"Have His legs been broken?" Pilate inquired of him.

"Sir, that is not necessary. He is dead."

"I do not believe you."

"It is quite true, sir. The captain pierced his side."

"I have been warned about you," said Pilate roughly. "I shall send a guard to watch the grave."

"As your lordship pleases."

"The man said that He would rise from the dead on the third day. It is likely that His friends will help Him!"

Joseph drew himself up in front of the Governor and said: "Sir, what ground have you for such a suspicion? Have we Jews proved ourselves so absolutely lawless in our fatherland? Surely not so much so that this best of all men, this Divine Man, should have been condemned to death without a shadow of reason, and His followers, too, treated with contempt as if they were cheats and body-snatchers."

"You have to thank your priests for that," said Pilate, with cold indifference.

"We know the breed," replied Joseph, "and so do you. But you are afraid of it. Our Master would have made an end of it. But you are a broken reed. Many of our great men have been ruined by Roman arrogance, but it was Roman cowardice that cost our Master His life."

The Governor started, but remained impassive.

He signed with his hand: "Let me hear no more of this affair. Do what you like with Him. Sentries can be placed at the grave. I've had more than enough of you and your Jews to-day."

Thus the Arimathean was dismissed, ungraciously, it is true, but with permission to bury the beloved corpse.

Meanwhile the torment of the two desert robbers had ended. And Dismas was at last set free from Barabbas, to whom a demoniacal fate had chained him his whole life long. Jesus had come between them, and had divided the penitent man from the impenitent. It is true that their bodies were thrown into the same grave, but the soul of Dismas had found the appointed trysting-place.

As soon as the Arimathean returned from his interview with the Governor, late as the hour was, Jesus was unfastened from the cross and lowered to the ground with cloths. Then the body was anointed with precious oil, wrapped in white linen, and carried to Joseph's garden. They laid it in the grave in the stillness of the night.

A holy peace breathed o'er the earth, and the stars shone in the heavens like lamps at the repose of the Lord.



CHAPTER XXXVII

In the night which followed this saddest of all sad days, Mary, His mother, could not sleep. And yet she saw a vision such as could not have been seen by anyone awake.

Crouching down, leaning against the stone, her eyes resting on the cross that rose tall and straight into the sky, she seemed to see a tree covered with red and white blossoms. It was as if that branch of the Tree of Paradise which the angel had once handed over the hedge had bloomed. It stood in the midst of a beautiful rose-garden filled with pleasant odours, running water, and songs of birds, with a wonderful light over all. Innumerable companies of men and women passed into that Eden from out a deep abyss. They ascended slowly and solemnly out of the gloomy depths to the shining heights. In front of all came a couple, our first father, Adam, walking with Eve. Just behind them Abel, arm-in-arm with Cain. Then crowded up the patriarchs, the judges, the kings, the prophets, and the psalmists, among them Abraham and Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, Solomon and David, Zachariah and Josiah, Eleazar and Jehoiakim, and quite at the back—an old man, walking alone, supporting himself on a stick from which lilies sprouted—Joseph, her husband. He was in no hurry; he stopped and looked round at Mary.

So all passed into Paradise.

That was what Mary saw, and then day dawned.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

In accordance with the orders, the Nazarene's grave was strictly guarded. A heavy stone had been placed in the opening of the niche in the rocks within which the body was laid, and, at the Governor's bidding, the captain had sealed it at every end and corner. Two fully-armed soldiers were stationed at the entrance with instructions to keep off every suspicious person from the grave. And then, on the third day after the entombment, an incredible rumour ran through Jerusalem. The Nazarene had risen!

On the morning of that day, so it was said, two women went to the grave, the mother of the dead man, and Magdalen, His devoted follower. They were surprised to find that the guards were not there, and then they saw that the stone had been rolled away. The niche in the rock was empty, save for the white linen in which He had been wrapped. These linen bandages were lying at the edge of the grave, their ends hanging down. The women began to weep, thinking someone had taken the corpse away; but presently they saw a white-robed boy standing by, and heard him say: "He whom you seek is not here. He lives, and goes with you to Galilee."

As if in some wild dream, the women staggered back from the grave. There was a man in the garden whom at first they took to be the gardener. They wanted to question him; He came towards them. With youthful, beautiful, shining countenance, immaculate, without wounds except the nail-marks on the hands. He stood before them. They were terror-stricken. They heard Him say: "Peace be with you! It is I." As the sun was so bright the women held their hands a moment before their eyes, and when they looked up again He was no longer to be seen.

The Nazarene's grave was empty! Everybody made a pilgrimage from the town to see. The people's mood had entirely changed since the crucifixion. Not another contemptuous word was heard, some even secretly beat their breasts. The High Priests met together, and inquired of the guards what had occurred. They could tell nothing.

"At least confess that you fell asleep and that His disciples stole Him."

"Honoured sirs," answered one of the guards, "for two reasons we cannot admit we fell asleep; first, because it isn't true, and secondly, because we should be punished."

Upon which one of the Temple authorities observed: "But in spite of that, you can very well say so. For you have certainly fallen asleep more than once in your lives. And as for the punishment, we'll make it right with the Governor. Nothing shall happen to you."

The brave Romans thought it best to avoid a dispute with the authorities, and to say what the latter preferred to hear. So the tale went that the guards had fallen asleep, and meanwhile the body had been removed by the disciples in order to be able to say, "He is risen." This was circulated on all hands, and no one thought any more of the resurrection of the Nazarene.

The disciples themselves could not believe it. Some of them declared that Pilate and his spies best knew what had become of the corpse. Others, on the contrary, were stirred by an unparalleled exaltation of spirit, by some divine energy which filled their minds with appallingly clear visions of the latter days.

It happened about this time that two of the disciples walked out towards Emmaus. They were sad, and spoke of the incomprehensible misfortune that had befallen them. A stranger joined them, and asked why they were so melancholy.

"We belong to His followers," they replied.

When He said nothing, as if He had not understood, they asked whether He was quite a stranger in Jerusalem, and did not know what had happened these last days?

"What has occurred?" He asked.

Surely He must have heard of Jesus, the Prophet who had done such great deeds, and preached a new and wonderful Word of God: Of the Heavenly Father full of love, of the Kingdom of Heaven in one's own heart, and of eternal life. It was as if God Himself had assumed human shape in the person of this Prophet in order to set them an example of perfect life. And that Divine Man had just been executed in Jerusalem. Since that event they had felt utterly forsaken. That was why they were sad. He had, indeed, promised that He would rise after death as a pledge for His tidings of the resurrection of man and eternal life. But the three days were now up. A story was going about that two women had seen Him that morning with the wounds made by the nails. But until they could themselves lay their hands on those wounds, they would not believe it; no. He must needs be like the rest of the dead.

Then the stranger said: "If the Risen Man does not appear to you as He appeared to the women, it is because your faith is too weak. If you do not believe in Him, you surely know from the prophecies how God's messenger must suffer and die, because only through that gate can eternal glory be reached."

With such conversation they reached Emmaus, where the two disciples were to visit a friend. The stranger, they imagined, was going farther, but they liked Him, and so invited Him to go to the house with them: "Sir, stay with us; the day draws in, it will soon be evening."

So He went with them. When they sat at supper, and the stranger took some bread, one whispered to the other: "Look how He breaks the bread! It is not our Jesus?"

But when in joy unspeakable they went to embrace Him, they saw that they were alone.

This is what the two disciples related, and no one was more glad to believe it than Schobal, the dealer; he now asked three hundred gold pieces for the coat of the man who had risen from the dead.

Thomas was less sure of the Resurrection. "Why should He rise?" asked the disciple. "Did He come to earth for the sake of this bodily life? Did He not rest everything on the spiritual life? The true Jesus Christ was to be with us in the spirit."

The disciples who had accompanied the Master from Galilee went back to their own land filled with that belief. Things had somewhat changed there. The condemnation of the Nazarene without any proof of guilt had vastly angered the Galileans. His glorious death had terrified them. No, this countryman of theirs was no ordinary man! They would now make up to His disciples for their ill-conduct towards Him. So His adherents were well received in Galilee, and resumed the occupations that they had abandoned two years before. John had brought His mother home, and gone with her to the quiet house at Nazareth. The others tried to accustom themselves to the work-a-day world, but they could do nothing but think of the Master, and wherever two or three of them were gathered together He was with them in spirit. One day they were together in a cottage by the lake. They spoke of His being the Son of God, and some who had looked into the Scriptures brought forward proofs: the prophecies which had come to pass in Him, the psalms He had fulfilled, the miracles He had worked, and the fact that many had seen Him after His death.

Suddenly Thomas said: "I don't much hold with all that. Other things have been prophesied; the Prophets, too, worked miracles, and rose after death. What good is it to me if He is not with us in the flesh?"

They were much alarmed. They shook with terror. Not on account of the Master, but of their brother. But Thomas continued: "Why don't you name the greatest sign, the true sign of His divinity? Why don't you speak of His Word about divine sonship, about loving your enemy, about redemption? Listen to what I am saying: it is what we have all experienced, and still experience every hour. He freed us from worldly desires. He taught us love and joy. He assured us of eternal life with the Heavenly Father. He did that through His Word. He died for that Word and will live in that Word. To me, my brothers, that Divine Word is proof of His being the Son of God. I need no other."

"Children!" said John. He was indeed the youngest of them, but he said, "Children! Do not talk in such a way. Faith is the knowledge of the heart. Are we not happy in our hearts that we found the Father so near us, so true to us, so eternally on our side, that nothing evil can befall us in the future? These bodies of ours will perish, but He is the resurrection, and he who believes in Him never dies. He loved the children of men so dearly that He gave them His own Son, so that every one who believes in Him may live for ever. Therefore we are happy, because we are in God, and God is in us."

Thus His favourite disciple spoke in wondrous enthusiasm. They then began to understand, and to apprehend the immeasurable significance of Him who had lived in human form among them.

Wherever they went, whatever they did. His word sounded in their ears. The promise that He would follow them to Galilee was fulfilled. His spirit was with them, they were quite sure of that. But that spirit would not let them rest content with work-a-day life; it was like yeast fermenting in their being, it was like a spark kindled into a bright flame, and the fiery tongues announced the glad tidings. They must go forth. None dared be the first to say so, but all at once they all declared: "We must go forth into the wide world." With no great preparation, with cloak and staff as they had travelled with Him, they went forth. First to Jerusalem, to stand once more by His grave, and then forth in every direction to preach Jesus, the Son of God. . . .

This brings me to the close of my vision. I will only tell further of one meeting which was so remarkable and fraught with such vast results. One day when the disciples during their journey to Jerusalem were resting under the almond trees, they saw a troop of horsemen in the valley. They were native soldiers with a captain. He seemed to have noticed the disciples, for he put spurs to his horse. The disciples were a little terrified, and Thaddeus, who had good eyes, said: "God be merciful to us, that's the cruel weaver!"

"We will calmly wait for him," said the brethren, and they remained standing. When the rider was quite close to them, he dismounted quickly and asked: "Do you belong to Jesus of Nazareth?"

"We are His disciples," they answered frankly.

Then he kneeled before Peter, the eldest, spread his arms, and exclaimed: "Receive me, receive me; I would become worthy to be His disciple."

"But if I do not mistake, you are Saul who laid snares for Him?" said Peter.

"Laid snares, persecuted Him and His," said the horseman, and his words broke swiftly from his lips: "Two days ago I rode out against those who said He had risen. Yet I was always thinking of this man who saw so strangely into men's minds. I thought of Him day and night, and of much that He had said. And as I was riding across the plain in the twilight, a light enveloped me, my horse stumbled, a white figure stood in front of me, and in the hand lifted towards Heaven was the mark of a wound. 'Who are you, to bar my way?' I exclaimed. And He answered, 'I am He whom you persecute!' It was your Master risen from the dead. 'Why persecute me, Saul? What have I done to you?' Your Jesus, the Christ, stood living before me! Yes, men of Galilee, now I believe that He is risen. And as, hitherto, I assailed His word, I will now help to spread it abroad. Brothers, receive me!"

That is my picture of how Saul was converted into an apostle. He sent his horse back to the valley, and went himself gladly and humbly along with the Galileans to Jerusalem.

When, after some days, they reached the Mount of Olives, whence they had first looked on the metropolis, there, standing on the rocks, was Jesus. There He stood, just as He had always been, and the disciples felt exactly as they had in the times past when He was always with them. They stood round Him in a circle, and He looked at them lovingly. And suddenly they heard Him ask in a low voice: "Do you love Me?"

"Lord," they answered, "we love You."

He asked again: "Do you love Me?"

They said: "Lord, You know that we love You."

Then He asked for a third time; "Do you love Me?"

And they exclaimed all together: "We cannot tell in words, O Lord, how we love You!"

"Then go forth. Go to the poor, and comfort them; to the sinners, and raise them up. Go to all nations, and teach them all that I have told you. Those who believe in Me will be blessed. I am the way, the truth, and the life. I go now to My Father. My spirit and My strength I leave to you: light to the eyes, the word to the tongue, love to the heart. And mercy to sinners——"

Thus they heard Him speak, and lo!—there was no one there except the disciples. Two footmarks were impressed on the stone. The heavens above were still; they bowed their heads, then watched how He ascended to the clouds, how He hovered in the light, how He went to the Father, to whom also we shall go through our Saviour, Jesus Christ.



CHAPTER XXXIX

My Father and my God! I thank Thee that Thou hast permitted me to behold the Life, the Passion, and the Resurrection of Thy Son, and to steep myself in His words and promises during this terrible time. In the torture of suspense, which is more dreadful than death, I have won courage from the great events of His life, and received consolation from the appearance of my Redeemer upon earth. My hope has been strengthened by the saints of old who repented. For the sake of the crucified Saviour, O Lord, put mercy into my King's heart. If it is God's will that I die, then let me die like Dismas. Only pardon me. In the name of Jesus, I implore Thee, O Father, for mercy! Have mercy on me, a sinner. Amen.



CONCLUSION

Such is the story. It was written by a common workman awaiting sentence of death in a prison cell. The last prayer was written exactly six weeks after his condemnation.

Conrad began to feel a little frightened. He had been so absorbed in his Saviour's story that he felt himself to be almost part of it. He had written it all day, and dreamed of it all night. He had been in the stable at Bethlehem, he had wandered by the Lake of Gennesaret, and spent nights in the wilderness of Judaea. He had journeyed to Sidon, and across the mountains to Jerusalem. He, a prisoner in jail and sentenced to death, had stood on the Mount of Olives, he had been in Bethany and supped at Jesus' side. But now he felt almost indifferent to the thought. Had he not lived through that glorious death at Golgotha? All else sank into insignificance beside that. It almost seemed to him as if he had passed beyond the veil. The Risen One possessed all his soul. He could not get away from all these holy memories. Then suddenly came the thought: when death comes I must be brave. He remembered a story his mother had once told him of a Roman executioner who, on receiving orders to behead a young Christian, had been so overcome with pity that he had fainted. The youth had revived him, and comforted him as bravely as if it had been his duty to die, as it was the executioner's to kill. But then Conrad told himself: you are a guilty creature, and cannot compare yourself with a saint. Would you be brave enough to act like that? Would you? It is sweet to die with Jesus, but it is still sweeter to live with Him.

The jailer asked him if he would care to go out once more into the open air.

Out into the air? Out into the prison yard, where all the refuse was thrown? No. He thanked him; he would prefer to remain in his cell. It could not be for long now.

"No; it will not be for long now," said the old man. But he did not tell him that in the meantime the Chancellor had died of his wounds, although from the "old grumbler's" increased tenderness Conrad might have suspected that his case did not stand in a favourable light.

"If you are truly brave," the old man told him, "the next time you go out you shall walk under green trees."

"But now? Not now?" Conrad thought of a reprieve, and grew excited. A red flush stained his cheeks.

"No; I did not mean that. You know the King is far away. But it may come any time. I am waiting for it anxiously. You know, Ferleitner, after this I shall resign my post."

At that moment the priest came in. He always entered the dark cell with a cheerful face and a glad "God be with you!" It was his office to bring comfort, if only he had known how. As a rule the monk came in, wiping the perspiration from his brow with a coarse blue handkerchief, and loudly assuring the prisoner how pleasantly cool it was in his cell. But this time he was nervous and ill at ease. How did the prisoner look? Emaciated to a skeleton, his teeth prominent between fleshless lips, his eyes wide open, a wondrous fire burning in their depths.

"As you will never send for me, my dear Ferleitner, I have come again unasked to see how you fare. You are not ill?"

"Has the sentence come?" asked the prisoner.

"Not that I know of," answered the monk; "but I see I am disturbing you at your work."

Conrad had neglected to put away the sheets he had written, and so had to confess that he had been writing.

"Isn't it too dark to see to write here?"

"You get accustomed to it. At first it was dark, but now it seems to get lighter and lighter."

"So you've made your will at last?" asked the father, raising his eyebrows. He meant to be humorous.

"A sort of one!"

"Let's see, then. You have something to leave?"

"I have not. Another has."

The father turned over the sheets, read a line here and there, shook his shaven head a little, and said "It seems to resemble the New Testament. Have you been copying it from the Gospel?"

"No, I haven't got a New Testament. That's why I had to write this for myself."

"This Gospel! You've written one for yourself out of your own head?"

"Not exactly. Well, perhaps now and then I have. I've written what I could remember. I will be responsible for the errors."

"My curiosity grows," cried the father. "May I read it?"

"It's not worth your trouble, but I knew of nothing else to help me."

"The work has exhausted you, Ferleitner."

"No; on the contrary, I may almost say it has revived me. I'm sorry it is finished. I thought of nothing else; I forgot everything."

His enthusiasm has consumed him, thought the monk.

"Ferleitner, will you let me take it away with me for a few days?"

Conrad shyly gave permission. The monk gathered the sheets together, and thrust them carelessly into his pouch, so that the roll stuck out at the top. When he had gone, Conrad gazed sadly into emptiness and longed for his manuscript. How happy he had been with it all those weeks! What would the priest think of it? Everything would be wrong. Such people see their God with other eyes than ours. And if he criticised it, all the pleasure would go out of it.

But Conrad did not have to do without it long. The father brought it back the next morning. He had begun to read it the evening before, and had sat up all night to finish it. But he would not give his opinion, and Conrad did not ask for it. Almost helplessly, they sat at the rough table, while the monk tried to think how he could express his thoughts. After a while, he took up the manuscript, laid it down again, and said that of course, from the ecclesiastical point of view, there would naturally be some objections.

"The details of the history are not altogether correct. I know, Ferleitner, that you asked me for a copy of the New Testament. If I had known that you had gone so far, I would willingly have given you one. But perhaps it is better so. Though I must tell you, Conrad Ferleitner, that nothing has given me so much pleasure for a long while as these meditations and—I may also say—fancies of yours. As for the faults, let those who take a pleasure in finding them, look for them. The living faith is the one important thing, the living faith and the living Jesus, and that is here! My son," he added, laying his hand on the prisoner's head, "I feel your piety of soul is so profound, that I will administer the sacrament to you. Yes, Conrad, you are saved. Only, pray fervently."

Conrad covered his face with his hands, and wept quietly. The priest's words made him so happy.

"I even think," continued the father, after a pause, "that others who are seeking for the simple word of God, and cannot find it, might read your book. There must be many such people in hospitals, poor-houses, and prisons, and especially those who are in your situation. Would you have any objection?"

"My God, why should I?" replied Conrad. "If this work of mine could be the help to other poor wretches that it has been to me! But I do not know—it was not meant for that. I wrote it only for myself."

"Naturally, one or two things must be altered," said the father. "We would go through it again together."

"But, holy father," asked the prisoner wistfully, "that is—if you think there will be time?"

"Above all, we must try and find a suitable title. Have you not thought that your child must have a name?"

"I wrote the letters I.N.R.I. at the top."

"It is rather out of the common. People won't know what to make of it. We must at least have a sub-title."

"The title's a matter of absolute indifference to me," said Conrad: "perhaps you can find one."

"I will think it over. May I take the manuscript away again? I must try and become literary in my old age. If a carpenter lad can write a whole book, surely a Franciscan monk can find a title! Have you anything on your mind, my son? No? Then God be with you. I will come again soon." At the door he turned: "Tell me, my son, does the jailer give you food enough?"

"Yes, more than I need."

* * * * * *

Outside it was hot summer-time. Conrad knew nothing of it, he had not thought of it. The jailer came with the permission that, as an exception, he would be allowed to walk for half an hour in the garden. Conrad felt quite indifferent. As the warder led him along the vaulted passage, he staggered slightly; he had almost forgotten how to walk. He steadied himself on his companion's arm and said:

"I feel so strange."

"Hold on to me; nothing will happen to you."

"Are we going right out into the open?"

"From now, you will go for a short walk in the garden every day."

"I do not know if I care to," said Conrad, hesitating. "I am afraid—of the sun."

They were out under the open sky, in the wide, dazzling green light. Conrad stood still for a moment and covered his eyes with his hand, then he looked up, and covered them again, and began to tremble. The warder remained silent, and supported him as he tottered along under the shade of the horse-chestnuts. On either side stretched green banks glowing with flowers and roses, their bright colours quivering like flame blown by the wind. Above was the blue sky with the great burning sun. And all around he heard the songs of the birds. Oh, life! life! He had almost forgotten what it meant—to live! He groaned aloud, it might have been either from sorrow or joy. Then he sat down on a bench and paused, exhausted. He gazed out into the illimitable light. Tears trickled slowly down his hollow cheeks.

After a time the warder started to go on. Conrad raised himself unsteadily, and they moved slowly forward. They came to a white marble bust standing on a stone pillar surrounded with flowers.

Conrad stood still, shaded his eyes with his hand, looked at the statue, and asked: "Who is that?"

"That is the king," answered the warder. Conrad gazed at it thoughtfully. And then he said softly and much moved: "How kindly he looks at me!"

"Yes, he is a kind master."

Then joy slowly entered the heart of the poor sinner. The world is beautiful. People are good. Life is everlasting. And the Heavenly Father reigns over all. . . .

The warder looked at his watch. "It is time to return."

Conrad was taken back to his cell. He stumbled over the threshold and knocked up against the table, it was so dark. But his heart rejoiced. The world Was beautiful. People were good. . . .

Then, gradually, fear stole back upon him. He was tired and lay down for a little on the straw. The key grated in the lock. Conrad started to his feet in terror. What was coming? What was coming?

The father entered quickly and cheerfully. Swinging the manuscript in his hand, he cried: "Glad tidings! Glad tidings!"

Conrad's hands fluttered to his breast. "Glad tidings? It had come? Life—to live again?" So he cried aloud. He stood for a moment motionless, then he sat down on the wooden bench.

"Yes, my son," the monk continued. "We will call the book, 'Glad Tidings,' I.N.R.I. Glad tidings of a poor sinner. That will suit the Gospel; that sounds well, does it not?" He stopped and started: "Ferleitner, what is the matter?"

Conrad had fallen against the wall, his head sunk on his breast. The breath rattled in his throat. The father reached quickly for the water-pitcher to revive him. He reproached him good-naturedly for losing heart so quickly, and bathed his forehead tenderly. Then he noticed the stillness of the breast and the eyes—how glazed they were! He shouted for help. The jailer appeared. He looked, paused a moment, and then said, softly: "It is well."

There was silence. Suddenly the old man cried out: "It is well. Thou art merciful, Holy God!"

Later, the Franciscan passed through the long passages thanking God sadly for the blessed miracle of the misunderstanding. At the gate he met the governor. Heavily, supporting each step by his stick, he came along. When he saw the monk he went up to him: "My dear father," he said hoarsely. "I am sorry; you will have a heavy night of it. Ferleitner, the criminal, will need a priest. To-morrow morning at six o'clock all will be over."

A short silence. Then the father answered: "Your Excellency, the criminal, Ferleitner, needs neither priest nor judge. He has been pardoned."

THE END