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 answered. "He set me free and then he made me quit of every grief till his death at the hands of wicked, shameful men came, striking a dirge of sorrow from every chord of this sad heart of mine." "Why do you weep here?" I asked. "Because the soldiers hinder me," she said. "To-morrow that foolish word of the priests that he will rise again will be made false. The guard will be removed and we may complete the preparation of his dear body for its last rest."

The woman talked like a poet, but she sorrowed like a woman and I had respect enough for her grief to leave her and go on my way to the brow of the hill where for hours I walked amid the stars and reflected. My mind went back over all the past. I remembered how when a boy, I floated my puny ships upon the sea at Puteoli while I cast the enlarging eye of wonder upon the sails that came over the horizon. As I saw them come, my childish soul questioned what lay beyond. I have travelled far since then. Gaul and Britain and the forests of the Danube have been familiar ground to me. My heels have brushed the dew from the grasses in the far North beyond the great Scythian Sea. They have stirred the dust of the great African desert and once you and I waded knee-deep into the yellow tide of the Euphrates. Yes, I have travelled far and yet, wide-eyed, with childish wonder in my mind, I still marvel that the curve of the horizon balks me. What is behind it? Ah, that is the question.

I saw the Jew die two yesterdays agone. Did he die or did only the soul of him sink behind the horizon, as in my boyhood days I saw the proud galley sink behind the curve at sunset into other seas than mine own eyes looked upon. I have tried to frame my thoughts at times in the