"He was so exquisitely human! Our Little capacity of suffering pain, Whether of spirit or of flesh, in Him Seemed to be carried to unmeasured heights. What form of anguish ours did He not feel? Yea, sorrow for sin not His; 'Which one of you,' He asked once, and no hearer made reply, 'Which one of you convinceth Me of sin?' Sinless He was, nor ever felt remorse, That worm which dieth not prey on His soul. Yet somehow He became so one with us He felt our sin as if it were His own, His own to bear in undeservéd woe Suffered on our behalf, worse than remorse. All this I blindly felt seeing Him there. He did not mail Him proof with hero pride To suffer as if He suffered not, and so Wrest their vain triumph from His enemies. They saw Him suffer more than any man, Not quailing indeed, yet hardening not Himself. 'Never man spake like this man,' some one said; I say, suffered man never so as He. How my heart bled for Him when Pilate spoke Those words, 'Behold the man!' And Pilate too, I pitied him. Pity, with worship blent Into one overmastering passion, poured Out of my heart toward Jesus; but toward him, Pilate, that weak, that wicked, went instead Pity with horror, doubtful which was more. Forgive me that I mix myself with this. Indeed I could not tell you all in all My story, not another's, of the Lord, Unless, besides the things I saw or heard, I told you also how they seemed to me, What thoughts, what feelings started in my breast." The purged high passion with which Mary spoke, Calm though she kept with costly self-command, Betrayed itself to Paul observing her. He knew the tension of remembered pain, Imagined with such vividness of recall That well-nigh Mary suffered it all afresh, Had touched already the extremest bound Of what that spirit, in its shaken shrine Of frail flesh quivering so, could safely bear. He spoke and said: "O Publius, there is much Remaining still for Mary to recite Of the last things to Jesus here on earth, Both His obedience faithful unto death, And His victorious rising from the grave. So thou, feast-master of the hour, consent, Let us--thine own urbane feast-mastership Resumed then--meet, if God will, yet once more To hear this solemn history to the end." Such word from Paul was mastership transferred To him; and Publius promptly, without sense Of yielding, yielded and broke up the feast. BOOK XVII. THE STORY OF THE CROSS.