the deep blue sky or the waving palm that stood against it. The very air seemed heavy with importance. Presently, with a swift impulse, Pilate came close to her, and looking at her lovely face, now purified and refined by her new life, he said: "Farewell, woman, and I thank thee that thou hast thought to save my soul. Pontius Pilate hath many troubles, and the greatest is, that he cannot understand. Carry a message to thy brethren that, if I can, I will save the Nazarene; for, be He the Christ or be He man, He doth deserve to live."
Sadly the Magdalene turned to go.
"Mary, one word more," called Pilate after her. "If thou shouldst have speech with the Nazarene, tell Him I fain would save Him if I could."
"The Lord knoweth what is in the hearts of all men," said the Magdalene. "We will pray that thou mayst believe." And so, sad at the failure of her mission, she departed.
When the door had closed behind her, Pilate rang a bell that was on his table. When the centurion appeared—he had been wondering at the long interview with the Magdalene—he said: "Bid a man ride at once to Bethany and bring me word where the body of Lazarus lies. But mind, not a word to any else, or it will be chains instead of women's arms around his neck this night. Bid him ride quickly."
But Pilate sat gazing out into space, with a sort of vague surprise that the world still looked as it had looked the day before, and musing on the imperfection of man's understanding. Surely, if this were the God, we should all know it.
At the Sanhedrim he met Caiaphas. The meet-
