“He is your king,” the procurator objected, meditatively.
Caiaphas wheeled like a feather a breeze has caught. One hand outstretched he held to the mob, with the other he pointed to the Christ.
“Our king!” he cried. “The procurator says he is our king!”
As the thunder peals, a roar surged back:
“We have no other king than Cæsar.”
“Think of Sejanus,” the high-priest [pg 224]suggested. The thrust was so well timed it told.
Pilate looked sullenly about. “Fetch me water,” he ordered.
A silver bowl was brought, and borrowing a custom from the Jews he loathed, he dipped his fingers in it.
“I wash my hands of it all,” he muttered.
Caiaphas looked at the elders and sighed with infinite relief. He had conquered. For the first time that day he smiled. He became gracious also, and he bowed.