Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “For this time I will let thee live,” — she said with an imperial air of condescension—” The feast of death today hath sufficient material in the traitorous Nazarene and yonder rascal thieves. Only I pray thee loosen my wrist from thy rough grasp, else I must hate thee. Lo, thou hast bruised me, fool! — so rude a touch deserves no pardon!”

  Her delicate dark brows contracted petulantly. Barabbas gazed remorsefully at the red dents his fingers had made on the velvet softness of her hand, adorned with a few great jewels glistening star-like, — but he said no word, — his heart was beating too painfully and quickly for speech. She, meanwhile, examined minutely the offending marks, — then suddenly raising her eyes with an indescribable witchery of glance and smile she said, “ Gabrias would have kissed it!”

  Had the ground opened beneath his feet, — had a lightning-bolt sped from heaven, Barabbas could not have been more amazed and appalled. Gabrias! The sleek, sanctimonious and false-tongued Pharisee whom he slew and for whose murder he had been cast into prison! She, — Judith, — spoke of him thus, — and now! With his brain in a whirl and a violent fury beginning to stir in his blood, he stared at her, his face livid, his eyes blazing.

  “Gabrias!” he muttered thickly— “What sayest thou? — Gabrias” —

  But ere he could finish his incoherent sentence there came a sudden ugly forward rush of the mob, who, growing impatient of restriction, sought to break the line of the soldiery in order to see more clearly the preparations for the death of the “Nazarene” which were now about to commence. There ensued a great noise and calling to order and a motley scene of confusion, during which a company of imposingly attired personages advanced to the spot where Judith and her women stood and took up their position there. Among them was the high-priest Caiaphas, whose severely intellectual countenance darkened with wrath as he caught sight of Barabbas.

  “What doest thou here, dog?” he demanded, approaching and addressing him in a fierce whisper—” Did I not warn thee? Get thee hence! The law’s release hath not made thee clean of sin, — thou shalt not mingle with the reputable and godly in the land. Get thee hence, I say, or I will make thee accursed in all men’s sight, — yea, even as a leper is accursed!”

  His tall form quivered, — and he raised his arm with a gesture of stern menace. Barabbas, pale to the lips, half breathless and giddy with the sickening sensations of doubt and horror which Judith had so unexpectedly raised in his soul, met his cold eyes unflinchingly.

  “Thou insolent priest!” he said—” Threaten thy curses to those who fear them, — but I, Barabbas, defy thee! Wherefore shouldst thou, liar and hypocrite, sun thyself in the smile of the maiden Iscariot, and I, her friend in olden days, be by thy mandate debarred her company? Verily there is a light beginning to dawn on my foolish and long-darkened brain, — verily I do perceive wherein my trust has been betrayed! I read thy thoughts, thou evil-minded and bloodthirsty Caiaphas! As in a vision vouchsafed in the silence of the night I see the measure of thy plotting! Look to thyself! — for ’tis not Judas but thou who hast brought to this death the innocent Nazarene, — thou and thy tyrannous craft! Look to thyself, — for as God liveth there is a vengeance waiting for thee and thine!”

  He spoke at random, hardly conscious of what he said, but carried away by a force and fervour not his own, which made him tremble. Caiaphas retreated, staring at him in dumb rage and amazement, — Judith listening, laughed.

  “He hath turned prophet also!” she exclaimed mirthfully—” Let him be crucified!”

  Her malicious and cruel suggestion fell on unheeding ears, for just then there was another rush and outcry from the mob, and another futile struggle with the soldiers. Barabbas was compelled to fight with the rest of the reckless crowd for a footing, — and, in the midst of the crush, a strong hand suddenly caught and plucked him as it were out of chaos. Melchior confronted him, — there was a solemn, tender look in his eyes, — the ordinary cold composure of his features was softened by deep emotion.

  “Thou poor rash sinner!” he said, but with great gentleness—” Thou hast had the first blow on thy credulous man’s heart, — the first blight on thy erring man’s passions! Stay thou now with me, and ache in silence; let the world and its ways sink out of thy sight and memory for a space, — and if thy soul doth crave for Love, come hither and behold it in all its great supernal glory, slain to appease the ravening hate of man!”

  His voice, usually so calm, shook as though tears were threatening to overcome it — and Barabbas, troubled, oppressed, and smarting with his own sense of wrong, yielded to his touch passively, moved by his words to a certain awe and self-surrender. Lifting his anguished eyes he looked fixedly at his companion, “Tell me the truth now if thou knowest it,” he said in hoarse accents that were almost inaudible—” She is false? — yet no! Do not speak! I could not bear it! Let me die rather than lose my faith!”

  Melchior made no reply, but simply attended to the difficult business of pushing and pulling him through the crowd, till they managed at last to find an open spot almost immediately opposite the crosses of the two thieves who by this time were gasping aloud in the agonies of heat and suffocation, their strained limbs visibly quivering. The men of death were all gathered closely round the tall white figure of the “Nazarene,” — they were stripping Him of His garments. Meanwhile, Petronius the centurion stood by, watching the process and leaning meditatively on his drawn sword.

  “Pilate is crazed!” said an officer, approaching him with a huge parchment scroll—” Lo what he hath inscribed to be nailed above the cross of the prophet from Galilee!”

  Petronius took the scroll and spreading it out, read it slowly and with labour for he had little scholarship. Three times over were the same words written, in Greek, in Latin, and in Hebrew, —

  “JESUS OF NAZARETH,

  KING OF THE JEWS.”

  “Where see ye any madness in our governor?” demanded Petronius, “ There is naught of such import in the superscription.”

  “Nay, but there is,” — persisted the man who had brought it—” And so it was pointed out, for Caiaphas spake unto Pilate thus—’ Write not, King of the Jews, but that he said, I am King of the Jews P And Pilate, being but newly recovered from his well-nigh deadly swoon, was wroth with Caiaphas, and answered him in haste, saying—’ What I have written, I have written P And of a truth they parted ill friends.”

  Petronius said no more, — but glanced at the inscription again, and then, advancing, gave it to one of the executioners. This man, grimy and savage-featured, surveyed it with an admiring leer, and flattening it out, began to nail it at once to the top of the great Cross which still lay on the ground where Simon of Cyrene had left it, waiting for its Divine occupant. With a few deft blows he soon fixed it firmly in position, and satisfied with its prominent appearance, he read it with the tardy pains of a child learning its first alphabet. Tracing out each letter with his blood-stained finger, he gradually unsolved for himself the mystic words that have since resounded through the whole civilised world, and muttered them beneath his breath with a mingling of dull wonder and scorn, —

  “JESUS OF NAZARETH,

  KING OF THE JEWS.”

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE scene had now assumed a wonderful and terrible picturesqueness. The populace, finding that sudden rushes were of no avail to break the firm line of the Roman soldiery, remained wedged together in a sullen heated mass, watching the proceedings in morose silence. There were a few detached groups standing apart from the actual multitude, evidently by permission of the authorities, — one being composed of the poorly-clad women whom Barabbas had seen and spoken to on the way up the hill, and even at the distance he was he could see the golden gleam of the Magdalen’s hair, though her face was buried in her hands. And, — for the distraction of his peace, — he could also see the supple form of Judith Iscariot, wrapped in her flame-coloured mantle, and looking like a tall poppy-flower blossoming in the sun, — the stately Caiap
has stood beside her, with other men of note and position in the city of Jerusalem, — one or two of the stranger Roman nobles had descended from their horses, and were eagerly bending towards her in courtly salutation. Barabbas gazed at her and grew sick at heart, — a horrible disillusion and disappointment crushed his spirit and filled him with a silent rage of pain, an intolerable agony of despair. All at once the ground rocked beneath his feet like a wave of the sea, — he staggered and would have fallen had not his friend Melchior held him up.

  “What is it?” he muttered, but Melchior replied not. He was looking at the soldiers, who had also felt the sudden billowy movement of the earth on which they stood, but who, trained to a wooden impassiveness, only glanced at one another inquiringly for a second and then resumed their stiff attitude and immobility of expression. The ground steadied itself as swiftly as it had trembled, and the populace, in their intense excitement, had evidently failed to note its momentary undulation.

  Presently a loud roar of ferocious delight went up from the mob, — the executioners had stripped the Condemned of His garments, — and, pleased with the texture and softness of their material, were now casting lots for their possession. They disputed loudly and angrily, the chief contention raging over the question as to who should have the upper robe or mantle which was made of pure white wool, woven smoothly throughout from top to hem without seam. Throwing it from hand to hand they examined the fleecy fabric with covetous eagerness, making clamorous and conflicting assertions as to its actual monetary value, much as the relatives of a dead man squabble over the division of his poor earthly property. And in the meantime while they argued hotly together and lost patience one with the other, the immortal “Nazarene” stood ungarmented, awaiting their cruel pleasure. His grand Figure shone white as polished alabaster in the brilliant sun, — an inward luminance gleamed like fire through the azure branches of His veins and the spotless purity of His flesh; His arms had been unbound, and with an air of mingled relief and weariness He stretched them forth as one conscious of pleasant freedom, and the shadow of their whiteness fell on the dull brown earth like a reflexion of the Cross on which He was so soon to perish. And when he allowed them to drop again, gently and languidly at His sides, that shadow seemed yet to stay upon the ground and deepen and darken. No clouds were in the sky; the sun was at full dazzle and splendour, — nevertheless that mysterious stain widened and spread slowly, as though some sudden moisture beneath the soil were gradually rising to an overflow. Barabbas noticed it, — he saw too that Melchior observed the same phenomenon, but neither of them spoke. For the interest and horror of the Divine drama were now culminating to their supremest point; — the casting of lots for the garments of the Condemned was over, — and each man was apparently satisfied with his share of the spoil. The chief executioner, not without a touch of pity in his rough face, approached the “Nazarene,” and instead of using force as he had been compelled to do in the case of the crucified malefactors, bade Him, in a low tone, take His place upon the Cross without offering useless resistance to the law. The terrible mandate was obeyed instantly and unhesitatingly. With perfect calmness and the serene ease of one who, being tired, is glad to rest, the Ruler of the Worlds laid Himself down within the waiting arms of Death. As peacefully as a weary traveller might stretch himself upon a couch of softest luxury, so did the Conqueror of Time stretch out His glorious limbs upon the knotty wooden beams of torture, with sublime readiness and unconquerable patience. Had He spoken at that thrilling moment He might have said— “Even so, O children of My Father, lay yourselves down upon the rack of the world’s misprisal and contempt! If ye would win a force divine, stretch out your limbs in readiness to be pierced by the nails that shall be driven into them by friends and foes! Wear ye the crown of thorns till the blood starts from your aching brows, — be stripped bare to the malicious gaze of sensuality and sin! Let them think that they have tortured you, slain you, buried you, — hidden you out of sight and out of mind! Then arise, O ye children of My Father, — arise on the wings of the morning, full-filled with power! — power living, everlasting, and triumphant! — for ye shall see the world at your feet and all heaven opened above you; the circling universe shall ring with the music of your names and the story of your faithfulness, and sphere upon sphere of Angels shall rejoice with you in glory! For behold, from this day henceforth, I and those whom I call Mine, shall alter Death to Life and Life to Immortality.”

  But no words such as these were uttered: the Divine lips were fast closed and mute as heaven itself. But from the watching crowd there went up a faint murmur of irrepressible admiration for the tranquil heroism with which the young “Prophet of Galilee” accepted His fate, as well as for the singularly sculptural beauty and resignation of His attitude. The executioners approached Him with a certain awe and timorousness.

  “One would think him made of marble,” muttered one, pausing, hammer in hand.

  “Marble doth not bleed, thou fool!” said his fellow harshly, yet with an angry consciousness that he too felt a tremor of fear and repugnance at the work about to be done.

  The other men were silent.

  The select and richly-attired company of those influential or wealthy persons who were standing immediately round the high-priest Caiaphas, now advanced a little, — and Judith Iscariot, radiant as a sun-flash embodied in woman’s shape, leaned forward eagerly with the pleased smile of a child who is promised some rare and mirthful gala show. Her brilliant dark eyes rolled indifferently and coldly over the outstretched Form upon the Cross, — her jewelled vest rose and fell lightly with the gradual excited quickening of her breath. She looked, — but she did not speak, — she seemed to gloat silently upon the prospect of the blood-shedding and torture soon to ensue. And from the opposite side to that on which she stood, there suddenly emerged another woman, young and fair as she, though worn with weeping, — a woman whose wild white face was like that of some beautiful sad angel in torment. Throwing up her hands in a dumb frenzy of protest and appeal, she ran unsteadily forward a few steps, then stopped and fell on her knees, covering her anguished features in the loosened shower of her golden hair with a low shuddering cry. None out of the assembled throng went to offer her comfort or assistance, — people peered curiously at her over each other’s shoulders, exchanging a few side-looks of derision and contempt, — but not a soul approached her save one, — one of her own sex, who was closely veiled, and who, advancing with a light yet queenly tread, knelt down beside her, and passing one arm around her, laid her forlorn fair head against her breast and so quietly remained. Judith Iscariot, lifting her ringed hand to her eyes to shade them from the sun’s glare, gazed at that kneeling group of two with haughty disgust and scorn.

  “Lo, the sinners with whom this madman of Galilee consorted!” she exclaimed to Caiaphas—” Yonder yellowhaired vileness is the Magdalen, — she should be stoned from hence!”

  “Yea verily she should be stoned from any place where thou dost pass, fair Judith!” said Calaphas deferentially, yet with the shadow of a sneer on his thin pale lips— “Evil company should be far distant from thee, and for this cause did I just lately chase the insolent Barabbas from thy presence. But concerning this woman Magdalen, yonder matron who doth thus embrace her, cannot immediately be spoken with or banished from this place, for ’tis the Mother of the Galilean. She hath come hither to behold him die. Were we to visit her with harshness, or deny and deprive her of her privilege to watch this death and make fitting lament thereon, she and the women she elects as friends, — the populace would raise an outcry against us, and most justly. For law must ever go hand in hand with mercy. Have patience then, good Judith, till the end, — though of a truth I crave to know why thou hast ventured hither if thou art offended at the sight of sinners? In such a multitude as this thou canst not hope to find all virtuous!”

  Something sarcastic in the tone of his voice called up a sudden red flush on Judith’s cheeks, — but her eyes grew cold and hard as a midnight
frost.

  “I, — like the mother of the Nazarene, have come to see him die!” she said with a cruel smile, “ She will watch his torture with tears doubtless, — but I, with laughter! His agony will be my joy! For I hate him, — I hate him! He hath cast dissension in our house, — he hath turned my brother’s heart from mine, and made of him a slave to his fanatic doctrine. For look you, what happier man was there than Judas, beloved of my father, and dear to me beyond all earthly countings, till in an evil hour he was ensnared from home by idle rumours of the power of this boastful prophet of Galilee? What needed we of any new religion, — we who served the God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob, and who had followed the teachings of the law from our youth up till now? Is it not a shame to speak it, a shame to think it, that Judas, well-born and comely of countenance, my father’s only son and heir, hath actually wandered in vagabondage across the land with this carpenter’s son of Nazareth, dwelling among common fisherfolk, visiting the unclean and leprous poor, eating the husks of want instead of the bread of plenty, — deserting his home, forsaking me, his sister, and disobeying his father’s command, all for the sake of this impostor who hath at last been found guilty of blasphemy and condemned to his long-deserved death. Judge how I hate the traitor! Ay, with a hate surpassing any love! I rose betimes this morning to be the witness of his trial, — when the mob were inclined to pity, I whispered words that roused them anew to wrath, ’twas I who gave the keynote ‘Crucify him!’ — didst thou not mark how readily the chorus answered?”