Again we went through St. Stephen’s Gate and along the path where the Roman guards had led their prisoner. We stopped at Pilate’s Hall. Like a king indeed he met the false testimony of his accusers, the cynical questions of Pilate, the jesting soldiers who had seen many a man condemned to die but none who met the madness of a multitude that cried “Crucify! Crucify!” with such dignity and calm. No wonder Rousseau cried aloud as he studied the story, “Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus died like a God!” With what ardent devotion have the great artists of the past attempted to paint for us those scenes. So vivid were they as we stood there in Jerusalem, looking up at the tower of Antonius where Jesus suffered the scourging, that their reality pierced our souls. When the fickle crowd left the hall shouting curses as they had shouted hosannas, they moved along the narrow street which still bears the name Via Dolorosa. Opposite the Pretorium is a convent. In it are orphans and stray waifs picked up about Palestine. The ravages of war have added to the usual number and the place is crowded. On this Sunday they were at service, and the clean happy faces as they sang made us feel that it was because of the Sorrowful Way over which He had walked that they were sheltered and fed. Although intended for Jews, Turk and Armenian, Jew and Gentile sat together in the Chapel of Love and Forgiveness. It is under this convent, many feet below the level of the present street that one finds bits of the old Roman pavement over which the multitude, curious, cruel, mocking, followed Him to the place of crucifixion. Each spot along the Via Dolorosa is marked—the place where the Master took up His cross, the turn in the narrow street where in answer to the tears and prayers of the women He said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourself and your children,” the spot where, staggering from weakness, He fell beneath His cross and Simon lifted it and carried it to the hill of Death, dumbly sharing the Saviour’s pain. At each place of suffering as we passed, we saw men and women praying and making the sign of the cross. All men walked silently. Via Dolorosa, since the coming of the British, is scrupulously clean. The houses of stone with beautiful doorways and old carvings on the doorposts make a solid unbroken wall on either side, and very early the street is quite dark. Narrow and not even a mile in length, it stands out in the memory above all the great highways of the world.