the charge against its gates. Paul was engaged in the conquest of the
world for Christ, and Rome was the final position he had hoped to carry
in his Master's name. Years ago he had sent to it the famous
challenge, "I am ready to preach the gospel to you that are at Rome
also; for I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ, for it is the power
of God unto salvation to every one that believeth." But now, when he
found himself actually at its gates and thought of the abject condition
in which he was--an old, gray-haired, broken man, a chained prisoner
just escaped from shipwreck--his heart sank within him, and he felt
dreadfully alone.

At the right moment, however, a little incident took place which
restored him to himself: at a small town forty miles out of Rome he was
met by a little band of Christian brethren, who, hearing of his
approach, had come out to welcome him; and, ten miles farther on, he
came upon another group, who had come out for the same purpose.
Self-reliant as he was, he was exceedingly sensitive to human sympathy,
and the sight of these brethren and their interest in him completely
revived him. He thanked God and took courage; his old feelings came
back in their wonted strength; and, when, in the company of these
friends, he reached that shoulder of the Alban Hills from which the
first view of the city is obtained, his heart swelled with the
anticipation of victory; for he knew he carried in his breast the force
which would yet lead captive that proud capital.

It was not with the step of a prisoner, but with that of a conqueror,
that he passed at length beneath the city gate. His road lay along
that very Sacred Way by which many a Roman general had passed in
triumph to the Capitol, seated on a car of victory, followed by the
prisoners and spoils of the enemy, and surrounded with the plaudits of
rejoicing Rome. Paul looked little like such a hero: no car of victory
carried him, he trode the causewayed road with wayworn foot; no medals
or ornaments adorned his person, a chain of iron dangled from his
wrist; no applauding crowds welcomed his approach, a few humble friends
formed all his escort; yet never did a more truly conquering footstep
fall on the pavement of Rome or a heart more confident of victory pass
within her gates.

176. Imprisonment.--Meanwhile, however, it was not to the Capitol his
steps were bent, but to a prison; and he was destined to lie in prison
long, for his trial did not