At the moment Pilate fancied himself in an amphitheatre, the arena filled with [pg 217]beasts. There were the satin and stripes of the panther, the yellow of treacherous eyes, the gnash of fangs, the guttural rumble, the deafening yell, the scent of blood, and above, the same blue tender sky.
“What of the prisoner?” he called.
A roar leapt back. “Sekaph! Sekaph! Let him be crucified.”
Pilate had fronted a rabble before, and in two minutes had turned that rabble into so many dead flies, the legs in the air. He shook his head, and told himself he was not there to be coerced.
“Release Barabba,” he ordered. “And as for the prisoner, take him to the barracks and have him scourged.”
“Brute!” cried a voice that lifted him as a blow might from his ebony chair. “Pilate, though you are a plebeian, why show yourself a slave?”
And Mary, with the strength of anger, brushed through the encircling officials and towered before him, robed in wrath.
“Ah, permit me,” he answered; “you are singularly unjust.”
“Prove me so, and countermand the order that you gave.”
As she spoke she adjusted her mantle, which had become disarranged, and looked him from head to foot, measuring him as it were, and finding him, visibly, very small.