He was waiting.
All the people began to shout, to sob, to howl with a thousand voices of wild beasts and men: "Put Him to death! Crucify Him! Crucify Him!" And as though in self-mockery, as though wishing in one moment to plumb the very depths of all possible degradation, madness and shame, the crowd cries out, sobs, and demands with a thousand voices of wild beasts and men: "Release unto us Barabbas! But crucify Him! Crucify Him!" But the Roman had evidently not yet said his last word.

Over his proud, shaven countenance there passed convulsions of disgust and anger.
He understood! He has understood all along! He speaks quietly to his attendants, but his voice is not heard in the roar of the crowd.

What does he say?
Is he ordering them to bring swords, and to smite those maniacs?
"Bring water." "Water?
What water?
What for ?" Ah, lo! he washes his hands.

Why does he wash his clean white hands all adorned with rings?
He lifts them and cries angrily to the people, whom surprise holds in silence: "I am innocent of the blood of this Just Person.

See ye to it." While the water is still dripping from his fingers on to the marble pavement, something soft prostrates itself at his feet, and sharp, burning lips kiss his hand, which he is powerless to withdraw, glue themselves to it like tentacles, almost bite and draw blood.