is hard," said our landlady, the good Frau Wiedermann, "to be on the
cross so long, even if one is not actually nailed to it. It is hard
for the thieves, too," she said, "as well as for Josef Mayr."

The thieves themselves deserve a moment's notice. The one on the right
is a bald old man, who meets his death in patience and humility. The
one on the left is a robust young fellow, who defies his associates and
tormentors alike, and joins his voice to that of the rabble in scoffing
at the power of Jesus. "If thou be a god," he says, "save thyself and
us." There is at first a struggle over the inscription at the head of
the cross. "Let it read, 'He called himself the King of the Jews,'"
say the priests. But the Roman soldier is obdurate. "What I have
written I have written," and the centurion grimly nails it on the cross
above his head, regardless alike of their rage and protestations.

Meanwhile, in the foreground the four Roman guards part the purple robe
of Christ, each one taking his share. But the seamless coat they will
not divide. So they cast the dice on the ground to see to whom this
prize shall fall. They are in no hurry. Traitors and thieves have all
night to die in, and they can wait for them. The first soldier throws
a low number, and gives up the contest. The second does better. The
third calls up to the cross, "If thou be a god, help me to throw a
lucky number." One cast of the dice is disputed. It has to be tried
again.

Meanwhile we hear the poor dying body on the cross, in a voice broken
with agony, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Again, amid the railings of the Jews, "My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?" Then again, after a sharp cry of pain, "It is finished!"