ght
there was something in you special and extraordinary. There was a
gentleness and tenderness mingled with your strength which was new to me.
I said, Here is at last a god. My own gods are earthly, sensual; I have no
respect for them, no faith in them. But there is nothing better anywhere
else.... Alas!..." She started up, and said with vehemence, "I thought you
sinless; you confess to crime.... Ah! how do I know," she continued with a
shudder, "that you are better than those base hypocrites, priests of Isis
or Mithras, whose lustrations, initiations, new birth, white robes, and
laurel crowns, are but the instrument and cloak of their intense
depravity?" And she felt for the clasp upon her shoulder.

Here her speech was interrupted by a hoarse sound, borne upon the wind as
of many voices blended into one and softened by the distance, but which,
under the circumstances, neither of the parties to the above conversation
had any difficulty in assigning to its real cause. "Dear father," she
said, "the enemy is upon you."

CHAPTER XX.

HE SHALL NOT LOSE HIS REWARD.

There was no room for doubt or for delay. "What is to become of you,
Callista?" he said; "they will tear you to pieces."

"Fear nothing for me, father," she answered; "I am one of them. They know
me. Alas, _I_ am no Christian! _I_ have not abjured their rites! but you,
lose not a moment."

"They are still at some distance," he said, "though the wind gives us
merciful warning of their coming." He looked about the room, and took up
the books of Holy Scripture which were on the shelf. "There is nothing
else," he said, "of special value here. Agellius could not take them.
Here, my child, I am going to show you a great confidence. To few persons
not Christians would I show it. Take this blessed parchment; it contains
the earthly history of our Divine Master. Here you will see whom we
Christians love. Read it; keep it safely; surrender it, when you have the
opportunity, into Christian keeping. My mind tells me I am not wrong in
lending it to you." He handed to her the Gospel of St. Luke, while he put
the two other volumes into the folds of his own tunic.

"One word more," she said; "your name, should I want you."

He took up a piece of chalk from the shelf, and wrote upon the wall in
distinct characters,

"Thascius Caecilius Cyprianus, Bishop of Carthage."

Hardly had she read the inscriptio