Yet surely so many would not come to seize so gentle a prisoner. Was it not rather, Lazarus hoped, the little company of believing Jews, who came to seek their Lord?
"Judas!" The name was more hissed than spoken by the little band.
Judas,—Judas leading a mixed band of soldiers, borrowed from the precincts of the Temple, of Jews and Sadducees, of servants and centurions! The clanking of swords, the steady tread of men disciplined to march in unison, lights, suppressed words of command, and the red glare of Roman lanterns paling in the blue radiance of the moon; all these approached. What, then, did Judas dread that he should bring so many demons with him? Surely a legion of devils? The moments now were precipitating themselves one upon another. The air seemed peopled with spiritual elements, that warred, yet remained unseen. A strange light, brighter than the moon, seemed to irradiate from the Messiah, and to make His figure the centre-piece of the glorious picture.
Then hurriedly, as though possessed with a demon of haste that spurred him on to his destruction, Judas bent forward and kissed on His pure brow the Friend, the Man, the God.
"Hail, Master!"
Forgetful of Himself, forgetful of those around Him, even then the gentle Saviour sought to breathe into this man, whom He had loved, some remorse that would bring about repentance.
"Friend," He said, raising His pure eyes in deepest grief and pity—"Friend, wherefore art thou
