pretation of his teaching. Then, catching sight of a little boy at play in the road, he calls the child to him. Taking the youngster on his knee, he says to the surrounding company: "Verily I say unto you, except ye be changed, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Whosoever, therefore, shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven." III THERE is high festival in the fortress of Macharus. It is Herod's birthday, and the tetrarch has invited the lords, the high captains, and the chief estates of Galilee, to celebrate the occasion. He knows naught of the schemes that are a-hatching behind his back. For a long time, the chief priests in Jerusalem have been urging him to make an end of the man who is in duress below, the man whose name and influence have been magnified by imprisonment. Above all, they hope that the slaughter of John will intimidate the Nazarene, John's pupil, round whom so many of the Baptist's followers have gathered, and who seems to be leading the sectaries into dangerous paths. Herod has always rejected these promptings. As a statesman, he knows that a martyr's memory may be more dangerous than the repute of a living prophet; as a philosopher, he enjoys an occasional talk with John; as a weakling, he dreads the consequences of a murder which will profit no one. Herodias, who outdoes her husband both in courage and in the power of sustained hatred, lends a ready ear to the messages from the Sanhedrin. The prisoner's strictures on her marriage may not seriously threaten the integrity of her union with the tetrarch, but they are none the less wounding to her pride. The Pharisees and the Sadducees are quick to discover this mortified self-love, and to turn it to account for their own political ends. Herodias has promised to work John's destruction, and has drawn her daughter, Salome, into the plot. Salome has recently lost her husband, the tetrarch Philip, who was well on in years. The widow is young, full of life and vigour, and the fame of her skill as a dancer has spread even to distant Rome. To-day, schooled by her mother, she dances in the banqueting hall, dances before the assembled officers and State officials; but above all before Herod, her stepfather, who loves anything that can, even for a moment, revive a glow in the embers of his vanished youth. As he reclines at the board, heated with wine, and the dancing ends at midnight, he hears the thunder of applause, notes the lustful glances of the courtiers and the demure approval of the waiting slaves; he fixes his gaze on the central figure of the scene-the lithe dancer, half naked, looking more like a harlot than a princess, who has been footing it so merrily to the accompaniment of lutes and pipes. There awakens in him the old wish of the Oriental despot to make a parade of his largesse, to pay homage to beauty by a display of his generosity and his power and his wealth. It may well be that Herodias (who in general is loath to flaunt her daughter's fresh young charms before the weary Herod) has to-night given her husband a hint to show special favour to the heroine of the hour. His |