“I remember,” said the wife of Pilate with a strange look. “What then?”
“The mob wish to kill his Master, the King, and the lad came hither to beg his life. Marcus was about to scourge him and thrust him forth, but I forbade it. I say he shall not harm the boy. Do thou [pg 155]command it also, my mother—and quickly, for Marcus will not obey me.”
“Fetch the lad to me, Diomed,” ordered the lady briefly.
The young Greek obeyed, and presently returned to the presence of his mistress followed by the irate porter, his big hand buried in the rough curls of the beggar’s head. Tor presented a pitiable appearance, his pallid face streaked with tears and dust, his great eyes wide with fear and horror.
At sight of the princess the child fell sobbing to his knees and lifted his lean arms in an agony of petition. “My Master—my Master!” he wailed. And again, “My Master, oh, my Master!”
The wife of Pilate signed to Marcus to release the boy, then she ordered Diomed to give him wine.
Tor obediently swallowed from the [pg 156]cup which was held to his lips; but not once did he remove his beseeching eyes from the beautiful haughty face of the princess. “Thou canst save him,” he whispered.
The lady shook her head. “I fear that I cannot,” she said. Then to the astonishment of every one present she laid her delicate hand on the beggar’s rough head. “Tell me why thou dost love this man—this Nazarene?” she asked softly. “Nay, do not weep and tremble so, child. I will do all that I can to save him.”
Tor choked back his tears and gazed steadfastly into the exquisite troubled face which leaned toward him. “I love him—because he loves—me,” he faltered. “He opened my eyes. He is good. He is the King—my Master. I love him.”
“Why do the Jews hate him so?” murmured the lady. “In my dream I saw him—as one altogether lovely, enthroned high above all the gods of Rome and Greece. Then I saw—” She broke off with a shudder. The wild tumult of voices in the square without had risen into an awful, insistent iteration of one terrible phrase.