The big cross, carried by insolent youths, swung to and fro above the heads of the people.  Every one tried to get out of the way of the sinister thing; if a man, joking, thrust his neighbour towards it, he pushed quickly back into the crowd with a shriek.  And the unceasing cry went on:  “Hail to Pontius Pilate!  To the cross with the Nazarene!”

Jesus was led from the hall into the courtyard, where His guards had to protect Him from the fury of the mob.  They led Him up to the cross.

A sentry appeared, and, violently swinging his arm, shouted; “No execution can take place here!  Away with Him!  No execution can be permitted here!”

“To Golgotha!”

When the youths found that they would have to take the cross back to where they had fetched it, they let it fall to the ground, so that the wood made a groaning noise, and then ran off.

“Let Him carry His own cross!” shouted several voices.  The plan commended itself to the guards; they unbound His hands, and placed the cross on His shoulder.  He staggered under the load.  They beat Him with cords like a beast of burden; He tottered along with trembling steps, carrying the stake on His right shoulder, so that one arm of the cross fell against His breast, held fast there by His hands.  The long stake was dragged along the ground.  They had tied a cord round His waist by which they led Him.  They pulled Him along so violently that He stumbled, and often fell.  The crowd which followed tried to do everything they could to hurt Him.  So Jesus tottered along, bowed under the heavy weight of the wood.  His gown covered with street mud, His head pierced by the thorns so that drops of blood trickled down His unkempt hair and over His agonised face.  Never before was so wretched a figure dragged to the place of execution, never before was a poor malefactor so terribly ill-treated on his way to death.  And never before had such dignity and gentleness been seen in the countenance of a condemned man as in that of this man.  Some women who had got up early out of curiosity to see the procession stood crowded together at the street corner.  But when they saw it their mood changed, and they broke out into loud lamentation, over the unheard-of horror.  Jesus raised His trembling hand towards them, as if He wished to warn them:  “While your husbands murder Me, you are melted to tears.  Do not lament for Me, lament for yourselves and for your children, who will have to suffer for the sins of their fathers!” One of the women, heedless of the raging mob, tore the white kerchief from her head, and bent down to Him who was carrying the cross in order to wipe the blood and perspiration from His face.  When she got back to her house and was about to wash the cloth, she saw on it—­the face of the Prophet.  And it seemed as if kindness and gratitude for her service of love looked out from its features at her.  The women all came running up to see the miracle, and to haggle to get the cloth that bore such a picture for themselves.  But its possessor locked it up in her room.