Then once
more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished, the bishop stood
up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the mighty
throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him. Strangely
enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech served to while
away the weary time of waiting.
"Men and brethren," he began, in his thin, piercing notes, "princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumaea, of
Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an old
man destined and glad to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the
story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate, since
to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt."
"Be silent!" cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, "and cease
preaching your accursed faith!"
"Let him alone," answered other voices. "We will hear this story of his.
We say--let him alone."
Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and yet
so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes none
cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away listener cried:
"Why must these people die who are better than we?"
"Friend," answered the bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy
silence seemed to search out even the recesses of the great and crowded
place, "we must die because it is the will of King Agrippa, to whom
God has given power to destroy us.
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