for the first sign of weakness to destroy everything, the slaves in revolt—­all these impending terrors assure me that the end of the old order is at hand.  But what will become of the new if there is no central belief to steady the ensanguined hands of furious mobs?  For years I have bethought me of a drama, a gigantic world-drama which shall embody all the myths of mankind, all the noblest thoughts of the philosophers.  I shall take the Buddha myth, surely the supreme myth, and transpose its characters to Jerusalem.  A humble Jew shall be my Buddha.  He shall be my revenge on our conquerors; for my people have been trampled upon by the insolent Romans, and who knows—­a Jewish God, a crucified God, may be worshipped in the stead of Jupiter and his vile pantheon of gods and goddesses! One God, the son of Jahveh who comes upon earth to save mankind, is crucified and killed, is resurrected and like Elijah is caught up to heaven in a fiery chariot.  But you know the usual style of these Asiatic legends!  They are all alike; a virgin birth, a miraculous life, and transfiguration.  That sums up myths from Adonis to Krishna, from Krishna to Buddha; though Monotheism comes from the Hebrews, the Trinity from the Indians, and the logos was developed by Plato.  Where I am original is that I make my hero a Jew—­the Jews are still half-cracked enough to believe in the coming of a Messiah.  And to compass a fine dramatic moment I have introduced an incident I once witnessed in Alexandria at the landing of King Agrippa, when the populace dressed up a vagabond named Karabas as a mock king and stuck upon his head papyrus leaves for a crown, in his hand a reed for a sceptre, and then saluted him as king.  I shall make my Jew-God seized by the Jews, his own blood and kin, given over to the Romans, mocked, reviled, and set aside for some thief who shall be called Karabas.  Then, rejected, he shall be crucified, he a god born of a virgin, by the very people who are looking for their Messiah.  He is their Messiah; yet they know it not.  They shall never know it.  That shall be their tragedy, the tragedy of my race, which, notwithstanding the prophecies, turned its back upon the Messiah because he came not clothed in the purple of royalty.  Is that not a magnificent idea for a drama?”

“Excellent,” answered Hyzlo, in a critical tone; “but continue!”

“You seem without enthusiasm, Hyzlo.  I tell you that AEschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides never conceived a story more infinitely dramatic or pathetic, or—­thanks to my Hebraic blood—­so suffused with tragic irony.  I shall make a very effective tableau at the death; on some forbidding stony hill near Jerusalem I shall plant my crucified hero, and near him a converted courtesan—­ah! what a master of the theatre I am!—­in company with a handful of faithful disciples.  The others have run away to save their cowardly skins in the tumult.  The mobs that hailed him as King of the Jews now taunt him, after the manner of all mobs.  His early life I shall borrow outright from the Buddha legends.  He shall be born of a virgin; he shall live in the desert; as a child he shall confute learned doctors in the temple; and later in the desert he shall be tempted by a demon.  All this is at hand.  My chief point is the philosophies in which I shall submerge my characters.