“Yes, many years!” sighed the old man; “and cursed be the day whereon I succeeded Valerius Gratus in the government of Judea! My name is unlucky; a fatality is attached to all who bear it. One of my ancestors left the stamp of infamy on the name of Roman when he passed under the yoke in the Caudine Forks, after fighting against the Samnites; another perished in Parthia, fighting against Phraates; and I—I—” The wine remained untasted, while his unbidden tears fell into the cup. “Well! you—what have you done? Some injustice of Caligula exiles you to Vienne; and for what crime? I read your affair in the _tabularium_. You were denounced to the emperor by your enemy, Vitellius, the prefect of Syria; you punished a few Hebrew rebels who, after assassinating some noble Samaritans, entrenched themselves on Mount Garizim. You were accused of doing this out of hatred to the Jews.” “No, no, Albinus; by all the gods! it is not the injustice of Cæsar which afflicts me.” “What exactions did you impose?” “None.” “Did you carry off any Jewish women?” “Never!” “Did you gibbet any Roman citizens, as Verres did in Sicily?” Pilate did not reply. “I always took you to be good and sensible,” continued Albinus; “hence I did not hesitate to proclaim aloud in the city that your spoliation and exile were an outrage. It was never referred to the senate. The whole affair was evidently owing to some caprice of Vitellius.” “Albinus, let us talk of other things. I am tired, having just arrived from Rome. Serious things for to-morrow, says the sage. This Rhone wine is exquisite.” “Beware of it, Pontius; it disturbs the brain.” “So much the better. But I am not afraid of it. I am accustomed to the wine of Engaddi; that is a potent Bacchus.” “As you please. But tell me, you who come from Rome, what stirs men’s minds there? Have you aught to interest my ear?” “The auguries are bad. I did not recognize Rome; she no longer goes forward, but steadily sinks!” “What say you?” “I say what is. From here you cannot detect the mysterious subterranean noise which rumbles as with the approach of that invisible, superior power now irresistibly pushing the empire to its ruin. Our gods are vanquished; they abandon us. Listen, Albinus; let me this evening throw a smile to your _Penates_, and no more words of what is sorrowful. Night is the mother of sadness, but the _triclinium_ counsels gayety. Tell the child to turn me a cup of wine of Cyprus, and ask the slave to bring my sandals and prepare my bed. I love not the gloom of night; let us haste to sleep, that the day may sooner come.” Albinus bowed, and the desires of Pilate were complied with. As the slave approached him with a silver hand-basin for washing his hands, Pilate’s face turned pale as with fright, while the light of his eyes was terrible to behold.