sue, and yet not brave enough to try to defend the Nazarene; fearing also that he would at last be goaded into giving vent to the rage that seemed to suffocate him, bade a hasty farewell to Caiaphas, and took his leave.
Caiaphas remained alone, his head so bent that his chin rested on his breast. It all depended upon him now, the death or the life of the Nazarene. It all lay in his hands, the hands of Caiaphas. If—but it was too ridiculous to speculate upon—if this was the Son of God, even then Caiaphas would try to oppose, rather than descend from his place of power—for what was a high priest, after all, but a foreshadow of the future, ordained to keep alive in the hearts of men the promise of God to send the world a Saviour? When the Saviour should come, priest and ordinance would cease to be; this he knew well. Alone Caiaphas reasoned with himself. Shortly they would bring Jesus before him; surely, if He were the Son of God, He would give convincing proof of it. Either the great High Priest would be forced into obeisance and submission, or, if the Nazarene were but a fanatical prophet, a defier of the law, a blasphemer, a devil let loose to betray the people, Caiaphas, the great Caiaphas, would find it out. But deep, deep down in his heart that was gradually closing every door to faith, hardening each plastic fibre with ambition, lust, and greed, echoed still the words, "I am the good shepherd."
Yes, if he would but own it to himself, Caiaphas knew that there was something in the words of the Nazarene that had in it the ring of truth; that, like true coin, could never pass for false.
