yed to the sick-houses; one
only was left whom they had not been able to move. He was lying on a
mattress between two of the columns at some little distance from Agne,
and the light of a lamp, standing on a medicine-chest, fell on his
handsome but bloodless features. A deaconess was kneeling at his head and
gazed in silence in the face of the dead, while old Eusebius crouched
prostrate by his side, resting his cheek on the breast of the man whose
eyes were sealed in eternal sleep. Two sounds only broke the profound
silence of the deserted hall: an occasional faint sob from the old man
and the steady step of the soldiers on guard in front of the Bishop's
palace. The widow, kneeling with clasped hands, never took her eyes off
the face of the youth, nor moved for fear of disturbing the deacon who,
as she knew, was praying--praying for the salvation of the heathen soul
snatched away before it could repent. Many minutes passed before the old
man rose, dried his moist eyes, pressed his lips to the cold hand of the
dead and said sadly:

"So young--so handsome--a masterpiece of the Creator's hand! . . . Only
to-day as gay as a lark, the pride and joy of his mother-and now! How
many hopes, how much triumph and happiness are extinct with that life. O
Lord my Saviour, Thou hast said that not only those who call Thee Lord,
Lord, shall find grace with our Father in Heaven, and that Thou hast shed
Thy blood for the salvation even of the heathen--save, redeem this one!
Thou that are the Good Shepherd, have mercy on this wandering sheep!"

Stirred to the bottom of his soul the old man threw up his arms and gazed
upwards rapt in ecstasy. But presently, with an effort, he said to the
deaconess:

"You know, Sister, that this lad was the only son of Berenice, the widow
of Asclepiodorus, the rich shipowner. Poor, bereaved mother! Only
yesterday he was driving his guadriga out of the gate on the road to
Marea, and now--here! Go and tell her of this terrible occurrence. I
would go myself but that, as I am a priest, it might be painful to her to
learn of his tragic end from one of the very men against whom the poor
darkened youth had drawn the sword. So do you go, Sister, and treat the
poor soul very tenderly; and if you find it suitable show her very gently
that there is One who has balm for every wound, and that we--we and all
who believe in Him--lose what is dear to us only to find it again. Tell
her of hope: Hope is everything. They say