With that he turned to the prisoner. During the entire proceedings the attitude of Jesus had not altered. He stood as a disinterested spectator might—one whom chance had brought that way and there hemmed in—his eyes on remote, inacces[pg 215]sible horizons, the tongue silent, the head 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, Judæans 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 [pg 216]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!”