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 have met among the more kingly of these Jews. You know how mean and churlish are they with a Roman. This man seemed to recognize me.

"Centurion," he said, "you saw him die. What think you? Will he live again?"

"As all men live," I answered, "beyond the horizon; not here and not now."

And then the young man drew close to me; so close that I caught the smell of the tarred sheepskin fisher's coat with which he fought the chill of the midnight air.

"Centurion," he said, "I have seen this Jesus whom you slew"—I started at the word—"by order of Pilate, at the instance of the Jews, touch the hand of a girl that was cold in death and she arose and asked for food. I have seen him touch the bier of a man being borne to the grave and call upon him to rise and the man stood up and questioned whither they were taking him. Nay, more; I have stood before a rock-hewn tomb over the brow of this hill, scarce a dozen furlongs, and heard his voice wake one who for four days had slumbered in the cloying embrace of death, and the dead, swathed round about with grave-clothes, strode forth instinct with quivering life. How say you then that he shall only live as all men live again, amid the unsubstanced shades of the under world?"

The young man cherished a great hope. I approached nearer to him. I felt a sympathy for this dark-eyed youth. Somehow, he was like mine own son, that pretty boy Lucillus, whom thou dost so well remember, whose voice was like the chords of a deep-toned lyre and whose face was like a vision of mankind in its morning. My heart was touched with sympathy for the youth and for the