ead a little
raised.

"Scourging, my lord," Caiaphas interjected, "is fit and proper, but," he
continued, one silk-gloved hand uplifted, "our law prescribes death. Only
an enemy to Tiberius would prevent it."

At the veiled menace Pilate gnawed his under lip. He had no faith at all
in the loyalty of the hierarch; at any other time the affection the latter
manifested for the chains he bore would have been ludicrous and nothing
else. But at the moment he felt insecure. There were Galileans whom he had
sacrificed, Judaeans whom he had slaughtered, Samaritans whom he had
oppressed, an embassy might even now be on its way to Rome; he thought
again of Sejanus, and, with cause, he hesitated. Yet of the inward
perturbation he gave no outward sign.

"On this day," he said at last, "it is customary that in commemoration of
your nation's delivery out of Egypt I should release a prisoner to you.
There are three others here, among them Jesus Barabba."

Then, for support perhaps, he looked over at the clamoring mob.

"I will leave the choice to the people."

A wind seemed to raise the elders; they scattered through the court like
leaves. "Have done with the Nazarene," cried one. "He would lead you
astray," insinuated another. "He has violated the Law," exclaimed a third.

And, filtering through the soldiery into the mob without, they exhorted
and prayed and coerced. "Ask for Barabba; denounce the blasphemer. Trust
to the Sanhedrim. We are your guides. Let him atone for his crimes. The
God of your fathers commands that you condemn. Demand Barabba; uphold your
nation. To the cross with the Nazarene!"

"Whom do you choose?" shouted Pilate.

And the pleb of Jerusalem shouted back as one man, "Barabba!"

At the moment Pilate fancied himself in an amphitheatre, the arena filled
with beasts. There were the satin and stripes of the panther, the yellow
of treacherous eyes, the gnash of fangs, the guttural rumble, the
deafening yell, the scent of blood, and above, the same blue tender sky.

"What of the prisoner?" he called.

A roar leapt back. "Sekaph! Sekaph! Let him be crucified."

Pilate had fronted a rabble before, and in two minutes had turned that
rabble into so many dead flies, the legs in the air. He shook his head,
and told himself he was not there to be coerced.

"Release Barabba," he ordered. "And as for the prisoner, take him to the
barracks and have him scourged."

"Brute!" cried a voice that lifted him as a blow