Part 2 — THE RECREANT MISSIONARY,

JUDAS ISCARIOT:

“Who also betrayed Him.”

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BY CAROLINE C——.

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Thus always, the last mentioned among the holy Apostles, and with the brand of shame attached to his name, is Judas Iscariot, the traitor, brought before us. And inasmuch as from the lives of them, who in all circumstances continued faithful to their Lord, lessons of the highest benefit may be drawn by the teachable mind, I am constrained to think there comes to us a lesson and a warning we may not lightly heed, from him who “by transgression fell.” He, too, when the Voice was heard crying in the wilderness gave willing heed; he, too, amid the eager crowd was seen listening anxiously to the inspired word of John the Baptist; he, too, when the meek Saviour came, attended on His preaching, and his heart was stirred by the words of entreaty and condemnation that he heard. He, too, would fain believe, and be forgiven, and be numbered among the disciples of the new king.

When, as one of the twelve Apostles, he was chosen, and in a peculiar manner recognized by the Saviour as one of his own household, Judas rejoiced—for he doubtless conceived that if Christ’s kingdom was to be of an earthly nature, it was certainly a great advancement, and a high honor, to be chosen publicly as one of His chief ministers. How then must he have listened to the words of Jesus, when, after he had selected the Twelve, he charged them with their duty, and told them all that they must bear and suffer for His sake. “In the world ye shall have tribulation and sorrow—but, be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” One cannot but think that the latter part of this declaration must have fallen with little weight on the disappointed heart of Judas. The Saviour had consecrated them to their holy work—to the lives of persecution, and sorrow, and pain, which He knew awaited them—he was calling down the power of his spirit to rest and abide with each of them, the power which should enable them to release guilty humanity from its load of sin, wherever it should be felt in its oppressiveness—and while in humility the eyes of some of those disciples were fixed upon the ground, unto his majestic countenance others were raised, catching from his fervid devotion the spark of heavenly fire that was to make them indeed beacon lights on the mountain of Truth! By the words he uttered, he bade them remember the difficulties which would beset them—fully pointing out to them the thorny path which they must tread. Not with the conviction that a life of ease was before them went they forth. They had enlisted as soldiers in His service, it was therefore meet that they should know the dangers of the hostile country through which they were to pass. “Behold I send you forth as sheep amidst wolves!” Danger, privation, and perchance a horrible death were the foes they were to meet.

But, those dangers all revealed, He did not leave them struck down, as it were, by the heavy weight of the cross they had chosen to bear—kind words, encouraging promises, assurances of his fatherly protection and guidance fell from his lips, and comforted and cheered them.

There was one heart on which the words of the Saviour fell with chilling force—in his hearing, was now forever decided the question as to the nature of Christ’s kingdom and service. When Judas heard that calm, deep voice telling of the power of the enemy into whose hands they were voluntarily placing themselves—when he became convinced of the danger and wo which would encircle them on every side—that the prison might prove their place of abode—that the scourge and instruments of torture would be the welcoming extended to them in the world—that contumely, shame and reproach, and despiteful treatment would inevitably meet them in all their wanderings, he shrunk back—when he listened to the promises Jesus made to them of rest in heaven, of the continued care of God, which nevertheless might not preserve them from a death of torture and ignominy—when he reflected that the rewards promised were none of them of a temporal nature, and were to be made good only in the dim future, in another existence that was called eternal, he shrunk from the prospect of so much present misery, to be endured for a reward so vague—he forgot the weight of glory that was to be revealed, or, if he remembered it at all, the future of bliss was so far distant, and the promises so obscure, that they fell like dust in the balance of that scale where wo, vexation and privations innumerable were to be weighed. Better, ah far better, he thought, that former life of labor and obscurity he had led, than a life of such publicity and danger as he was now to lead. None ever molested him then, quietly and peacefully he had lived till that hour when he lent too willing an ear to the compassionate words of Him who spoke, not as man, but as God and Saviour.

And yet despite this irresoluteness, when the young man thought of his companions who were setting forth so zealously on the path at whose very threshold he faltered, he was almost constrained to rush boldly onward with them. His pride shrunk from the thought of proving so soon recreant to the cause which he had espoused so gladly and earnestly.

That first moment when he wavered in his zeal—when his determination faltered—we may count as the moment of his downfall, of his fearful ruin—that moment when the first bewildering thought rushed into his brain, what shall I gain by this life of self-denial?—that moment when the chilling conviction of the folly of his enthusiasm in the service of Christ crept over him—that moment of unguarded temptation when Satan obtained a hearing, that was his trial-time—then he was found wanting—then he fell—then was he lost to the cause he had vowed to support.

And yet in that moment of hesitation it is not to be supposed that Judas had the courage, or even the wish, forever to reject and disown his master, Jesus. We cannot believe that he had crept into the camp of Salvation under false colors, merely to spy out its secrets, its most vulnerable points, that so he might deliver the great chief of the army into the hands of his enemy. Not so. It was impossible for the man to harden in unbelief; for such convincing proof of the might and divinity of Jesus had been given him, as it was not possible for him to reject. And as he pondered on the gentle and touching loving kindness that Master had shown toward him and his apostolic brethren, it may be that the desire to aid and to serve him became for the time stronger even than his natural cowardice and selfishness. And this may be the reason why he resolved for a little time, at least, to be considered by the people as one of the followers of Jesus. And in making this decision there may possibly have revived in the man’s heart a little of that fervor of spirit which he had once felt for the sacred cause.

So it was, that again his face turns toward the upward path, and for a season he will continue therein. Thus goes he forth on his mission, entertaining in his heart two guests, whose hopes and aspirations, whose every end and aim are totally at variance. Love of the world, of his former life of careless sin, and of money, that root of all evil, was there; and there also was a standard bearer from the camp of Heaven, who came upholding a banner which, at the will of the entertainer, he would have gladly unfurled upon the highest battlement of the castle of his soul—against which the powers of sin and darkness were knocking, and demanding entrance, with voices which reverberated through every secret corner of the tenement.

That banner once unfurled, the importunate foe would flee in haste—oh, why was the word not spoken—the word which would so speedily have scattered those convulsing legions? Because—ponder upon it, thou who art halting between two opinions—because the master of that castle faltered at his post through fear and indecision.

He has gone forth now on the path of discipleship, and his works of miraculous power proclaim him. At his call and command the gates of oblivion are opened, and the dead come back to life—the sick, laid on their couches of pain and agony, arise and walk at his word; and the gospel of mercy and salvation sounds with marvelous success when its blessings are proclaimed by his eloquent tongue to the weary, and the poor, and the heavy-laden. The evil spirits suffered to torment them who would fain tread in the right path are cast forth, and then the sorrowing repentant goeth on his way rejoicing! But, as he works all this good for others, his own mind is tormented by the conflicting voices which are calling to him. He stills the tempests in the minds of the distressed, and those burdened with cruel doubts, but in his own breast there is a storm raging continually, which he cannot command to silence. He holds up to the parched and dying creatures surrounding him a cup, while he proclaims, “Ho ye that thirst! buy wine, buy milk, without money and without price!” “Drink, and ye shall not thirst again!” while he himself is dying of thirst—and ever as he raises to his own lips the cup which contains the healing for the nations, his spirit shrinks back from the draught—it will not drink—it is gall and wormwood to him!

He lifts his voice, and conviction and peace fall upon them who listen to him. Repentance is hurled to the sinful heart with the words, “His yoke is easy, and His burden light!” while himself is drooping and fainting under the weight of deceit which is upon him. Wherever he goes he proclaims “Peace!” to the children of men—and peace visits all who will hearken to him. But in his own breast—ah, there is warfare and strife, the accusings of conscience, the warnings of wrath to come! In the chambers of sickness, where the dying were restored to health; by the wayside, where the foully diseased were cleansed—before the opened tomb, whence at his call the dead came clothed once again with the garment of life, amid the multitudes who listened with deepest interest to his most forcible words, alone, in the solitude of his own heart, or when in holy communion of thought with the faithful brethren, alike at all times, and in all places, heard he the still small voice of his accusing spirit.

The outward form of grace was his, but the purification had not penetrated into the recesses of his heart! The agonizing knowledge that at each onward step he was plunging deeper and deeper into the sin which could not be forgiven—the continual remembrance that he was dispensing to others the mercy of that God who would forget to be gracious to him, may be easily conjectured; but may Heaven spare us all from such agony of conflicting thoughts and hopes as must have been the daily and nightly companion of Judas Iscariot, long before he came out from the disciples’ ranks to betray his lord into the hands of sinners!

In the magnificent chambers of the High Priest, adorned with so much costliness and luxury, Caiaphas sat in state. Ushered in by menials, a young man enters timidly to the presence of the haughty potentate.

The dignity of mien which once distinguished the ambassador of the Lord, which would not bend to the splendor of court or king, is no longer to be seen in Judas. The meanness of servility speaks in every motion, every word of the man—his self-respect is gone, and with it all the confidence of manhood. But if the craftiness of the stranger’s appearance struck most unfavorably on the High Priest, how much more must he have been startled and amazed, as Judas unfolded the reason of his appearance there; and it was not till his mission was fully revealed that Caiaphas recognized in the craven supplicant one of those far-famed Apostles, with whose names he was already familiar.

The proud man must have shrunk back in horror from the revolting proposal of Judas—for, though it placed within his reach the accomplishment of one of the highest wishes of his life, (the deliverance of Christ into his hands,) yet the means by which he was offered the capture were opposed to all the principles of his creed of manly honor. Could he in all his high mightiness stoop to receive the prisoner at the hands of one who had been his friend—his companion and ministering servant? No—he must certainly at the first have turned away contemptuously from the detail of such consummate villainy; it must surely have been more than even he could countenance—for though not wont to cavil at the means employed, when any wished for end was to be gained, yet Caiaphas must have wondered, as the question burst from the covetous impatient heart of Judas, “What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you?” But as the High Priest pondered on that question, gradually his spirit ceased its noble revolting, he began to lose sight of the contemptible, horrible treachery of the man on his knees before his throne, and he felt something like rejoicing in the thought, that the object he had so longed to accomplish, was within his reach at last. Therefore it was not long ere he turned with a more readily listening ear, and began to bargain with the Apostle!

At length the agreement was made—the covenant formed—the price of the Saviour’s life was set, and the thirty pieces of silver were paid into the hands of Judas! And then the traitor arose, and went from the presence-chamber of Caiaphas, but faintness was within his dastard heart, and the flush of shame upon his forehead, and with downcast eyes, and hasty step he went, for in his hands he bore the proofs of his condemning guilt and sordid meanness; knowing also that even the enemies of Christ, gladly as they would receive Him into their power, had shrunk from taking the prisoner from an apostle’s hands. But, the contract was made, the wages of sin were in his hands; for Judas there was no going back; onward—onward—onward he was impelled by the unchained fiend within him, to work out his own eternal ruin.

He must know rest neither day nor night—constantly he must be on the alert, that Jesus should not altogether escape him—and when the favorable moment arrived, he was to deliver Him up to the rulers!

And with that price of the innocent blood in his hands he dared still to labor and associate with the holy Apostles, dared to express submission and reverence for the God who read his every inmost thought. It seems a thing almost incredible—for the paltry sum of money he had dared appoint himself the judge to deliver the prisoner into the executioner’s hands! Already he had been guilty of taking money from the common purse of the disciples, which was entrusted to him, in order that he might gratify his selfish desires—and this guilt was known to Jesus, but the compassionate Saviour had refrained from making it known; it would have brought down dishonor on the holy cause which Judas at the best served so unfaithfully, and would have heaped on the sinful man’s own head shame and condemnation, had the transaction been made known publicly—thus he was still suffered to retain his post of trust and honor.

Were we not daily beholding crimes, only less heinous than those of Judas, it would be difficult indeed for us to conceive his guilt! We could not believe it possibly within the range of human capability to sin, that he would sacrifice even his God for money! The Saviour’s blood—it was indeed a high price to pay for thirty pieces of silver! But, though his crime was such as has placed the name of Judas the very first on the long, long list of human guilt—though, from the very nature, and necessity of things, there never can be another soul stained with sin so deep and dreadful, though now, when as a completed whole we survey our blessed Saviour’s life on earth, we stand aghast as we think on his betrayer, yet, my reader, who among us shall dare to say that had we lived in those days we surely would have been guiltless of the blood of that just man? There is nothing easier than to accuse our “first parents,” Adam and Eve, of an unaccountable transgression—it is very easy to say that nothing could ever have tempted us to the commission of a crime so great—I would assuredly be the last to dare uphold Judas in his deadly sin, or to endeavor to cleanse from his name the terrible blackness of the crime attached to it—it was monstrous guilt of which he through all the ages has stood convicted, but I repeat, by no means was it unaccountable!

Think of our world, and of human nature as it is now, after so many centuries have passed, and the light of knowledge has spread far and wide. Consider what the covetousness, the folly, the ambition of the heart work among us now; behold even at this hour, what multitudes are there among us who are scoffers, and deniers, and mockers of the Lord who bought them! Ah, were it a veritable truth which the Jews believe and assert, that the Messiah has not yet come, even now would not be found wanting the vengeful unbelievers, the betrayer, the judge, the proud religion, the cross, and the thorny crown, and earth and heaven would be rent again with that cry which a false-hearted people wrung from Him who died upon the cross!

The feast of the Passover was at hand, and the little band of apostles which had been widely dispersed, fulfilling every where they went their onerous duties, met together once more to celebrate the feast.

And at eventide the holy men assembled in the “upper room” of a house to which Jesus had directed them, wherein they had made ready for the ceremonial celebration. But it was a new feast, to partake of which the Saviour had called them together. The forms of the ancient days were being fast set aside; there was no more need that the lamb should be slain in commemoration of the mercy of God in a time when his people were in most dire necessity—soon was a Lamb to be sacrificed whose efficacious blood was to save, and cleanse from sin all who would have faith in God and his crucified Son. And it was meet that that night, when the feast of the Passover was wont to be celebrated, should be chosen for the superseding of a dead form by a more living faith. The consecrated bread and wine, the emblems of His sacred body and blood, these were the symbols to be used—there was not any longer need for the shedding of the blood of beasts.

The twelve were all together. They had come rejoicing that they might meet again with their Master in safety and peace, that they might once more listen to His words and counsel whom they loved so well. In their short time of separation they had met all of them with wonderful success, and the scornful, harsh rebukes they had oftentimes been forced to listen to, they had patiently, ay, gladly endured, for it was all for Him, and they could not but rejoice that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name. But reproach, and contumely, and condemnation of the world, was not all that they had met; they had looked on eyes their words had caused to brighten with joy—they had heard voices, sad and desponding, raised in hymns of thanksgiving and rejoicing—they had seen many hopeful manifestations of repentance, had pointed out to many the straight path and the narrow way leading to eternal life. Well might they come as faithful stewards with gladness and haste at the call of their Lord!

Did I say all came with rejoicing to look upon their Master’s face again? nay, verily, not all!

One in their midst whose words had flown far over the land, who had besought sinners most effectually to repent, who had given to many a most blessed hope, came among them to partake of the feast of the Passover, to offer to his brethren the hand of fellowship, wherein he had so recently clapped with greedy joy the infamous price of the Redeemer’s blood!

He came with a troubled mind, feeling that he had no right to commune with the more faithful eleven, and dreading to meet the glance of the Searcher of Hearts. He knew full well, that though his brethren and fellow-laborers beheld his successful preaching with gladness, that they could see no further—they could do no more than judge him by his outward acts, which had, as far as their knowledge went, been always blameless—but he also knew that He who had bidden them to the supper gazed with more than human power of vision into his evil heart, that He saw and beheld the vile thing which he had done; full well the fearful sinner knew that the flimsy veil he had been able to fling over his guilt, was far from being efficient to screen him from the scrutinizing gaze of his Lord.

Oh, how like the knell of condemnation must those mournful words have fallen on the ear of Judas:

“Verily I say unto you that one of you shall betray me!”

It was the sudden death of every hope of concealment.

Fear and wonder filled the minds of the faithful eleven. One of them betray their beloved Master? It was a thought inconceivable to them. With astonished looks they turned from one to another, and with full confidence in the integrity of their hearts they asked, “Lord, is it I?”

Solemnly upon the stillness broke that answer.

“He that dippeth his hand into the dish with me, the same shall betray me, and wo unto that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed, it had been good for that man had he never been born.”

When these fearful words of warning were pronounced, and every voice was hushed, and every heart was awe-struck, again was heard the trembling voice of Judas the guilty, echoing faintly, and as though irresistibly compelled to utter the words, “Master, is it I?”

The sad eyes of the eleven were fixed upon their brother and their Lord, and oh what a thrill of horror must have run through every heart as the answer “Thou hast said,” was whispered in a tone of sorrowful reproach by the Saviour, who knew that he was already betrayed!

When Judas saw the reproachful expression that every face wore, and was thus assured that his treachery was known, he felt his place was no longer amid the faithful followers and servants of Jesus—he knew well enough the just horror with which the holy men surrounding him would look upon his ingratitude and soul-destroying guilt. He had still sense enough left to feel that he should no longer remain among those who had such cause to deeply deplore the desecration he had done the service of Christ; and, too, his inclination for, and pleasure in that service, and his desire to remain in that holy company was gone. He had chosen another master, even the Evil One—he must fight under another banner, even that of the Blackness of Darkness!

Publicly he had parted with his heavenly portion for a mere handful of silver, and now what part or lot had he in the work, to do which a clean heart and a right spirit were so pre-eminently required? Self-forgetfulness, constancy, devotion, truth, he lacked all these! how then could he further the cause of the Redeemer? Judas must have gone from that chamber of mournful feasting feeling himself to be a doomed man, bearing upon himself the full weight of the heavy curse of God!

An impassable barrier, an unfathomable gulf lay now between him and the works of holiness—a separating wall built even by his own willing hands up to the portal of heaven, shut him forever from the hope of mercy or the possibility of repentance!

It is night. Over the Garden of Gethsemane is spread the shadow of a dark cloud. The moon’s light is obscured; or, where at intervals it appears between the broken clouds, its dim rays render the sadness and silence of the place only more mournful still. To the quietness and retirement of that garden, One has come whose soul is filled with sorrow even unto death! He has spoken kindly words of love to his disciples, he has bidden them tarry in the garden to watch with Him; but though Jesus would fain have them nigh, his agony and suffering were too great for any but the Father to witness, therefore he went apart from them, and falling on his face, in the depth of anguish he prayed, “Oh! my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me—nevertheless not as I will, but as Thou wilt!”

Bending submissively to the will of that Father in all things, he could drink even the bitterness of that cup wherein was garnered a whole world’s sin. Three times was the agonized prayer repeated, and still the aid from heaven was not sent, nor the bitter cup removed! Oh, reader, by that night of unexampled agony, by the blood-drops which burst from our Saviour in the extremity of His anguish, bedewing the ground of Gethsemane—by the remembrance of the cross-planted Calvary—by the bitterness of that draught the dregs of which were not spared, how are we taught, and warned, and implored to consider well the value of that sacrifice which He has made for us! Can’st thou think on that night of unexampled agony and longer refrain from flinging thyself wholly, with no reserve, at the foot of the blood-stained cross? Oh never suffer the remembrance of that night of passion to fade from thy mind or from thy heart—let it cling to thee continually, inciting to patience, and courage, and faith, till thou hast learned by them to enter the path from which His death has taken the sorrow, to which His agony has lent the glory! Thus shall the cross-crowned Calvary prove to thee a sure reliable ray that shall guide thee to heaven; thus shall the blood-dew shed in Gethsemane, spread a reviving freshness over the dying tree of Faith, which perchance is drooping even at this moment in thy heart!

The Saviour’s last prayer is breathed forth when the sound as of a multitude breaks on his ear—full well He knoweth who it is that is now hastening on and entering the Garden sanctified by His presence to take Him captive. Foremost among the ruthless intruders comes one whose treacherously smiling face tells of guilt, and ill-concealed shame, and remorse. He treads through the else silent garden, where the night blooming flowers are just opening, shedding their rich perfumes abroad; but Judas heeds not the beauty and tranquillity of that place—carelessly his feet trample upon the fair blossoms unfolding, which though crushed still rise again as the weight is removed, and their perfumes ascend to heaven on the evening air, a living witness against him.

The multitude come armed as if to the fray—swords and staves are in their hands, curses and execrations escape their lips, and thoughts of fiery vengeance and hatred fill their minds. He whom they seek stands awaiting them. He makes no effort to escape, though had He willed it, His Father had instantly sent legions of angels to deliver him. No—his hour was come! the hour for which He left the brightness of the heavenly kingdom—the hour for which he had put on mortality had arrived—he would not delay it.

The torches which the arch-traitor and his companions bore fell on the little group of men they sought—the defiant Apostles, and the calm and unmoved son of Mary. The multitude faltered in their purpose as they looked upon these men—the bold, brave-hearted Peter, the loving John, the humble, faithful, affectionate James, and the man Christ Jesus whom they came to make captive. Sorrow, such as never beamed from the eyes of a mortal being, and the consciousness of a power that was able to scatter at once, as chaff, those who had come out to make Him captive, spoke from His countenance distinctly and audibly to their sin-hardened minds.

But Judas—Judas hesitated not. When he saw the Man he was to betray standing before him, making no effort to escape, he dropped the torch which had lighted him on his awful mission, and flinging his arms around the Divinity, he kissed Him! and as he embraced with the lips the God he had offered to betray, Judas cried aloud in a tone of affectionate and joyful recognition, “Master! Master!”

Aside from the horrible, daring guilt of Judas, there is something humiliating and revolting in the thought of the traitor’s assuming friendliness, and love even, as the guise under which to make successful his nefarious scheme. A kiss, the most fond, familiar greeting; by that Christ was made known to those who came to take Him by violence, as though He were a thief, or a common offender, or breaker of the laws of the land!

Of the remainder of that night the Scriptures tell us naught of the betrayer. We do not hear of his appearing before Caiaphas as a witness against his Lord—all his part in that most awful transaction seems to have been fulfilled—the accusation and condemnation were for others to make. It is no pleasant task to picture to the fancy the manner in which the remaining hours of Judas’ life must have passed. The torturing of conscience—the deadly fear—the sting and constant consciousness of guilt which must have tormented him, is what the mind shrinks from contemplating, but to which it returns, as if of necessity, again and again.

The deed was accomplished, there remained nothing further for him to do, and so he went out from the sacred garden by himself, that he might be alone, and count over in security and feast his eyes on the fruits of his guilt. Ah, that shining treasure! those thirty pieces of silver! At the moment when for the first time a full conviction of the iniquity of his deed swept over his thought, and could be kept back no longer by his will, then it was, if ever, that he needed to strengthen his covetous heart; and how better could he accomplish that than by keeping in constant sight the much loved riches he had gained?

But while he counted over the glittering heap, how very strange! he did not rejoice in it as he had thought to! Possession had robbed anticipation of all allurements and pleasure, and while alone, watched only by the eye of his God he counted over the riches, constantly haunted him those words Jesus spoke on the night of the feast of the Passover, “it were better for that man had he never been born!” Judas already was accursed—already was given over to the power of the tormentors; already his terrified mind was conjuring up the death and sufferings of the Saviour he had betrayed, and that coveted, cherished silver was as a stone hanging about his neck, dragging him down, down to the depths of the sea of perdition!

When the first rays of daylight streamed over Jerusalem, might have been seen, I fancy, the form of Judas Iscariot wandering through the city, seeking to escape from his condemning thoughts; oh, the accusations, so fraught with everlasting wo, his heart must have whispered to him, when the sunlight fell upon him and the fresh breeze of morning fanned his brow!

Before the palace where the judges still slept, the wretched man paced to and fro, bearing with him the thrice accursed silver which burned his bosom—burned his soul. As yet there were few signs of life in the silent streets. Only the humblest laborers had come forth to begin with the earliest light their day of toil. Judas gazed on them as they went calmly and cheerfully about their accustomed tasks, oh, how wistfully! Could he only once more know that lightness of heart which innocence alone confers! Could he but look on the glad light of the sun, and see there no accusing form which now incessantly uprose before his imagination! Could he but listen to the voice of Nature, without feeling that for him she sung only a far-resounding chorus of condemnation! Could he only go forth to his peaceful labor, and forget that fearful looking for of judgment which now alone awaited him!

As by degrees the streets filled with men, and women, and little children, how suspiciously and consciously his eyes glanced at all who passed by him, the greetings of the companions of former days were unreturned, or misunderstood, for Judas wondered how that any should speak to him! And when the Pharisee went by, folding his robes closely about him, lest they might come in contact with the garments of the poor publican, when with a supercilious look which said so plainly, “Stand back, for I am holier than thou!” he felt the justice of the unspoken rebuke though it did come from sinful humanity. And when troops of gay and innocent children passed on, their voices of mirth and gladness filling the air which was ere long to echo with the dying Saviour’s cry and the mocking shouts of unbelieving Jews, he crept more closely to the wall, fearing lest his sin penetrated garments might by a touch convey contamination!

At last the palace-gates were opened, and breathlessly Judas rushed within, and entered unbidden, unannounced and alone the presence chamber of Caiaphas, where he had stood so recently to bargain for the blood of Jesus Christ!

Already the chief priest, and the scribes and rulers had gathered together to confer respecting the fate of their prisoner. How astonished must they have looked upon the haggard, guilt-stricken man who came so suddenly before them! No wonder if they started in fear as they saw the despairing look of his blood-shot eyes, for the glare of a maniac was in them. With outspread hands he held the dear-bought money toward them, while the wailing of a spirit doomed forever to despair broke forth in the words, “I have sinned! I have betrayed the innocent blood!”

In fearful mockery and derision came back the answer, “What is that to us! See thou to that!”

Vainly did he look for sympathy there! Hardened, selfish, sinful, they could not even feel for him who had been all too late aroused by the tortures of remorse to a sense of his most awful guilt. It was a vain thing to appeal to them to receive again the silver and let the precious prisoner go free!

Oh, what marvel that the wretched man should have shrunk from an existence which he was well assured would never be blessed by one hour free from the maddening tortures of his conscience? What wonder that he hastened from the presence of the fiendish Caiaphas to die before the sentence of condemnation had been passed on the Master whom his treachery had given to the cross? What wonder, reader, that the wretched man perished by his own hands? and can the wildest hoper believe that his was not an eternal death?