arose in the crowd, and those who had not understood
the cry asked their neighbours to repeat it. "He asks pardon for His
enemies? For His enemies? He is praying for His enemies?"

"Then--then He cannot be human!"

"He forgives those who despised, slandered, scorned, beat, crucified
Him? When dying He thinks of His enemies and pardons them? Then it is
as He said, He is indeed the Christ! I always thought He was the
Christ. I said so only last Sabbath!" The voices grew louder.
Schobal, the old clothes dealer, pushed about in the crowd and offered
the Messiah's coat for twenty pence.

"If He is the Messiah," shouted a Rabbi hoarsely, "let Him free
Himself. He who wants to help others and cannot help Himself is a poor
sort of Messiah."

"Now, Master," exclaimed a Pharisee, "if you would rebuild the
shattered Temple, now's the time. Come down from the cross, and we'll
believe in you." The man on the cross looked at the two mockers in
deep sadness, and they became silent. Suddenly a passage in the
Scriptures flashed into their minds: "He was wounded for our
transgressions!"

When they had all drawn back from the cross, and the executioners were
preparing to raise up the two desert robbers, the woman who had
swooned, supported by the disciple John, tottered up to the tall cross
and put her arms round its trunk so that the blood ran down upon her.
So infinite was her pain that it seemed as if seven swords had pierced
her heart. Jesus looked down, and how muffled was the voice in which
He said: "John, take care of My mother! Mother, here is John, your
son!"

A murmur arose in the crowd: "His mother? Is that His mother? Oh,
poor things! And the handsome young man His brother? The poor
creatures! Look how He turns to them as if He would comfort them."

Many a man passed his hand over his eyes, the women sobbed aloud. And
a dull lamentation began to go through the people--the same people who
had so angrily demanded His death. And they talked together.

"He can't suffer much longer."

"No, I've had some experience. I've been here every Passover. But
this time----"

"If I only knew what is written on the tablet."

"Over His head? My sight seems to have gone."

"Inri!" exclaimed somebody,

"Inri! Somebody calls out 'Inri.'"

"Those are the letters on the tablet."

"But the man's name's not Inri."

"Something quite different, my friend. That is Pilate's joke. _Jesus
Nazarenus Rex Judaeo