 But revived in strength by the angels from heaven, he no longer quails, and from that hour he never utters a word which looked like renouncing the flight. From this terrible skirmish, red with sweat blood, he dashes into the thick of the battle. The kiss of Judas is the first sound of the trumpet. Pilate's bar, as it were, is the glittering of the spear. The cruel ash of the Roman scourge is the crossing of the swords. And listen.