Judas laughed, and lifting up the heavy rattling money-box with ease, went on: 

“When a strong wind blows it raises the dust, and foolish people look at the dust and say:  ‘Look at the wind!’ But it is only dust, my good Thomas, ass’s dung trodden underfoot.  The dust meets a wall and lies down gently at its foot, but the wind flies farther and farther, my good Thomas.”

Judas obligingly pointed over the wall in illustration of his meaning, and laughed again.

“I am glad that you are merry,” said Thomas, “but it is a great pity that there is so much malice in your merriment.”

“Why should not a man be cheerful, who has been kissed so much, and who is so useful?  If I had not stolen the three denarii would John have known the meaning of delight?  Is it not pleasant to be a hook, on which John may hang his damp virtue out to dry, and Thomas his moth-eaten mind?”

“I think that I had better be going.”

“But I am only joking, my good Thomas.  I merely wanted to know whether you really wished to kiss the old obnoxious Judas—­the thief who stole the three denarii and gave them to a harlot.”

“To a harlot!” exclaimed Thomas in surprise.  “And did you tell the Master of it?”

“Again you doubt, Thomas.  Yes, to a harlot.  But if you only knew, Thomas, what an unfortunate woman she was.  For two days she had had nothing to eat.”

“Are you sure of that?” said Thomas in confusion.

“Yes!  Of course I am.  I myself spent two days with her, and saw that she ate and drank nothing except red wine.  She tottered from exhaustion, and I was always falling down with her.”

Thereupon Thomas got up quickly, and, when he had gone a few steps away, he flung out at Judas: 

“You seem to be possessed of Satan, Judas.”

And as he went away, he heard in the approaching twilight how dolefully the heavy money-box rattled in Judas’ hands.  And Judas seemed to laugh.

But the very next day Thomas was obliged to acknowledge that he had misjudged Judas, so simple, so gentle, and at the same time so serious was Iscariot.  He neither grimaced nor made ill-natured jokes; he was neither obsequious nor scurrilous, but quietly and unobtrusively went about his work of catering.  He was as active as formerly, as though he did not have two feet like other people, but a whole dozen of them, and ran noiselessly without that squeaking, sobbing, and laughter of a hyena, with which he formerly accompanied his actions.  And when Jesus began to speak, he would seat himself quickly in a corner, fold his hands and feet, and look so kindly with his great eyes, that many observed it.  He ceased speaking evil of people, but rather remained silent, so that even the severe Matthew deemed it possible to praise him, saying in the words of Solomon: 

“’He that is devoid of wisdom despiseth his neighbour:  but a man of understanding holdeth his peace.’”