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harsh, suffering voice rang out:
'Name?'
'Mine? ' enquired the prisoner hurriedly, his whole being expressing
readiness to answer sensibly and to forestall any further anger.
The Procurator said quietly :
'I know my own name. Don't pretend to be stupider than you are. Your
name.'
'Yeshua,' replied the prisoner hastily.
'Surname?'
'Ha-Notsri.'
'Where are you from? '
'From the town of Gamala,' replied the prisoner, nodding his head to
show that far over there to his right, in the north, was the town of Gamala.
'Who are you by birth? '
'I don't know exactly,' promptly answered the prisoner, ' I don't
remember my parents. I was told that my father was a Syrian. . . .'
'Where is your fixed abode? '
'I have no home,' said the prisoner shamefacedly, ' I move from town
to town.'
'There is a shorter way of saying that--in a word you are a vagrant,'
said the Procurator and asked: ' Have you any relations?'
'No, none. Not one in the world.'
'Can you read and write? ' ' Yes.'
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