“Not I. The blood of kings is sacred. Pahul, make haste!”
The butler, reappearing, held in his hand the glittering white vestment of a candidate. The tetrarch took it and held it in air.
“Here, put this on him, and let his subjects admire him to their hearts’ content.”
“Antipas, you disgrace your purple!”
At the exclamation, the Sanhedrim, the guards, the assessors, the officials, Pilate himself, everyone save the prisoner, turned and looked. On the colored pavement Mary stood, her face very pale.
The tetrarch flushed mightily; anger mounted into his shifting eyes. For a moment the sky was blood-red; then he recovered himself and answered lightly:
“It seems to me, my dear, that you take things with a high hand. It may be that you forget yourself.”
“I take them from where I am,” she cried. “As for forgetfulness, remember that my grandfather was satrap of Syria, my father after him, while yours——”
“Yes, yes, I dare say. He is not in power now; I am.”
“Not here, Antipas, nor in Rome. I appeal to Pilate.”