Peter, James and John were terribly sleepy. Twice they had fallen asleep despite the distant sounds that came to them now and then through the trees as a chance draft of wind carried Jesus' voice to them.

Twice He had come back and found them nodding with heavy heads, unable to stay alert. Each time He had seemed irritated with them and had said to Peter, "What? Are you sleeping? Couldn't you watch with Me for one hour? Watch and pray so you don't enter into temptation; the spirit is willing, but the body is weak."

He had turned on His heel then and disappeared into the night again.

Peter tried praying.

"Our Father, who art in heaven," he began. Soon he found his mind wandering as he fought sleep and, ashamedly, tried to force his tired mind back to the things he prayed for, especially that Jesus could somehow be strengthened and overcome this deeply heavy mood He was in. But again Peter found himself almost repeating the same things until, without realizing it, even in prayer, he had nodded off.

This time he jerked awake with a start.

Peter's buzzing head tried to sort out where he was. Oh, yes, he had been praying again, only a few minutes ago. But Jesus was saying He had been gone for another hour, at least. He looked at James, John, and then at Peter, and said with a tone of resignation, "Go ahead. Sleep now, and take your rest. The hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners."

The saying startled Peter; he recognized the touch of sarcasm. Apparently Jesus knew something terrible was about to happen and was rebuking them again for being unable to hold their eyes open and not watching for Him.

But with that statement Peter knew it would be impossible to sleep again this night. How could he doze off and give sleep to his aching body when Jesus was wide awake and watching them so closely, obviously disgusted with them all?

Peter thought he heard a distant clinking of metal.

It was still night, punctuated only by the inquiry of a night bird off below them and the cry of a child from the valley. The crystal skies glittered brightly from these nippy heights, with the stars seeming to dance and wink from the distance. A rustling sound wafted to them, and Peter thought he heard the hooves of an animal striking stone. Winking torches shone now and then, moving in a jerky fashion as if a group of men were doubling back on a series of steep switchbacks along the trail.

Peter wondered what could possibly send a group of men out at this unearthly hour. Perhaps it was another coterie of soldiers chasing Barabbas again. Peter had heard he was only hours away from capture.

Standing, Jesus stared down the hill, seeing the winking torches and hearing the dull clatter and jingle of many animals and men laboring along the pathways. A muffled cry came to them as someone stumbled over an obstacle in the night.

"Get up!" Jesus said urgently, and with a note of resignation He added, "Let's be on our way now, because the one that betrayed Me is here at hand!"

Betrayed Him?

Who? Who could have done such a thing? Peter thought they were safe enough here. The Mount of Olives was up above all the normal trails; only goats and herdsmen ever came up here. It was a steep, laborious climb from the trail below that went to Bethany. He knew they could easily escape only by slipping down the other side.

Instead of turning to the east and climbing higher, toward the topmost ridge and so to escape, however, Jesus beckoned them to follow Him back along the route they had come.

When they came to the small clearing, it was to see obscure shapes rising here and there as several of the other disciples were piling out of their robes at the increasing noise of the arriving party.

Without warning, a group of officers lit lanterns above them, and another armed contingent trotted around below and began climbing to cut off escape from the route they had just traversed.

There must have been more than two hundred of them, Peter realized, and many of them had been creeping up in the dark while the main party was making plenty of noise coming up the trail. The torches burned sullenly, giving off black wisps of soot and casting yellowed light upon the motley looking crowd.

Here was Judas, standing right next to several of the high priests, and several of the leading scribes. Here were members of the Sanhedrin, Peter saw with a shock!

They were surrounded—and nothing they could do about it now! But why? Why hadn't they gotten away when they still had the chance?

There was no way they could have been trapped so effectively unless someone had known exactly where to look. That someone was Judas! Peter knew it now!

Spears and burnished helmets gave off flickers of torchlight as the armed men moved into a circle, drawing swords, while others were fixing arrows into their bows.

Jesus walked right up to the leaders and said, "Whom do you seek?"

There was some mumbling and Peter heard one say, "Jesus of Nazareth."

Jesus said, "I am He!"

At that, the front rank seemed to step involuntarily back. One little rotund fellow tripped over the hem of his long robe and fell into a soldier behind him with a long spear planted on the ground. He fell, and the spear swung a wicked arc, slashing another across the chest, who threw up his arms and shouted, falling back into another man behind him.

Peter's incredulous eyes saw the entire group falling away backward in a tangle of clothing, spears, torches and weapons! A muffled shout, and three men came flying apart, one of them stamping uselessly on a torch, beating at sparks glowing from his clothing. Another was yelling loudly, trying to extricate himself from two others who were standing on his robes.

The high priest, his dignity destroyed, came to his hands and knees and then slowly stood up, brushing at his clothing, speaking sharply to the little scribe at his side. The scribe tried to rearrange his clothing and, drawing a note scroll from his pack, took out writer's pen and held it poised over the sheet of papyrus, beckoning to one of the men who was retrieving a blazing torch to hold it nearer, and steady the thing so he could see.

Peter's hand was on his sword; they had missed a marvelous chance.

Somehow Jesus must have done that just by His word! He had said, "I'm the One," or something like that, and suddenly they just began toppling over like so many cornstalks in a high wind. Peter had never seen anything quite like it. If it weren't for the deadly danger here, he was sure he would have laughed uproariously at the sight of these dignified religious fanatics all tangled up in a welter of arms, legs, spears, bows and torches.

Judas sidled forward, dark eyes glittering, and grasped Jesus on the shoulders, kissing Him lightly on the cheek, saying, "Master!"

"Judas! Do you mean you would betray the Son of Man with a kiss?" Jesus asked. Judas looked away, not answering. The priest's servant reached for Jesus to seize Him.

This was it!

Now they knew without a doubt exactly which one was Jesus Christ!

Now Peter had to do something!

Peter drew his sword and with a bellow of rage tried to kill the closest man. He was the servant of the high priest, standing closest to the priest and next to Judas. Peter knew the others would be grabbing weapons from the men who were still trying to untangle themselves, and knew bows would be useless at this range, as would the longer spears. Swords would do it—daggers, and bare fists!

And Peter was ready! All the pent-up rage and frustration of three and a half years of waiting burst forth like a broken dam inside Peter, and he saw red.

He seized his Roman short sword and brought it down in a glistening arc atop the first man's head that stood in the way

Malchus saw it coming and with a scream threw up an arm and dodged. Peter's sword missed the top of his head and severed his ear! The man fell to his knees, hand held to his head, blood welling from between his fingers.

Several of the other disciples made as if to grab at the men closest to them, and two of the soldiers tried to level their spears. Swords whistled out of scabbards, and one man leapt atop a rock and reached into his quiver for an arrow. Shouts echoed amongst them, but Jesus' voice quieted them all.

"Put up your sword!" he shouted to Peter. His voice was so commanding that Peter could only stand, sword at his side, looking at Malchus, who was staring at his ear lying in a pool of blood.

Everyone halted right where he was, the man on the rock with an arrow only half drawn from the quiver on his back, and Romans with spears poised.

"Put your sword back into its scabbard! " He ordered Peter and the others. "Don't you know that those who take up the sword shall die by the sword?" He said, powerful voice rising!

"Don't you understand that I could beseech My Father and He could send Me more than twelve legions of angels?"

Stooping, He picked up Malchus' ear and, wiping off the dirt clinging to it, gently took the sobbing Malchus' hand away and placed the ear back against his head.

Looking up to heaven, He spoke a brief word and took away His hand.

Peter's eyes about bulged from his head! Malchus' ear was whole! It stayed right there—no more blood—exactly as it had been! Jesus had healed it!

A mutter went through the crowd at this, but most had not seen what happened, their view being blotted out by the night and those in front of them.

One of the men seized Jesus' arms and began winding a rope about His wrists. "Are you come out here against Me like I was a robber, with swords and spears to arrest Me? I sat there daily in the temple teaching, right out in public, and you didn't take Me! But I'm telling you this is happening that the Scriptures might be fulfilled, and this is your hour, your terrible hour of darkness . . ."

Peter looked wildly about and faded back into the night at Jesus' rebuke. As Jesus was seized, Peter began mingling with the others. The rear guard was rushing toward them now, attracted by the shouts and the flicker of the torches that had been dropped.

In the confusion Peter found John and said, "I'm getting out of here before they kill us all!"

John dropped behind a large olive tree and, ducking his head, began sliding on his heels straight down the hill. Peter ran crabwise, scuttling along from boulder to boulder and tree to tree. He saw other running shapes here and there and once collided with another man, who let out a muffled yelp of fear, and continued on. They were all scattering like a covey of quail.

As he ran, a growing, unreasoning, blind rage seized him. He was trembling with shame and anger! He had been betrayed, he thought! What was Jesus? Why had He allowed this to happen? Why? He could have stopped it!

Should he have disobeyed Jesus' ringing command? Should he have killed a soldier or one of the priest's servants, or the priest himself?

But, if Jesus could raise Lazarus after four days, and had just stuck Malchus' ear back on his head, wouldn't He just have spoken the word and the sword wound would have been healed?

Peter felt hopelessly frustrated.

He had been so sure the other day when Jesus ascended the steep trail across the way on the old man's new foal, and when the thousands had shouted about Him being king! So sure when He had again overthrown the money changers' tables and confronted the Pharisees in the temple!

But now He had willingly let them take Him!

Peter's breath came in ragged gasps, his big legs churning, chest heaving, sweat running down his back as he moved as fast as he could along the steep slopes, dodging around the shadowy shapes of olive trees, stones, a small retainer wall now and then, and leaping over stumps and deadfall branches.

Probably by now He was dead, Peter thought. Like a magnificent castle in the sky, his hopes and dreams came crashing down into the blackness of this chaotic night. Now there was nothing left but his laboring breath and the distant torches back up there on the hill that were now beginning to form into a file and move along slowly.

Finally, exhausted, he stopped.

He had traveled perhaps three furlongs or more, completely around the lower shoulder of the mountain, until he was now about three hundred feet lower and within an easy walk of the main trail to Bethphage and Bethany.

His chest was heaving wildly, and his breath came in wheezing gasps, his heart pounding so noisily he could hear its beat against his ears. His back dripped with rivulets of sweat, and his hands were slick. He wiped them on his skirt and saw a lantern lit in a home below. Sweat dripped down inside his beard and tickled his chin.

He was alone here and safe for the moment, so slumped against the deadfall he had just jumped. He tried to rest momentarily. His thoughts raged on, a confused jumble of screams, torches, shouts, Jesus' commands and Judas' leering face as He kissed Jesus. Peter had never known a feeling of such utter, total defeat.

He wondered if he should have allowed himself to be arrested with Jesus, wondered if he should have disobeyed that command and struck out again and again until he had killed as many as he could before they ended his life.

He was suffering the shame and doubts of cowardice, and yet he excused himself, remembering how he was the only one who had possessed the courage to take action. Everyone else had stood meekly by, he rationalized, while he, Peter, had staked his life on that first blow.

How could he have imagined Jesus would stop him?

To Peter, the statement about selling your very clothing for a sword was the signal that Jesus meant business this time, that the beginning of the revolution was at hand!

He shouldn't feel cowardly, but his conscience tormented him for ducking and running like that. "Better a living dog than a dead lion" though, he quoted from Solomon, feeling little comforted.

He would have to work his way back to Joseph's town house, where he figured some of the others would be gathering. Among the whole ten dozen of Jesus' followers, there weren't more than three who actually owned property in Jerusalem, but Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathaea had substantial houses there, and they would be safe, though he hated to compromise Nicodemus, knowing that he would be unwillingly dragged into the mess.

Was Jesus dead? Had they killed Him on the spot?

More likely they intended making some public display to offset all the furor His teachings had caused.

And to think this was the Passover!

Why, only hours ago they had sat there eating, never thinking anything like this could happen. Only hours ago they had sung that song together.

When daylight came they would be readying the Passover sacrifice down in the main courts of the temple, and people would be going about their business as usual. Probably the Romans were alerted to all this; nothing took place without them knowing, and Pilate tolerated no nonsense from the token government, even if he remained aloof from their weird religion, talking to his Roman gods and wondering at these voluble, excitable people.

Peter's breathing slowed and he stood, looking this way and that, listening.

The procession of torches came into distant view; it appeared their number had grown now, and they were climbing the trail up the east slope below the city, intending to go into the main gate, no doubt.

Peter took out his sword again and, seeing a trace of blood on its blade, wiped it on the grass, hitched up his belt, wiped his beard and face again and set out. He crossed Kidron far below the others and started up the steep slopes.

Climbing rapidly, he paralleled the route of the mob, remaining above them and staying well back in the shadows, entering the city behind them.

Peter doubted he would be recognized, for it was past midnight and quite dark here in the narrow streets.

Peter hung well back as the boisterous crowd went to Annas' house, unable to hear anything that transpired. Soon they came to some decision, for they turned up another street that led to a large courtyard, flanked by the house of the high priest, Caiaphas. Annas was the father in-law to Caiaphas, Peter knew, and Caiaphas was the priest of the yearly course, so they must have wanted counsel from Annas first.

As they shouted and shoved their way along, the curious lighted upper windows and called out to the crowd below, asking what was happening. Peter was surprised when he saw another furtive figure like himself drifting along from shadow to shadow behind the last of the hangers-on of the crowd.

The court of the high priest was just ahead, and the crowd had filed through the gate, which was being closed in the face of several of those who had followed. However, after noisy consultation it was reopened, and Peter saw the shapeless form of a servant girl clad in a bulky robe against the chill night tending the gate latch.

Peter paused opposite the other man when a sound came from that direction.

"Peter?" a voice asked.

"John, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me—where are all the others?"

"I don't know," Peter said ruefully. "I haven't seen any of them since everyone took off in all directions back up in the olive groves.

"I guess everyone got scared and ran—I did," John said, crossing the narrow street and standing beside Peter in the shadow of the wall.

"So did I," Peter said quietly. "So did every single one of us, except that rotten Judas!"

"Yes, I caught a glimpse of him not long ago. It looked like he was arguing with one of the priests and not getting anywhere."

"I wonder what they paid that traitorous dog?" Peter rasped, thinking of Judas' thieving, secretive ways and the simpering way he had singled out Jesus with a kiss.

"Don't know, but I'll bet it was plenty, if they ever let him live to collect it. You know how tight some of those men are with money. They might have bribed him with an empty promise and Judas might find out his treachery comes back on his own head."

"I hope so, but I hope even more that I get to find him again someday. I'd like to take his precious money bag and cram it down his throat! "

"I know," John sighed. "No matter how much we have been taught against violence, when the violent resort to violence it sometimes triggers something inside us and we react. "

"You think I shouldn't have struck out at Malchus?

"I'm not judging you, Peter. I wanted to do something myself. But you know I'm not armed, and Jesus rebuked you pretty sternly, even though it meant His arrest. "

"Well, I'm not going to abandon Him yet. He may need us soon, if He's going to attempt some great sign or perform some wonder, to escape!" Peter said.

"Let me go on into the courtyard. That servant girl doesn't know I'm—one of the disciples."

"Can you get me inside too?" Peter asked.

"I'll try. Stay here until I talk to her."

It was chilly now, and the sweat coursing down Peter's back made his inner wrap stick tightly to his shivering body. Probably it was more than just the crisp night that made him shiver.

John had been inside for some minutes now, and the shouts and arguments from the large, lighted room across the courtyard came clearly to Peter. The dancing colors on the higher walls bespoke a large fire in the court, and Peter found himself dearly longing to turn his shivering back to its warmth.

He moved back in the shadows and crept closer to the gate, dodging out of sight when two more men came running up and were given entrance.

The gate was left slightly ajar this time, and yellow light came from within. The maid must have accompanied the two newcomers away from the gate, and Peter slid noiselessly closer, peering over the gate to see inside.

He was just in time to see John talking to the servant girl, who turned, looked at Peter's distant form by the open gate and ran over to him. Probably she thought she would be in trouble for leaving the gate untended, the latch open and the gate ajar.

She opened it wider, beckoning Peter inside the courtyard, and made as if to close the gate, when she stopped, peering closer at Peter, and asked, "Are you one of this man's disciples?"

Peter paled.

What would he do? If he turned and ran, she would scream to some of those Romans by the fire, and the courtyard was alive with men. The shouts and noise of the brightly lit room beyond came echoing clearly across the stones of the court, and two of the men by the fire had turned their way and were staring curiously at Peter and the maid.

Nothing to do but brazen it out now. Peter lied.

"I am not!" he said, haughtily, hoping his tone implied that a mere snip of a servant girl had no business questioning one of her betters.

He brushed by the girl and went to the fire in the center of the courtyard, drawn to the fire by the cold that seeped through his body. He hitched up his sword, smiled at two or three of them and sat down on the stones, turning his back to the flames and keeping his face in the shadows.

John was nowhere to be seen, and Peter wondered where he was—wondered, too, if Matthew or Luke or anyone else had been able to conceal himself and join the crowd; whether they were even now inside, with Jesus and His tormentors. Peter knew it was worth his life to walk into that room, for Malchus would be in there, and his master, Caiaphas.

How could they do it? How could a man who had just experienced one of the most amazing miracles of his whole existence be in there calling for the death of the very One who had put his miserable little ear back on his head? Did he convince himself it hadn't really happened? Did he imagine it was some kind of black magic? Peter shook his head.

Surely they knew better!

The men around the fire were talking quietly. Obviously they were some who had surrounded Jesus and the disciples on the Mount of Olives. Peter kept his eyes averted from them except for a covert glance now and then, seeing that three of them wore their burnished breastplates, helmets, leather-plaited skirts, heavy leather and metal greaves, and were armed with swords. One man had a plumed helmet that marked him as an officer. Two of them had laid down their shields, and two short spears lay beside the shields on the other side of the fire. They were illiterate Carthaginians, Peter thought, mercenaries conscripted from the villages of North Africa and given the choice of the galleys or the army. No one given such a choice would choose anything except the Roman legions. Years in a strange land with little pay, harsh quarters and brutal toil were better than pain-wracked, sure, slow death laboring at a chained seat in a slave galley.

Peter knew he was no swordsman, and knew the other men were trained well in their military arts. His life was in jeopardy every moment here, especially dependent on the outcome of that kangaroo court taking place over there in that large, lighted room from which terrible sounds were coming.

Peter gathered up his skirt about his leg and clutched his hands around his knees, stretching his back out toward the fire.

The large inner room used for hearings opened directly onto the court, and Peter saw a considerable crowd inside. Now and then he saw arms raised, fists clenched, falling on someone within the crowd.

Epithets reached him.

"Prophesy!" someone shouted.

"Yes, Prophet," a sneering voice raged. "Since You can't see, tell us who is striking You!" The smacking sound of fists hitting flesh could be heard, and Peter heard several loudly spitting—and laughing.

The swirling crowd palled momentarily for the high priests to address Jesus again.

Peter moved around the fire, peering toward the opening, which had not been covered against the cold for the press of bodies within. Caiaphas demanded, "Are You the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?"

Peter heard part of Jesus' answer. Where was John? Had he actually gotten inside with the others?

". . . I am . . . see . . . Son of Man. . . clouds of heaven . . ." Peter heard, indistinctly.

The quick glimpse he got of Jesus showed they had tied His hands behind His back and had covered His eyes with a blindfold. There was spittle glistening on His brow, in His hair and on His short beard.

Peter saw the priest, Caiaphas, grasp his vestment and tear at it in frenzied rage. "What further need of witness have we?" he shrieked. "You have all heard this blasphemy! "

The crowd roared again and began pummeling Jesus anew.

Peter was sickened, and kept urging Jesus in his mind: "Do something! I can't fight them all!" He found his hands clammy with sweat, and he was trembling again.

The group had knocked Jesus down, and as the mob swarmed about Him He was lost to Peter's view. Though Peter could hear the sounds of a beating, he never heard Jesus cry out once.

Sickened, wondering what would happen, Peter could only turn back to the fire, the indecision in him complete. He could hardly charge in there and assault more than a hundred men! These rough and burly fellows outside with him, and the two beside the gate, were all armed, and the light shone off the tips of spears inside. They would surely kill him before he could even reach Jesus' side. Failing that, they would arrest him for trying to interfere with constituted authority or some other charge, and then they would stone him to death.

One of the men at the fire rubbed his hands together, glanced at the door and then studied Peter closely. The maid left the outer gate, came to the fire, speaking quietly to two of the men, and put out her hands to the flame.

"You were with that Nazarene, weren't you?" she asked.

Peter pretended not to hear, glancing away innocently and looking again at the crowd inside.

"You—the big man with the Roman sword—you were with that Nazarene inside. You're one of His followers, aren't you?" she persisted, more loudly. The others were looking narrowly at him now, and Peter tried to bluff it out.

"Woman, I have no idea what you are talking about. I don't know of whom you speak!"

"No, you were with Him," she said again.

"Blast it!" Peter said, loudly, as if trying to put this mere servant in her place. "I don't know what you're talking about! "

"But you're a Galilean, by your voice," said one of the men.

At this, seeing several of them had quit talking and were listening to the exchange, Peter began to curse and swear vehemently! He had to get them to quit boring in on him that way; he had to divert their attention, or he would be captured and be of no use to Jesus in any way!

He swore like a Sidonian fish trader and said loudly, "I don't know the Man!"

As the saying died on his lips, there was silence from within, and the men came with no ready retort. Peter heard the cock crow in the distance. The men shuffled their feet, and one of them let his sword, half drawn, slide slowly back into its scabbard.

"Truly, you must be one of them," the maid said again.

Peter lost his temper completely. He ranted and raged, cursed and swore, and shook his fist at the maid. "I don't know the Man! I have never met Him! I am not one of His followers! "

Just then the group inside stopped quickly. Peter glanced that way, seeing one of them retrieve the blindfold that had been ripped from Jesus' eyes during the buffeting they were dealing Him. In that split second, Peter heard a cock crow and found himself looking across the distance, straight into the puffy, bleeding, spittle-flecked face of Jesus! The eyes looked at him sadly, knowingly, dull with pain.

With a stifled sob, Peter tore himself away from the fire and, striding to the gate, opened it quickly and hurled himself into the street. The men let him go, thinking he was still angry with the maid and was leaving because of her.

Peter remembered, with a strangled sob, that only hours ago Jesus had said, "Before the cock crows twice, you shall deny Me thrice! "

Peter had claimed he would never deny Him!

But he had. Sickened, he knew he had.

He found a darkened doorway to one of the public buildings and, placing a brawny forearm against the stones, cried as if his great heart would break.

What followed was like a scene out of Gehenna.