Paul lay dazed on his bunk. He had lost all track of time, but he thought it might be morning. He'd slept but he didn't know how long. His body and head ached, yet he felt ashamed that he had succumbed so quickly. For centuries Christians had been tortured for their faith. Many of them had faced lions or burning at the stake. Peter, so the story went, had been crucified head down. Accounts of their martyrdom were the living legends of the Church, and every novice thrilled to hear about their suffering and perseverance.

But he wasn't a martyr. He had been strung up for probably no more than an hour and hit three times. None of his bones here broken. There wasn't a mark on him, except for the bruises on his ankles. There might also be bruises between his legs, but he didn't want to even think of telling anyone about that. Khan was clever. He'd known how to get to Paul without leaving any real evidence of torture.

Paul crawled off his bunk and shuffled to the water bucket. He was really thirsty now, but he had only a little water left. He had lost some water to sweat during the interrogation, and he hadn't had much to drink since last night.

He sat carefully on the end of the bunk. The pain was tolerable if he kept his weight back on his buttocks. Again, he fought to get control of himself. Why wasn't he a stronger person? Why didn't he have more courage?

The sound of the door opening sent chills through his body. "Fr. Gill?" a voice whispered.

"Yes," he replied warily.

"If you'll give me your water bucket, I'll fill it for you."

Paul stood up slowly, reached for the water bucket, and passed it to the guard in the door.

"I'll be right back," the guard said, as he closed the door quietly and locked it again.

Paul hadn't seen this guard before. He wondered why the guard was being nice to him. Maybe they were trying to soften him up, before interrogating him again. Or, maybe the guard was secretly a Christian.

When the guard returned with a full bucket of water, Paul decided to confront him. "Why are you helping me?" he asked. "Are you a Catholic?"

"I'm a Muslim, Fr. Gill. But I believe that Allah wants us to be kind to all people, whatever their religious beliefs. I'm sorry you're being treated so badly here. It isn't right."

Paul held out his hand to the guard. "Thank you for the water. And thank you for sharing your faith with me."

"May Allah keep you safe," the guard replied, as he shook Paul's hand. Then he quickly stepped back out of the door, closed it softly, and locked it once more.

Paul took a long drink of water before he put the bucket back on the floor. The drink made him feel much better. He walked slowly around his cell for several minutes, trying to work the stiffness out of his ankles. Then he carefully went through a series of stretching exercises. The dull pain in his crotch was constant, but he felt better after he had stretched his arms and legs and rotated his body and head. I've got to do this every day, he thought, to keep limber and mentally alert as well.

He sat down gingerly on the bunk and took a few deep breaths. The groans of the men being tortured in the prison sent a shudder of fear and revulsion through his body. Jesus, be with these poor souls in their suffering, he prayed. And be with me, whatever may come.

His silent prayer was interrupted by the sound of the door being unlocked. He looked up, hoping to see the friendly guard again, and was astounded when Bishop Rawlings stepped into the room. The door closed behind him, and Rawlings hesitated a moment. Then he sat down on the bunk and looked intently into Paul's eyes. "I see they've gotten to you. I had hoped to get here before that."

"Wha-What are you doing here?" Paul stammered, ashamed that Rawlings had seen through him so easily.

"I don't have much time. It cost a lot just to get a few minutes with you. Listen closely. Soon a doctor will come to visit you. Go with him. He will transfer you to a hospital. From there we'll get you safely out of the country."

Paul was stunned. "How did you arrange that?"

"I have friends in the government, and you can do anything in this country with friends and money." Rawlings reached into his pocket and took out two tablets. "These are powerful pain killers. They should help you, until the doctor comes."

Paul took the tablets gratefully and popped them into his mouth. He'd learned how to swallow tablets without water when he was a child. It just took concentration.

"Thank you, Bishop Rawlings. You were the last person I expected to walk through that door. It's very kind of you to help me. But I can't leave the country, because one of the conditions of my bail for the murder charge is that I remain in Pakistan."

"I've taken care of that. If you go, the charges against you will be dropped."

Paul paused, not knowing how to say what he knew he had to say. Even if the charges against him were dropped, he couldn't leave. "I'm sorry, Bishop Rawlings. I can't accept your offer. If I take the deal and leave the country, the petition against the blasphemy law will also be dropped. We'll have gained nothing, and all those who have trusted in our strategy of resistance will be disillusioned."

"They're already disillusioned," Rawlings snorted. "I could see this coming. You want to be a martyr. You think your suffering will help other Christians in Pakistan. But you're wrong. Your suffering will bring about more suffering as other Christians try to emulate you. It's a false hope, Paul. You've got to compromise in Pakistan."

"I'm not trying to be a martyr," Paul replied sharply. "I know I'm too much of a coward to be a martyr. I already gave them the names of the Christian leaders after they hung me upside down for awhile. I've nothing to brag about. But I can't just walk away."

"That's exactly what you're going to do. Don't argue with me. I went to a lot of trouble to set this up. You can carry on the struggle for human rights in Pakistan from outside the country. You can go on a speaking tour, write articles, even go to the United Nations if your religious order will allow it. You can do more good for us outside than locked up inside as a blasphemer."

"I'm not a blasphemer," Paul retorted.

"I know that. But you've been accused of blasphemy because of a statement you made as a Christian. Don't you see what that means? If your case continues, the Muslims will be stirred up against the Christians. Every Christian will be in greater danger because of you. You owe it to all the Christians in Pakistan to take the deal I'm offering you. Stop putting your own pride before the best interests of the Church."

Paul was silent for a moment. Was he being selfish? Was this all about pride? No, he was sure that wasn't it. He had to stay in order to defend the right of Christians in Pakistan to affirm their faith. Staying wasn't a selfish act, it was a matter of principle.

"Bishop Rawlings, if Martin Luther King, Jr. had accepted a deal when he was in the Birmingham jail to leave the United States, would that really have been in the best interests of the African-American Christians in the South?"

"Get off your pedestal, Paul. You're not Martin Luther King, Jr."

"Of course not. He was a brave man, and I'm a coward. He didn't betray his friends, and I have. But the principle is the same. He stayed to resist injustice, and I have to stay to resist injustice."

"But he had the federal government of the United States to help him. You have nothing comparable. The US Congress passed a Civil Rights bill, and the federal courts protected the rights of minorities in the United States. This is not the way it is in Pakistan. You know that."

"Yes, but we have international law on our side. Moreover, there are a lot of Muslims in Pakistan who also want basic human rights to be supported by the laws of their country. Look at the risks Javed and Hassan have taken. And what about the Muslim political leaders who have been part of our public seminars?"

"These political leaders haven't supported the lawsuit against the blasphemy law. And if this case against you continues, they won't be willing to have any more public dialogues with Christians about minority rights."

"Bishop Rawlings, isn't it possible that the charge against me might turn the situation around in a positive way? If the government prosecutes me, that will draw international attention. A lot of pressure will be put on the government, maybe even economic sanctions. That turned South Africa around."

"It's more likely that the government won't prosecute you. But the extremists will stir up the mobs, and they will attack the Christian colonies. Then the government will use force to regain control and tell the world that it has to maintain a police state so it can protect its minority citizens."

Paul knew that was a real possibility. There was no way to guarantee that the extremists wouldn't do it, unless the government bought them off. Paul had to admit that the government had a strong position.

"But they'll have to prosecute me," he protested. "The longer they leave me in jail, the more international attention will be drawn to Pakistan. Probably they'll want a quick trial. If I'm found not guilty, that will be good for the Church. If I'm found guilty, all the Christian countries in the world will scream bloody murder. I think the government sees that. So it's likely that I'll be found not guilty."

"They might just release you," Bishop Rawlings said. "The religious extremists might agree to that, so long as they get to attack the colonies. But what kind of deal is that for the Christians in Pakistan? We aren't in control here, Paul, and the other side is smart. Don't think otherwise."

"Have you spoke with Bishop Gregory or my bishop?" Paul asked. "Do they agree?"

"I haven't talked with them."

"What!" Paul exclaimed angrily. "You were upset with me when I failed to consult with you before we announced publicly our petition against the blasphemy law, yet you haven't consulted with the two bishops in office in Karachi before devising this deal that will have enormous consequences for their churches?"

Rawlings flushed. "There wasn't time. I had to act for the good of our people. I know the political leaders in this country in a way these local bishops don't. I eat with them, I counsel some of their children, I belong to the same clubs. I can talk with them directly, and I'm telling you it's best that you leave this jail today and the country by tomorrow. My friends have agreed to help that happen. They think that this is best for the country, for all its citizens, and I agree. You have to agree."

"Now it's clear," Paul retorted. "Your political friends think this is the best strategy. You aren't doing this for the good of the Church. You're trying to ingratiate yourself with your friends in Pakistan. They want the issue to disappear, so you want me to disappear. You don't want me to advocate for human rights outside the country, and you'll make sure once I'm out of the country that my order puts me somewhere I can't cause any trouble."

"That's not it at all. Don't let your martyr complex take control of you, Paul. Think about how you can help to calm the situation."

Paul stared at Rawlings for a moment. Their faces were only eighteen inches apart. Both had spent almost all their lives in Pakistan, yet each saw the situation so differently. Paul wanted conflict that was nonviolent and offered hope of change. Rawlings wanted to smooth over every conflict in order to keep the status quo and work around it.

"Have you talked with the elders of the Christian colonies?" Paul asked. He knew the answer was no, but he wanted Rawlings to admit it.

"Don't play games with me, Paul. You know that they won't appreciate the political issues involved in this decision."

"The elders represent the people of the Christian colonies. They know what the people want. You should have consulted them."

"Don't give me advice about how to decide what's best for the Church. I was the presiding Bishop in this country for more than twenty years. I know that for the sake of the Christian community of Pakistan you need to get out of here soon. Don't fail me, Paul. You have a duty to the Church that you must fulfill."

Paul stood, although it hurt to do so. Bishop Rawlings also got to his feet. Rawlings stood a good half foot taller than Paul, but Paul stepped forward and looked up into his face.

"I'm not going. Tell your friends that there's no deal. Let them try me. I'm ready to defend my innocence and to accept the decision of the court."

Rawlings flushed and then started to say something, but bit his lip. His shoulders sagged. "I was afraid of this. Paul you don't know what this means. Believe me. It's best that you go. If you stay, your life is in danger."

"Bishop Rawlings, you know in your heart that I'm right to stay. You just can't admit it. I'm sorry to have to refuse. But I think my reasoning is sound."

Bishop Rawlings hesitated, then turned and knocked on the door. When the guard opened the door, he turned back and silently made the sign of the cross over Paul. Then he stepped into the hall and the door slammed shut. Paul listened as his footsteps echoed in the hall. He heard the security door slam, and then it was quiet again.

In the quiet of the cell Paul could hear once more the sound of screams, which filled him with fear. Yet, somehow, he felt more solidarity now with the victims and less concern for himself. When he had first heard the screams, he could think only of what he would do, if he were tortured. Now he knew he would break at once. He could let go of that part of his fear, and worry only about the pain. And having experienced that pain, he could identify with the victims who were screaming and pray for them.

"God have mercy on the prisoners in this prison," he prayed out loud. He slowly lowered himself to his knees. "Father, forgive me for I have sinned. I have betrayed my dearest friends. I have not had the courage to withstand suffering for my faith. And I have allowed fear of pain and anger at those who torture others to interfere with my calling to be a priest to all people in your name. Help me to be a disciple of Jesus. Help me to love those who are suffering here, and to forgive those who cause them to suffer. Help me to treat the guards with respect and to respond to Khan with dignity. Help me also to forgive Bishop Rawlings for trying to manipulate me for his own ends."

It was all clear to him now. Rawlings had to protect himself. But he probably thought that what was good for himself and his friends would be best for the whole Church. He was cut off from the reality of life in the Christian colonies. He saw the future only through the past. "Forgive Bishop Rawlings for his blindness," Paul prayed. "And forgive me, if I have judged him unfairly."

Was he trying to be a martyr? No. He was sure that Bishop Gregory would agree with his decision. He was less sure of his own Bishop. But he knew the elders would have been opposed to Rawlings' plan. He had made the right decision, but he didn't want to be proud about that. "Forgive me for my pride, Father. Help me to continue in what I know to be right without judging others who disagree, or feeling pride in my sense of righteousness."

What was to come now? He felt sure he would be released soon. The government wouldn't want this case to come to trial. They would hope it would blow over. Perhaps they would allow the extremists a free hand in the colonies for a time. The elders would have to try to prevent that from happening. Maybe they could train the young people in nonviolent resistance. If they were prepared, they could turn any attack on the Christian community into a publicity victory for their side. Now that the international media were watching, they would quickly pick up on whatever happened. But the government knew that, too, so it would probably keep the extremists in check.

He shuffled to the water bucket and drank deeply, then washed his hands and face, leaving only enough water to rinse with after using the excrement bucket. Painfully, he moved back to the bunk and lay down. He was glad that Rawlings had come. It had helped him think through the situation. Now he knew what to expect.

Before he drifted off to sleep, he saw the mouse come out of the hole. Too bad for you, he thought. There's no victim here now.