What an abject heart has Judas!  He lays his hand upon it, but it cries out:  “Hosanna,” so loud that all may hear.  He presses it to the ground, but it cries, “Hosanna, Hosanna!” like a babbler who scatters holy mysteries broadcast through the street.

“Be still!  Be still!”

Suddenly a loud broken lamentation, dull cries, the last hurried movements towards the cross.  What is it?  Have they understood at last?

No, Jesus is dying.  But can this be?  Yes, Jesus is dying.  His pale hands are motionless, but short convulsions run over His face, and breast, and legs.  But can this be?  Yes, He is dying.  His breathing becomes less frequent.  It ceases.  No, there is yet one sigh, Jesus is still upon the earth.  But is there another?  No, no, no.  Jesus is dead.

It is finished.  Hosanna!  Hosanna!

His horror and his dreams are realised.  Who will now snatch the victory from the hands of Iscariot?

It is finished.  Let all people on earth stream to Golgotha, and shout with their million throats, “Hosanna!  Hosanna!” And let a sea of blood and tears be poured out at its foot, and they will find only the shameful cross and a dead Jesus!

Calmly and coldly Iscariot surveys the dead, letting his gaze rest for a moment on that neck, which he had kissed only yesterday with a farewell kiss; and slowly goes away.  Now all Time belongs to him, and he walks without hurry; now all the World belongs to him, and he steps firmly, like a ruler, like a king, like one who is infinitely and joyfully alone in the world.  He observes the mother of Jesus, and says to her sternly: 

“Thou weepest, mother?  Weep, weep, and long will all the mothers upon earth weep with thee:  until I come with Jesus and destroy death.”

What does he mean?  Is he mad, or is he mocking—­this Traitor?  He is serious, and his face is stern, and his eyes no longer dart about in mad haste.  Lo! he stands still, and with cold attention views a new, diminished earth.

It has become small, and he feels the whole of it under his feet.  He looks at the little mountains, quietly reddening under the last rays of the sun, and he feels the mountains under his feet.

He looks at the sky opening wide its azure mouth; he looks at the small round disc of the sun, which vainly strives to singe and dazzle, and he feels the sky and the sun under his feet.  Infinitely and joyfully alone, he proudly feels the impotence of all forces which operate in the world, and has cast them all into the abyss.

He walks farther on, with quiet, masterful steps.  And Time goes neither forward nor back:  obediently it marches in step with him in all its invisible immensity.

It is the end.

CHAPTER IX