Chapter 26

‘His little girl was blind,’ said Joel. ‘Jesus opened her eyes. I saw Him do it, sir. Last summer. But I heard, a few days ago, that the child had just died. Of a fever…Maybe that’s what brings Him here, sir.’

‘You mean—perhaps Micah thinks that Jesus, now that He is alive again, may give his little girl back to him?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ murmured Joel.

‘Do you suppose that all these people knew Jesus?’ wondered Jairus.

‘It could be, sir.’

They found seats near the rear of the hall. Presently a distinguished-looking, smooth-shaven Roman with close-cropped grizzled hair came in, glanced about, and strode directly to the rear, seating himself at the end of the row but one vacant chair apart from Jairus. They gave each other a brief appraisal without speaking.

For a full quarter of an hour there had been no new arrivals. Apparently the company was complete. Now the heavy oaken door began to complain of its rusted hinges. All heads were turned in that direction and mystified eyes watched the massive door slowly close, though no one had touched it. Jairus darted an inquiring glance at the Roman at the same instant that Mencius arched an eyebrow toward Jairus; but neither spoke. The baffled audience again faced forward. The room grew strangely quiet.

Then a giant of a man, seated in the front row, rose and walked confidently to the rostrum. Only a few in the transfixed audience failed to recognize him; but even those who had seen him, again and again, as he stood at the Master’s side, protecting him in the crush of great throngs, observed instantly that something had happened to the Big Fisherman.

They hadn’t always liked his attitude on those eventful summer days. He had kept the great crowds in order, yes; and he had made the bearers of the sick ones take their turn. But sometimes his manner had annoyed them. It was almost as if he owned the show—and Jesus was his exhibit. Not infrequently some offended man, who had been unceremoniously pushed back into line, would grumble, ‘Who does that big fellow think he is, anyhow?’

Now it appeared that some sort of miracle had been wrought upon Peter.

For one thing, he had a different face. The former face had been more than a bit bumptious, the darting eyes audacious, the lips inclined to purse protrudingly. The Big Fisherman’s new face was refined. All the old deep-chiselled lines carved by habitual brashness and bluster were gone; ironed out as by fire. There were still plenty of lines, but they had not been engraved by self-pride: Peter had evidently suffered to earn his new countenance.