Unconvinced by his arguments, I was nevertheless touched by the generosity of his spirit.

One of the monks approached. In the chiaroscuro of the moon’s reflection, I thought I saw Damis. My heart beat against my chest like a hammer.

“I shall soon be with you, Francis,” the Bishop called out.

The monk bowed, crossed himself, and walked away.

“A charming fellow—perhaps a trifle too pious and too serious. He even scolds me upon occasions, you understand—not openly, but with a countenance so hurt that I cannot but accept the rebuke.”

“Man needs a thousand years to mellow him.”

“Why live so long, my son? Can one really learn much more in a thousand years than in seventy? Life merely repeats itself.”

“Are seventy years sufficient to understand even one’s self?”

“Neither seventy years nor seventy times seventy, my son,—not until we meet our Lord face to face. Then, in the fraction of a second, we understand all.”

Kotikokura, dressed in his gaudiest attire, filled our glasses with solemnity and pomp, while his wife, on tiptoes, her head bent, brought in the food,—a young lamb, slaughtered in the morning, prepared with a dozen vegetables and fruits whose perfume delighted the nostrils of the Bishop.

“My son, I have often noticed that a sensitive palate does not exclude a sensitive soul,” the Bishop remarked, as he helped himself to another plate.

“Apollonius, too, rejoiced in delicate viands.”

“Our Lord Jesus was seen frequently at the table with His disciples,” he added.

I could have related some gossip about Jesus that was current in Jerusalem, but I preferred to discuss my own fate with him—the first man in centuries who was the intellectual equal of Apollonius. I was determined to tell him my story. However, I waited for the most opportune moment.

Kotikokura glared at his wife who, either forgetting, or her toes aching, walked on her soles, making a noise like the slapping of a large tongue against the palate. She did not see him. He uttered a low growl. Frightened, she rushed out of the room, and returned immediately on her tiptoes.

“Your valet is an extraordinary person,” the Bishop whispered.

Kotikokura stood motionless at a distance, approaching the table only from time to time, to refill our glasses. “Father, are you in a mood to hear a strange story?” “I am delighted to listen to you, my son.” We rose. He took my arm, and walked leisurely.

The river flowed on silently as the hours in sleep, and upon it, the moon trembled vaguely, like the wing of a giant butterfly perched upon a flower.

“Father,” I said, “is Jesus God?”

“Of course, my son.”

“Was he not a man when he was crucified?”

“He was both man and God.”

“It is difficult to conceive of such a union.”

“Not at all. I find it very easy.”

“Strange. Some people are born with a predisposition to believe; others are born to doubt.”

“There is much joy in Heaven when those who doubt see the light.”

I smiled ironically.

“You, too, will accept Jesus,” the Bishop gently added, “Jesus is inescapable.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “He is not inescapable,—and I will not accept him!”

The Bishop smiled kindly, drawing his robe tightly about his legs. “Perhaps you have already accepted Him, but are unaware of it…and something inexplicable in you restrains you from confessing it. Our minds are prouder than our hearts,—and less wise…”

“Father, what will always prevent me from accepting Jesus is not inexplicable, but perfectly rational.”

“What is it, my son?”

“I knew Jesus and spoke to him, as I speak to you. He was not a god.”

“Many of us have spoken to Him, and many have found that He is God.”

“I am not speaking in metaphors, Father… I knew Jesus, knew him physically. I broke bread with him. I walked with him, I talked to him even as I talk to you…”

The Bishop rubbed his chin and eyes vigorously. He smiled. “My son, you are pleased to jest.”

“I do not jest, Father.”

“Jesus died twelve hundred years ago. Then you must be more than twelve centuries old…”

“I am…”

“Who– —?”

“I am… Ahasuerus…” The Bishop withdrew a little. He made the sign of the cross. Then, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said: “Whoever you are, I bless you! “ “You say this, Father, because you still do not believe me.” “You expect me to believe the miracle of your longevity—but you reject the miracle of Christ’s divinity, which millions have found so simple, so natural of acceptance.”

“Truth should be demonstrable.”

The Bishop smiled.

“You of all men should accept His divinity. He made His power manifest in you…”

“I refuse to be bludgeoned into belief by a miracle that defies my reason…”

I looked at him intently. He resembled Apollonius more than ever.

“Father, do you not remember,—long, long ago,—I spoke to you of this? Do you remember?”

The Bishop squinted his eyes and rubbed his forehead several times. “I think… I remember… It seemed, indeed for a moment…that I had really met you before… Memory alas, is a sieve…”

We remained silent for a long time.

“But I beg you, tell me your marvelous experience under the seal of the confessional. Your words shall remain a secret for all time.”

He made the sign of the Cross.

“There are some things I should like the world to know, Father.”

“I shall divulge to the world any message with which you may charge me.”

I pressed his hand. “So be it! Look at me well, Father. What is my nationality or my race?”

The Bishop scrutinized me carefully. “You may be of any race or nationality. And you may be of any age…thirty, perhaps, or sixty. There is something unreal about you…or maybe it is only the reflection of the moon.”

He shivered a little, and recoiled slightly.

Then, collecting himself, he said: “Tell me your story. My lips will be sealed after you unlock your breast—even” he whispered, “if you are Anti-Christ.”

The sun had already risen, but I continued to relate my adventures. The Bishop, spellbound, listened motionless, fearing perhaps that it was all a dream, that he might suddenly awaken, and the story remain untold.

At last my tale was finished. The Bishop, his head bowed, meditated.

“Father, do you believe my story?”

He nodded.

“Is it not too extravagant to be true?”

“Before God all things are possible, my son.”

“Except my conversion to Jesus.”

He looked at me sadly. “You will never know the meaning of happiness if you are not willing to accept Jesus. You have sought happiness for twelve hundred years; your eyes have beheld marvelous things—yet, what have you gained except disillusion?”

“Disillusion and a sense of humor.”

“Deep in your heart, you are still seeking happiness. Disillusion and humor merely protect you from pain.”

“I can conceive of no happiness based on the denial of reason!”

“Reason is only an ornament; it is not life itself. The futility of your struggle against Jesus proves that the universe moves by something greater than reason.”

“Is it greater…or is it smaller? Divine Unreason, perhaps!”

The Bishop smiled. “Forgive me if I say that your obstinacy proves you are still a Jew.”

“A characteristic I share with the founder of your religion, Father. Life requires obstinacy. Man accomplished his growth from savagery by his unconquerable tenacity. Nature is a mountain of iron and rock. Man is a hammer!”

“Ah…if Jesus could persuade you through me! What glory and power you would bring His Kingdom!”

“Who knows, Father? Perhaps he lives only because I am his enemy…”

“He lives because He is.”

“And I…?”

“Because He wills it.”

“He also willed that I suffer always, that I consider life an endless torment…and yet…”