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 handful of soldiers are with Him.  They have not yet started.  As soon as they do start, follow.  They must not reach Golgotha.  But wait until they are outside the city wall.  Then countermand the order.  Take an extra horse for Him to ride.  The rest is easy.  Ride away into Syria with Him, or into Idumaea, or anywhere so long as He be saved.”

She concluded with her arms around my neck, her face upturned to mine and temptingly close, her eyes greatly solemn and greatly promising.