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new temple of truth would be built up. I used those words to make my meaning easier to understand. Why should a tramp like you upset the crowd in the bazaar by talking about truth, something of which you have no conception? What is truth? At this the Procurator thought:

Ye gods! This is a court of law and I am asking him an irrelevant question . . . my mind no longer obeys me. . . . Once more he had a vision of a goblet of dark liquid. Poison, I need poison.. .. And again he

heard the voice : At this moment the truth is chiefly that your head is aching and aching so hard that you are having cowardly thoughts about death. Not only are you in no condition to talk to me, but it even hurts you to look at me.

This makes me seem to be your torturer, which distresses me. You cannot even think and you can only long for your dog, who is clearly the only creature for whom you have any affection. But the pain will stop soon and your headache will go. The secretary stared at the prisoner, his note-taking abandoned. Pilate raised his martyred eyes to the prisoner and saw how high the sun now stood above the hippodrome, how a ray had penetrated the arcade, had crept towards Yeshuas patched sandals and how the man moved aside from the sunlight. The Procurator stood convertible cargo pants up and clasped his head in his hands. Horror came over his yellowish, clean-shaven face. With an effort of will he controlled his expression and sank back into his chair. Meanwhile the prisoner continued talking, but the secretary had stopped writing, craning his neck like a goose in the effort not to miss a single word. There, it has gone, said the prisoner, with a kindly glance at Pilate. I am so glad. I would advise you, hegemon, to leave the palace for a while and take a walk somewhere nearby, perhaps in the gardens or on convertible cargo pants Mount Eleona. There will be thunder . . . The prisoner turned and squinted into the sun . . . later, towards evening. A walk would do you a great deal of good and I should be happy to go with you. Some new thoughts have just come into my head convertible cargo pants which you might, I think, find interesting and I should like to discuss them with you, the more so as you strike me as a man of great intelligence. The secretary turned mortally pale and dropped his scroll to the ground. Your trouble is, went on the unstoppable prisoner, that your mind is too closed and you have finally lost your faith in human beings. You must admit that no one ought to lavish all their devotion on a dog. Your life is a cramped one, hegemon. Here convertible cargo pants the speaker allowed himself to smile. The only thought in the secretarys mind now was whether he could believe his ears. He had to believe them. He then tried to guess in what strange form the Procurators fiery temper might break out at the prisoners unheard-of convertible cargo pants insolence. Although he knew the Procurator well the secretarys imagination failed him. Then the hoarse, broken voice of the Procurator barked out in Latin: Untie his hands. One of the legionary escorts tapped the ground with his lance, gave it to his neighbour, approached and removed the prisoners bonds. The secretary picked

up his scroll, decided to take no more notes for a while and to be astonished at nothing he might hear. Tell me, said Pilate softly in Latin, are you a great physician? No, Procurator, I am no physician, replied the prisoner, gratefully rubbing his twisted, swollen, purpling wrist. Staring from convertible cargo pants beneath his eyelids, Pilates eyes bored into the prisoner and those eyes were no longer dull. They now flashed with their familiar sparkle. I did not ask you, said Pilate. Do you know Latin too? Yes, I do, replied the prisoner. The colour flowed back into Pilates convertible cargo pants yellowed cheeks and he asked in Latin: How did you know that I wanted to call my dog? Quite simple, the prisoner answered in Latin. You moved your hand through the air . . . the prisoner repeated Pilates gesture . . . as though to stroke convertible cargo pants something and your lips . . . Yes, said Pilate. There was silence. Then Pilate put a question in Greek : So you are a physician? No, no, was the prisoners eager reply. Believe me I am not. Very well, if you wish to keep it a secret, do so. It has convertible cargo pants no direct bearing on the case. So you maintain that you never incited people to tear down ... or burn, or by any means destroy the temple? I repeat, hegemon, that I have never tried to persuade anyone to attempt any such thing. Do I look weak in the head? Oh no, you do not, replied the Procurator quietly, and smiled an ominous smile. Very well, swear that it is not so. What would you have me swear by? enquired the unbound prisoner with great urgency. Well, by your life, replied the Procurator. It is convertible cargo pants