his feet. They have found him here, this young dead god, laid out as if asleep upon the flat stone by the rock--no blasted rock, its crags are covered with living shrubs and plants. And he is in the light: there is no ghostly pallor in his face upturned to the sky, upon his long, dark hair; so beautiful a brow, such tender cheeks, so strong and brave a neck they have never seen. And he is so still, he lies without fear, not heeding them. They must not wake him from his sleep. The infant at his head, whose exquisitely moulded face is full of that strangely pathetic, antique wisdom of the very young, half-elfish, half-infantile, feels the burden of his sagacity upon him. Why had that brow a crown of thorns instead of flowers about it? This youth to whom they will now bear company had not chosen well his pillow or his crown--though he is so beautiful he was not wise enough to know that thorns are not for those who would be at rest. In the picture the wise infant has taken off the prickly crown that it may not pierce and rend the dream that holds the sleeper there so long; he is full of the knowledge of his triumph, half-fearful lest it should not be complete. The crown of thorns hangs on his own left arm, which he raises half in warning, half in wonder, feeling as his elbow bends the thorns upwards on his arm from what pain he has saved that beautiful but foolish youth. And with his right hand he fondles the hair of Jesus, drawing it a little back from his forehead to be sure that in his stealthy theft he has not left some scratch, some mark of pain. But there are no traces of the crown in any sign of pain, only a faint, faint band beneath the hair he has drawn back--a shadow, as it were, of Christ’s regality. _He saved others, Himself He cannot save._ Now with this little Saviour, this guardian of his pillow, he can at last sleep in peace. The infant at the feet is more babylike, less wise, more gleefully wondering. He has found no thorns on that beautiful, still body, but he has found another wonder at the feet. The toes of one he holds in his tiny hand, stroking it in his delight: he has found, it seems, a little hole upon the instep bone that the feet of humans are not wont to wear, and he points in musing, half-delighted wonder to the other foot, where he spies the same strange mark. It is a game to this curly headed cherub. He has not yet dreamed of contact with something beyond the reach of his baby wisdom. There is not yet in his chubby face that look which has stolen into the face of his brother and which now seems to put a world between them, a look that amid all its elfish aloofness is akin to the solicitude of human love. What dream was this of Basaiti--the figure of this young God of Light--perfect in form, luminous and strong, unspoiled and untroubled in his sleep of death? His eyes if they were open would be fountains fed from the beauty of the world, but he has borne no burden of humanity. There is power to