ofessing to be, if
not a Christian, at least a sincere inquirer after the truth, and an
ardent hater of the edict of persecution. Faustus had therefore promised
to conduct him to a private meeting of the Christians, where he might be
more fully instructed by the good presbyter, Primitius. In the short
summer twilight they therefore made their way to the villa of the
Christian matron Marcella, on the Appian Way, about two miles from the
city gates. A high wall surrounded the grounds. In this was a wicket or
door, at which Faustus knocked. The white-haired porter partly opened
the door, and recognizing the foremost figure, admitted him, but gave a
look of inquiry before passing his companion.

"It is all right," said Faustus. "He is a good friend of mine," and so
they passed on.

The grounds were large and elegant, fountains flashed in the soft
moonlight, the night-blooming cereus breathed forth its rare perfume,
and masses of cypress and ilex cast deep shadows on the pleached alleys.
But there was a conspicuous absence of the garden statuary invariably
found in pagan grounds. There was no figure of the god Terminus, nor of
the beautiful Flora, or Pomona, nor of any of the fair goddesses which
to-day people the galleries of Rome. In the spacious _atrium_, or
central apartment of the house, which was partially lighted by bronze
candalabra, was gathered a company of nearly a hundred persons, seated
on couches around the hall--the men on the right and the women on the
left. A solemn stillness brooded over the entire assembly. Near a tall
cadalabrum stood a venerable figure with a snowy beard--the presbyter
Primitius. From a parchment scroll in his hand he read in impressive
tones the holy words of hope and consolation, "Let not your hearts be
troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in me," and the rest of that
sweet, parting counsel of the world's Redeemer.

[Illustration: STAIRWAY TO CATACOMB.]

Before he was through, a procession with torches was seen approaching
through the garden. On a bier, borne by four young men, lay the body of
Lucius the martyr, wrapped in white and strewn with flowers--at rest in
the solemn majesty of death from the tortures of the rack and scourge.
The little assembly within joined the procession without, and softly
singing the holy words which still give such consolation to the stricken
heart, "Beati sunt mortui qui in Domino morientur--Blessed are the dead
who die in the Lord," through the