nts
and cheerful song, prayers and curses--and that on account of these
crystallised sounds the air was so heavy, threatening, and saturated
with invisible life. Once more the sun was sinking. It rolled heavily
downwards in a flaming ball, setting the sky on fire. Everything upon
the earth which was turned towards it: the swarthy face of Jesus, the
walls of the houses, and the leaves of the trees--everything obediently
reflected that distant, fearfully pensive light. Now the white walls
were no longer white, and the white city upon the white hill was turned
to red.

And lo! Judas arrived. He arrived bowing low, bending his back,
cautiously and timidly protruding his ugly, bumpy head--just exactly as
his acquaintances had described. He was spare and of good height, almost
the same as that of Jesus, who stooped a little through the habit of
thinking as He walked, and so appeared shorter than He was. Judas was to
all appearances fairly strong and well knit, though for some reason or
other he pretended to be weak and somewhat sickly. He had an uncertain
voice. Sometimes it was strong and manly, then again shrill as that of
an old woman scolding her husband, provokingly thin, and disagreeable to
the ear, so that ofttimes one felt inclined to tear out his words from
the ear, like rough, decaying splinters. His short red locks failed to
hide the curious form of his skull. It looked as if it had been split
at the nape of the neck by a double sword-cut, and then joined together
again, so that it was apparently divided into four parts, and inspired
distrust, nay, even alarm: for behind such a cranium there could be no
quiet or concord, but there must ever be heard the noise of sanguinary
and merciless strife. The face of Judas was similarly doubled. One side
of it, with a black, sharply watchful eye, was vivid and mobile, readily
gathering into innumerable tortuous wrinkles. On the other side were no
wrinkles. It was deadly flat, smooth, and set, and though of the same
size as the other, it seemed enormous on account of its wide-open blind
eye. Covered with a whitish film, closing neither night nor day, this
eye met light and darkness with the same indifference, but perhaps on
account of the proximity of its lively and crafty companion it never got
full credit for blindness.

When in a paroxysm of joy or excitement, Judas would close his sound eye
and shake his head. The other eye would always shake in unison and
gaze in silenc