ing was made for some altar; and that many a weeping penitent, many
a devout heart, has been pierced with its message. On the edge of the
stone coffin, which is tinted a warm green within, and lit by some
opening at the foot, is the inscription in gold letters: "JESUS
NAZARENUS REX JUDAEORUM." The stigmata are painted with unsparing truth.
The work is dated 1521.

There is in the Hampton Court Gallery a little painting which has only
comparatively recently been recognised as Holbein's, but which forms the
beautiful and fitting close of this set of religious pictures. As is the
case with so many of his works, the critics are not unanimous upon it.
But the authorities who have no doubts as to its being a genuine Holbein
of this period are so weighty that I need not argue the point in
support of my own convictions.

In the Hampton Court Catalogue it is styled "Mary Magdalen at our Lord's
Sepulchre," but I prefer to call it the Risen Christ (Plate 11). It must
once have been supremely beautiful; for even now its ideal loveliness
shines through all the evil fortunes which have once again defaced
the handiwork of Holbein. The type of Christ, and indeed the work
throughout, bears a marked resemblance to the eight-panelled Basel
altar-piece.

The painter has chosen the moment recorded in the twentieth chapter of
St. John. In that early dawn, "when it was yet dark," Mary has brought
spikenard in a marble cup, if not to anoint the sacred Dead at least to
pour it on the threshold of the sealed tomb, with tears and prayers. She
has fled to tell St. John and St. Peter of the sacrilege of the open
tomb,--has followed them back, still mechanically clasping her useless
spikenard,--has seen them go in where her trembling knees refused to
follow, and then go homeward, as we can see them in the distance,
arguing the almost incredible fact.

Poor Mary has had no heart for discussion. She has stayed weeping by the
empty grave until two pitying angels have appeared to recall her from
despair, and she has "turned herself back,"--too frightened to stay for
comfort. And then she has seen near her a Face, a Form, she was too
dazed to recognise until the unforgettable Voice has thrilled through
her, and she has flung herself forward with the old, instinctive cry,
"Master!" to touch, to clasp that Hand, so dear, so familiar, so
all-protecting, and find it a reality.

It is this tremendous moment that Holbein has seized. And with what
exquisi