ing between the two was not a friendly one. It was impossible for a fearless, straightforward man like Pilate to have much in common with the wily Jew whose intriguing seemed to be how to intrigue still more. The attitude, till now, of Pontius Pilate towards him had been that of a man who stands on his own unquestioned power, and yet acknowledges what another has attained by cunning. Surely these Jews were highly gifted. Yes, it pleased Pilate to draw out the High Priest, to appeal to his pride, to his learning, his high position—and then to mock him. There was nothing noble in the soul of Caiaphas. He would have descended to any depth of cringing, provided he were certain of his company. With Pilate, whom he feared, he did not cringe, but put on an assumed indifference he was far from feeling. Pilate had once said with curious truth that the beginning and ending of Caiaphas was himself.
To-day both were troubled by the same cause. The humble Carpenter, the Nazarene, the despised and rejected of men, had yet had power to wring the withers of the two chief governors of Israel; but the difference of the two men was this—Pilate longed to believe. If he could have believed, power and wealth would have been laid aside. Caiaphas did believe, but as the devils, we are told, believe and tremble. He was closing up each corner of his heart, stopping, like the deaf adder, his ears, for fear that true belief should come and force submission, and thus wrest from him power and temporal glory. Better the substance than the shadow. Better Caiaphas worshipped by the populace, bowed down
