this Father-God?
The Jove whose godship lightens upon Rome?

Jesus.
My Father's image no man's eyes have seen.
He dwelleth not in temples made with hands;
His shrine is 'mid the everlasting stars,
Or—in the heart that loves him.

Pilate.
I begin
To understand why thine own people hate thee.
Why, thou art half lucretian in thy creed!
Priests hate a liberal creed, and narrower priests
Than those who scowl and prowl and practise here
Ne'er cumbered earth. I find no fault in thee
Save that thou causest tumult in the streets
And in the Temple's courts—let that but cease,
There seems no further just cause to condemn thee.
But drop thy kingly title; that excites
The ravening jealousy of priests and scribes
And lashes them to madness.

Jesus.
I am king,
King of the Jews, but in no earthly sense.
If I were king in any earthly sense,
Then would my servants fight; now is my kingdom
Unseen, remote, unearthly.

Pilate.
Yet again
Thou speakest riddles.

Jesus.
For this cause I came—
To bear eternal witness to the truth.
He who is of the truth will hear my voice
And follow me.

Pilate.
Thou dreamer, what is truth?

(Voices outside).
Crucify him! Crucify him!

Pilate.
Hearest thou the voices of the curs who clamour
For thy heart's blood? And yet if any way—
Last night my wife in troubled slumber saw
Thy face; she gazing from Antonia's tower
Beheld that scuffle in the Temple's Court
When thou didst overturn their merchandise,—
She, knowing thee thus by sight, beheld thy face
Last night in sleep, and troublous was the dream.
Antonia's tower with thunderous crash downfell;
Next blazed the Temple in a thousand spires
Of eddying flame that stained the night blood-red;
Arms clashed on every side, and wild shouts rang;
Through this proud city's gates our soldiers stormed,—
Wading through gore, they entered the doomed city.
Then followed ravin, spoliage, murder, lust,
Such as a thousand cities have endured
Prostrate neath Roman soldiers' maddened hands,
This city never. Then through cloud on cloud
Of smoke and dust and blood the morning broke,
And thou, within the chariot of the sun
Sitting, didst gaze with icy calmness down
Saying, “Thus am I avenged on priests and people;
Thus hath their city fallen!” This was her dream.

(Voices outside).
Crucify him! Crucify him!
If thou let this man go, thou art not Cæsar's friend.
Whosoever maketh himself a king, speaketh against Cæsar.

Pilate.
Hast thou no other word to say?

Jesus.
Not one.

Pilate
(going to the window).
I wash my hands of it. See ye to this.

Voices.
On us, and on our race, his blood shall be;
On us, and on our children.

Pilate.
Be it so.
(He calls for the guard of SOLDIERS. They enter).
Take ye him forth—and let them have their will.

(Exeunt SOLDIERS, leading Jesus away to be crucified).
Pilate
(alone).
A mad strange matter—and that dream of hers?
There's something doubtless in his youthful face
That wins its way with women. Poor young Jew!
And yet not all a Jew; he spoke out bravely,
With heartfelt clear contempt for Jewish creeds.
For that they'll murder him: we Romans fight,
Quarrel and slay for love's sake, for a woman,
But these weird dark-eyed narrow-chested men
Fight for a God their eyes have never seen,
For his sake slay each other. Let them be!

(Exit Pilate).