“Well! well! your silence speaks, as Marcus Tullius says. I will call my servants.”
“Your servants?” said Albinus, as Pilate rose from his seat. “Your servants? You have none; they have fled from you!”
“It is well!” answered Pilate.
“One alone has remained faithful—an old soldier.”
“Ah! that is Longinus; I know him. Tell the servant to call Longinus, and permit me to blow out your lamp; the oil is exhausted, and here is the dawn.”
“Oh! blame me not, Pontius. Let not your farewell insult my household gods!”
“I blame you? No, I pity you. The blood of Rome weakens in every vein; there are no Romans now. Let altars be everywhere erected to Fear; the house of Albinus is built on the very threshold of the Temple of Mars!”
And Pilate uttered a loud, hard laugh, which ceased at the entrance of the soldier.
“May your fidelity be rewarded, Longinus! You did not follow the deserters. Albinus, do you know what this soldier did? He was in the spearmen; he was at Golgotha, at the foot of the gibbet, when the Nazarene died; he pierced his heart with his lance. Longinus will die a Christian. Have you girded on your sword, old soldier, my last friend?”
The soldier made a sign of assent.