PROCULA. Crucified? PILATE. Put to death. My wife, I tried To save him, but such men cannot be saved. Truth to himself till death was all he craved. He has his will. PROCULA. So what they said is true. O God, my God. But when I spoke to you You said that you had warned him. PILATE. That is so. Another charge was brought some hours ago, That he was claiming to be that great King Foretold by prophets, who shall free the Jews. This he persisted in. I could not choose But end a zealot claiming such a thing. PROCULA. He was no zealot. PILATE. Yes, on this one point. Had he recanted, well. But he was firm. So he was cast. PROCULA. The gouts of gore anoint That temple to the service of the worm. It is a desecration of our power. A rude poor man who pitted his pure sense Against what holds the world its little hour, Blind force and fraud, priests' mummery and pretence, Could you not see that this is what he did? PILATE. Most clearly, wife. But Roman laws forbid That I should weigh, like God, the worth of souls. I act for Rome, and Rome is better rid Of these rare spirits whom no law controls. He broke a statute, knowing from the first Whither his act would lead, he was not blind. PROCULA. No, friend, he followed hungry and athirst The lonely exaltation of his mind. So Rome, our mother, profits by his death, You think so? PILATE. Ay. PROCULA. We draw securer breath, We Romans, from his gasping on the cross? PILATE. Some few will be the calmer for his loss. Many, perhaps; he made a dangerous claim. Even had I spared it would have been the same A year, or two, from now. Forget him, friend. PROCULA. I have no part nor parcel in his end. Rather than have it thought I buy my ease, My body's safety, honor, dignities, Life and the rest at such a price of pain There [_she stabs her arm with her dagger_] is my blood, to wash away the stain. There. There once more. It fetched too dear a price. O God, receive that soul in paradise. PILATE. What have you done? PBOCULA. No matter; it atones. His blood will clamor from the city stones. PILATE. Go in. No, let me bind it. PROCULA. Someone comes. A councillor, I think. Ask what he wants. _Enter_ JOSEPH. JOSEPH. Greetings, Lord Pilate. PILATE. And to you. JOSEPH [_to_ PROCULA]. And you. [_to_ PILATE]. I have a boon to ask. PROCULA. What can we do? JOSEPH. Lord Pilate, may I speak? PILATE [_to_ PROCULA]. Go in. [_She goes in._] Go on [_to_ JOSEPH]. JOSEPH. The man called Christ, the follower of John, Was crucified to-day by your decree. [PILATE _bows._] He was my master, very dear to me. I will not speak of that. I only crave Leave to prepare his body for the grave, And then to bury him. May I have leave?