“He has declared himself Israel’s king!”
“Ah!” And Pilate smiled wearily. “You are always expecting one; why not take him?”
“Why not, my lord? Because it is treason to do so.”
Pilate nodded with affected approval. “I admire your zeal.” And with a glance at the prisoner, he added: “You have heard the accusation; defend yourself. What!” he continued, after a moment, “have you nothing to say?”
Caiaphas exulted openly. The corners of his mouth had the width and cruelty, and his nostrils the dilation, of a wolf.
“My lord,” he cried, “his silence is an admission.”
“Hold your tongue! It is for me to question.” And therewith Pilate gave the high-priest a look which was tantamount to a knee pressed on the midriff. He glanced again at the tablet, then at the prisoner.
“Tell me, do you really claim to be king?”
“Is it your idea of me?” the Christ asked; and in his bearing was a dignity which did not clash with the charge; “or have others prompted you?”
“But I am not a Jew,” Pilate retorted. “The matter only interests me officially. It is your hierarchy that bring the charge. Why have they? What have you done? Tell me,” he continued, in Latin, “do you think yourself King?”