And very early in the morning, the first day of the week, they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun.

It is the ghostly hour before dawn. The latest wayfarer has long since sought his belated bed; the earliest riser has not yet stirred abroad. The stars, wheeling in their silent courses, look down upon the holy city, "and all that mighty heart is lying still." But wait! Something yonder, moving among the shadows! As our eyes become accustomed to the gloom we glimpse a second and a third figure holding rendezvous at the bend of the road, by the cypress trees. Three women, trudging down a lonely road, while a city lies asleep, and the wheeling stars shine coldly down. The road takes them past a windswept hill where three grim crosses are silhouetted against the luminous blue of t…