Stephen: A Soldier of the Cross

by Florence Morse Kingsley

"Who saw the thing done?" interrupted Caiaphas in a hollow tone.

"A half score of priests who were preparing the altar for the evening sacrifice. It was rent with a loud noise, say they, and the Holiest place revealed on a sudden. I have counseled that they hold their peace; it may be that they also are apostate, but I dare not take the steps that I would in the matter because of the people. Of one thing I am certain, the man is dead; in that have we triumphed. I saw him die, and he is as assuredly perished as are the wretched malefactors that groaned that day on either side of his cross."

The face of Caiaphas blanched to the livid color of death. "Say no more," he gasped huskily, "I am not well."

Annas stared at him for an instant with something like contempt. "I will call a servant," he said at length. "Thou shouldst drink wine to strengthen thy heart."

"The man is strangely wrought upon by this thing," he thought within himself as he strode away. "He is like to a rope of sand; I must not look to him for help. Who is there then of stout heart and good courage? Issachar--Johanan--Alexander? they all be like wax which the sun hath melted. Stay! there is the young Saul of Tarsus, a Pharisee of the Pharisees, and zealous for the upbuilding of Israel; I will even dispatch a swift messenger for him. He will be an instrument of wrath in mine hand against the enemies of the Lord Jehovah."

As the sound of his footsteps died away, the sick man raised his head. "Begone!" he said with an irritable gesture to the servant who stood awaiting his pleasure. "Call my wife."

Even as he spoke, the heavy curtains which hung over the doorway near at hand, parted, and the figure of a woman emerged onto the terrace.

"Where hast thou been?" said the invalid, fixing his sunken eyes angrily upon her. "Dost thou not know that I cannot abide that clumsy hind, Barak. Where is my cordial?"

"Here, my lord," said Anna soothingly, pouring a few drops of some bright-colored liquid into a cup. Her slender hand trembled so violently as she did this that a portion of the contents was spilled, and lay a crimson pool between them on the white marble of the pavement.

The sick man shrank back among his pillows, his eyes starting from his head. "Ay! there it is again!" he muttered, huskily. "Blood, blood--the blood of the Nazarene! I shall always see it. Look!" he shrieked, "it is crawling towards me!"