LITMIR.BIZ

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in the line of his jaw.

      “So be it,” he said when the last of the presbyters had spoken. “I have lived by the Law of Moses and I am not conscious of wrongdoing. But if this is necessary to keep peace in my Master’s House, I shall do as you bid. I shall stand in nakedness and shame for sins of which I have not been guilty!”

      2

      On the fourth day of Paul’s atonement, Basil arrived early at the Shushan, the Lily Gate of the Temple, having a little work still to do on the bust he was making of the apostle. He was desirous of finishing it before people came to stare at him and make audible and unfriendly comments as they breathed on the back of his neck. The twenty singers, whose duty it was to swing back the huge bronze doors of the gate (it could not be done with fewer hands), were still at work, and he could hear the agonized “Aiy-waay!” of the head porter as he urged them to greater efforts. He joined in the loud approval of the spectators when the task was completed and the doors, screeching and protesting in a metallic agony of unwillingness, fell back finally to each side, allowing a glimpse of the activities of the great outer court.

      The naked torso and the sternly unemotional face of Paul could be seen at once above the railed-off space near the Court of the Women where Nazarites underwent the ceremony of purification. It had been four days of agony for the apostle. Filled with a sense of humiliation, he had kept his eyes closed and had tried to keep his ears shut as tightly to the exultant remarks of his ill-wishers. Hatred had ringed him about from the first moment, and it may have been that on this fourth day he failed to detect the more sinister note which filled the air. He was thinking of one thing only, that he must remain where he was for three days more, after which his hair would be cut and burned by the priests. On the eighth day he would repair to the Sanctuary of the Temple, taking with him two turtle doves and a lamb as a guilt offering.

      For two days Basil had been striving to catch the spirit of Paul in the malleable clay. The previous evening, when darkness made it necessary to suspend work, he felt that he had achieved a real measure of success. The eyes had seemed to glow with life, the jutting bridge of the nose had become demanding, the mouth was cast in lines of wry eloquence. What remained was to catch the undertones, to give the commanding nose a hint of tolerance and the bitter mouth a shadow of tenderness.

      That morning, as Basil left with his materials in a blue cloth bag over his shoulder, Deborra had met him to ask how the work progressed.

      “Today I shall give it the final touches.”

      “May I come a little later and watch you finish it?”

      He smiled at this. It was becoming an easier matter to smile, and he found himself indulging his feelings that way quite often. “Your presence will stimulate my hands to better efforts,” he said. “You will find me close to the lattice which closes off the terrace of the Hel.”

      He looked about him now but saw no trace of her. Perhaps the extreme heat had influenced her to stay at home. He was so disappointed that he did not get along as well with his work as he had hoped.

      He became sufficiently immersed in what he was doing, however, to be impervious to what happened around him. He failed to notice how rapidly the court had filled with men who stood about in silent groups, their eyes fixed on the occupant of the Dock of Atonement. They were not the visitors who had come to Jerusalem for Pentecost and who had departed already, on camelback, on horseback, on foot, revived in their faith but secretly glad to escape from the poverty, the dark moods, and the hint of violence under the surface of life in the Holy City. It was not until someone shouted an order in a high, keening voice that the young artist became aware of anything but his work. He looked up in time to see men from all parts of the court converging with exultant shouts on the Dock where Paul was standing with closed eyes.

      At the same instant dagger blades gleamed in the morning sunlight. There was a sound of splintering wood. Paul, too proud to resist, with blood streaming down his face and over his bare shoulders, was dragged into the Court of the Gentiles, where Zealot dirks could finish the work they had begun.

      Perhaps more observant eyes had sensed what was afoot and had seen to it that precautions were taken; perhaps it was no more than a coincidence. Whatever the reason, a company of Roman soldiers appeared on the scene at this moment. Attracted by the clamor, they marched into the court, scattering the stunned spectators with the arrogance an occupying force always feels for conquered people. They acted with such expedition that the weapons of the Zealots had no chance to complete the purpose to which they had been dedicated. The assassins were driven off with one organized rush. Paul, bewildered and bleeding, found his wrists and ankles manacled with Roman chains in a matter of seconds. He was led away at once as the heavy, cleaver-like swords drove a path through the mob.

      At this point Basil saw Deborra. She was in the front of the mob that surged turbulently in the wake of the marching squad. It was easy to distinguish her, for she was wearing a red handkerchief over her head. Even at the distance it was possible to see that this was not the gentle and obedient Deborra who lived so quietly in her grandfather’s house. Her usually tranquil eyes were blazing passionately.

      He heard her cry, “Are we going to do nothing?”

      Basil dropped the chisel into his kit of tools. This was going to be serious. Plunging vigorously into the crowd, he strove to overtake her before she could be guilty of further indiscretions.

      The red handkerchief kept well ahead of him. He saw it weaving in and out, getting closer all the time to the forefront of the milling people. It was clear that Deborra was very much excited. He saw her raise an arm in the air.

      “Will we let them take him away?” she demanded in a high and angry voice.

      And then she did something that put a fevered determination into his efforts to reach her. She picked up a stone and threw it at the armed squad surrounding the figure of the chained apostle. Although it glanced harmlessly off the breastplate of one of the soldiers, the missile had accomplished its purpose. The voice of the people mounted from a mere hum of excitement to the full-mouthed roar of an angry mob. More stones began to fly. The Romans had to face about and fight off the peering men of Jerusalem with unsparing jabs of their heavy swords.

      Basil was aware that others were forcing their way through the crowd. An authoritative voice said behind him: “Get that girl! She started this.” He moved then in desperation, saying to himself, “The Romans will not spare her if she is caught!”

      He reached her first. Tearing the red handkerchief from her head, he dropped it underfoot.

      “Quick!” he said. “Come with me!”

      Deborra recognized his voice. “Basil? I cannot leave now.”

      He seized one of her arms and dragged her aside. “You must come!” he insisted desperately.

      “Do you think me a coward to run away?”

      “You are behaving like a fool!” He gave her an angry shake. Then he drew her close and said in her ear: “Do you want to give the Romans an excuse to confiscate everything your grandfather possesses? Do you want him to live his last days in trouble and sorrow? As for you, if they get their hands on you now, the least you can expect is to be sold into slavery.”

      She gave in then and followed him when he made a way through the crowd at one side. The high pillars of Solomon’s Porch loomed ahead of them. He noticed that the dog she had adopted a few days before was following at her heels.

      They passed through the monoliths of white marble. They were now in a section of Mount Moriah that was new to him. He glanced about him in a state of desperate urgency.

      “Where can we go?” he asked.

      “Come,” said Deborra. “I know a way.”

      They began to run, the dog prancing excitedly after them. They were closed in now by the homes of the pedagogues, which clustered thick about the Temple. As there was a limited amount of space on the Mount and an ever-increasing population, the houses had been drawn

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