Dead, Iscariot dead! He had scarce grasped the fact when—lo! what was this sudden darkness? Was Caiaphas struck suddenly with blindness, or where were they who had stood around but now? The chief priests, the scribes, the cages of the doves, the little tables, the altarwhere were they all? Was this the end of all? Was this Nazarene truly God?
And, panic-stricken, he smote upon his breast and bowed before the God whose Son he had condemned to death. Then the earth beneath him trembled, and the Temple rocked, and he looked to see it crumble stone from stone. The deepest blackness lasted but a moment, and when the darksome pall had somewhat lifted, and the shivering, crouching Caiaphas dared to raise his eyes, he saw that the veil of the Temple had been torn to pieces. The red, the blue, the purple linen hung in shreds, like a flag that had borne the brunt of battle. The cherubim, too, had been cleft in twain between the wings; and the altar, with its golden candlesticks and shewbread and burnt offerings, was exposed to the public gaze, for thousands were crowding in terror at the darkness, regardless of the High Priest's presence.
And thus ran the thoughts of Caiaphas: He was dead, the Nazarene, so said the people; but would His death free him from his shadowy dread, and restore his peace of mind, his power? Or was more to come? Added horror—would He return in glory as He had said?
With teeth chattering with terror, Caiaphas tried to persuade himself that he had been the victim of some trickery, some illusion. But the shreds of the
