ing face upturned to heaven, the while she spoke, a faint hope illuminating her brow.
For one moment Lazarus paused for words that might repulse and yet not wound.
"Noble lady," he said, "farewell; thou art not thyself to-night, and to listen to thee were wrong; for thou thyself wouldst weep if thou didst know the words which thou hast said. I thank thee for the love thou offerest, but 't would be but sorry love I gave thee, for my heart and soul are given to the Nazarene; henceforth in life and death I belong to Him, and of naught else can I think; and if I cause thee pain, sweet lady, forgive me, for I would not; but, if thou hast a sorrow for a while, turn thee to the Nazarene who doth assuage all sorrow. So shall we be united, thee and I, in one common heavenly love, that will wipe out all earthly yearning."
But his words fell upon unresponsive ears. A dull rage curdled in her heart that she, the proud daughter of Caiaphas, should thus have lowered herself to sue for love, and sue in vain. Far-reaching plans of hate and vengeance were begotten in her raging soul. If Lazarus would have none of her, then she would scheme and plot against the Nazarene, until her father should condemn Him to the death He merited. She would brook no opposition. No man or woman should live who should come between her love and her. Her heart had grievously been wrung by Lazarus; she would wring the heart of Lazarus in return, and let him feel the full weight of her hand, the full strength of her hate.
"Farewell," she said coldly; then passionately, "Go, heartless mummy, and may thy ill-spent love
