VII

The Thorn Crowned

"THE SOLDIERS PLATTED A CROWN OF THORNS AND PUT IT ON HIS HEAD"




VII

The Thorn Crowned


It was ghastly cold in the ruined church. It had been warm enough there
during the day, but the fire that had gutted it had died like the young
acolyte, like the aged sacristan, the venerable mother, the sweet young
novice, the women who had sought shelter there in vain. Neither the
dignity of age nor the sweetness of maidenhood nor the innocence of
youth nor the sanctity of profession had availed.

The old priest was glad they were dead. Life after what they had
suffered had been unthinkable. He thanked God for that oblivion. He
wished that he, too, might die in that violated shrine where he had
peacefully ministered for so long a time. They had taken the flock, the
shepherd must follow. He should have led.

He had fought, oh, he had played the man for the honor of the poor lambs
committed to him. Had he done right? Should he not have stood dumb