On either side of the shelving lawn or interspace were woods, the remains of an ancient forest that had once covered this hillside; paths wound sinuously through the woods, and, taking the one he had followed overnight, he passed under sycamore boughs, through some woodland to the terrace that he had crossed last night with a naked man on his shoulders. And he remembered how hard it had been to keep to the path overnight, and how fortunate it was that the gardener’s cottage was not locked, for if he had had to lay Jesus down he would never have been able to lift him up again on to his shoulder. He had done all he could to relieve his suffering. But Jesus, he said to himself, is lying in agony, and if he has regained consciousness he may believe himself buried alive. I must hasten. Yet when
