CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LIKE Pilate, Caiaphas also paced his room, but with what different thoughts! Terror, too, was his, but the terror only of some horrible death, some awful retribution that would fall on him, though its form was hidden from him. This morning he had triumphed, he had wrung the heart of Pilate, but his triumph had not been unalloyed. He knew that both Herod and Pilate despised him for the act, and till he had heard that the Nazarene had breathed His last he had felt a lurking dread of what he knew not. Then how would the people take it? He had seen oft in history that from a national success had sprung a national hatred. The poor, the maimed, the blind, would they form an alliance and make Lazarus their head? Two rulers had disappeared from the council of the Synagogue Nicodemus and Lazarus; two powerful, wealthy men. And they had sent no word to him. What did their silence mean? For crafty people dread ever silence. They are afraid of secret machinations, of the sudden outbursts of revolutions, of unlooked-for actions, the outcome of cabals. Every one is in league to intrigue against them, because a life without intrigue appears to them impossible. Every one hates them, for they know that in themselves is nothing lovable.
What strange foreboding of horror was this that
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