Amidst the laughter and the babel of voices, Carnion's quick ear caught the magic word—Lion!
Turning round into his former place, "Is there a lion coming at last, my father?" he asked eagerly, while his dark eyes sparkled with emotion.
"Yes, my son."
"I am very sorry that Tharsos has gone," remarked the boy, looking at the vomitory (opening) of the staircase.
"He had, he was—rather, he preferred to go; perhaps it is better," said Titanus with a troubled absent look.
"What kind of lion is coming father?" enquired Carnion, his chief interest being in that direction.
"A great lion from Libya, my son, a beast fierce and hungry."
"And with what beasts is it going to fight? Will they be wild-boars, or bears, or tigers, or elephants? How I should love to see a big battle among them all! Tell me, father, what are the beasts to be." And the beautiful boy fairly shook with excitement.
The father did not speak for a moment. His brows lowered over large brown eyes, a crimson wave of shame and anger swept over his handsome face, followed by a subduing wave of pity, and then he spoke in a tone that surprised the ardent boy.
"Carnion," said he, "there is little likelihood that the lion will have anything to fight with."
"Why not, father?" asked the boy, feeling quite disappointed. "Will it only go round the arena and roar?"
"Were that all, my son, I should be exceedingly glad."
The boy was perplexed:—"What dost thou mean, father?"
"I mean, my son, that the lion is to find its prey in the form of a defenceless virtuous woman!"
The boy was amazed and his eyes were piercing. "My father," said he tremulously, "is it the lady Tharsos spoke of?"
"Yes, Carnion."
"Oh father, how cruel!" exclaimed the boy in great distress. "Will nobody fight for her and save her?"
"If any man be found bold enough to face the most formidable brute that ever sprang into the arena—that, and that only may save her," answered Titanus. "But the conditions are hard, so hard that I may say the case is well-nigh hopeless, and the man that would undertake it would either be a fool, impelled by inordinate greed, or filled with god-like self-sacrifice. Neither shield, nor spear, nor sword—nothing but a bronze dagger is to be allowed her defender, should one come forward, and he is to be naked but for a slight girdle around his loins."
"Is there no man compelled to fight, oh father?"
"No one, my son. The defence is voluntary. Both Demonicus and Telassar volunteered; the former is dead, and I fear the latter will back out. Who else would venture, I know not."
"Father," said the boy, in a trembling tone, yet with a ring of purpose in it, "wilt thou permit my absence for a little time?"
"Certainly, my son: it was in my mouth to bid thee look into the street for a little time; or if thy desire be to speak a word with mother thou mayest, but tell my name to thedesignator(seat-attendant). 'Titanus' is enough."
Carnion disappeared.
On the departure of Tharsos, Myrtis had turned and said—
"Thy brother's signal, as thou hast told me, Coryna. Come! let us go."
"It is, but—not yet, dear Myrtis," was the answer in a voice of gentle firmness.
"And in the face of thy brother's strong desire thou art waiting to witness the foul torture and death of a lady refined and good—our fellow-countrywoman too!"
"I shall not behold that," replied the maiden with earnest, hopeful light in her dark hazel eyes: "some brave man will appear; but if not, then I shall turn my back or fly when"—She dared not finish, and Myrtis added—
"When the lion springs. Oh! my Coryna, let us go. This is the work of demons."
"I cannot, Myrtis, I cannot. I shall know the end sooner here."
"There can be but one end, my dear. The cruel crafty managers, bribed to get rid of the maiden without more delay, as Tharsos informed thee, planned this well. What man with a mere dagger could slay a lion? A naked man too. Coryna, the whole work is contemptible, contemptible!" And the deep blue eyes of Myrtis flashed forth her scorn, as she looked down into the arena and scanned it swiftly round till her attention rested anxiously at the eastern end.
"The Romans love effect," Coryna answered bitterly, as she unconsciously twisted her long gold necklace around her thumb,—"The solitary fight will be a striking contrast to the battle that has been."
"There will be no fight, my dear. Who would take such a risk for a woman, a Christian too? But I shall wait with thee, Coryna, and get a glimpse of the poor maiden, and let us hope that her God will help her."
Coryna did not speak, but her expressive face told her gratitude and hope.
The conversation was stopped by the loud blast of trumpets, indicating that another awful act was to begin; and the great hum of voices ceased. The sand was clear of everything, as if a bare, vast, oval table, and all faces were turned toward the eastern extremity of the arena, morbidly hungering for more scenes of skill and blood.
Pathema was taken from prison, where she had been shut up for a long time; and the officer in charge was about to open a small door into the arena to lead her in, when a dark-haired boy, the son of illustrious parents, came forward with tears streaming down his noble face, and presented her with a cluster of white lilies. Accepting the flowers speechlessly but gracefully, the doomed maiden bent down with a full heart and kissed him. The lilies reminded her of Him who was made perfect through suffering, and they gave her renewed strength.
"Thy name, my darling?"
"Carnion," was the answer, broken and low.
Stooping down, Pathema put a gentle trembling arm around the boy and kissing him again, she said—
"My lovely one, God bless thee!"
The guard in uniform opened the door and led the innocent victim into the great arena.
"The maiden comes: see, yonder," said Coryna, looking intently towards her.
Myrtis spoke not, but strained her eyes to see.
The Christian maiden approached slowly in charge of the guard till she was placed in front of the pavilion where sat the emperor, clothed in a purple robe and on his head a laurel crown. Leaving her there, the guard withdrew without delay that the keeper might unbar a heavy iron gate for the wild beast to enter in and devour.
Pathema stood alone, a graceful form in flowing garments, within those spacious walls. Clothed in mockery in the white robe of a vestal virgin, yet she was a chaste virgin of Jesus Christ. Bound with a white fillet, her rich black hair, of lavish length, lay back in glistening waves. Her soft dark eyes were modestly towards the ground; once only were they raised, and then to a purer region than earth. Her face was pale and worn but eminently beautiful, with the light of heaven on her thoughtful brow. All around, thousands upon thousands of human eyes, gazing with inhumane curiosity, were an abashing and disturbing sight themselves. But with the solitary object of their gaze, the flow of mental energy was smoothly but strongly and consumingly in the channel of the spiritual emotions. The hidden struggle with conflicting streams of feeling was all gone through in the bitterness and supplications of the dungeon. The agony was past, and Pathema was resigned.
"That sad sweet countenance entrances me," said Myrtis, deeply moved. "Oh Coryna, I go, and yet I cannot! Whence that light and peace?"
Coryna replied not, for she could not. But from among thepullatior poor people, immediately below, an answer of a kind came. It was in the subdued voice of a shepherd from the mountains of Lycia. Orestes had nimbly escaped while Pathema was being removed from the prison not long before; but at the risk of recapture he had entered the amphitheatre, determined, like Peter, to see the end, not out of curiosity but of Christian love, hoping against hope. He sat at the end of a seat near one of thevomitoriaor doors of entrance from the internal lobbies in the shell of the building. Although his garb was soiled and worn, his face was thoughtful, humane and resolute, like the rugged rocks of Taurus. His remarks were not intended for other ears, but were the half-audible, broken sentences of an intense mind.
"Listen!" said Coryna, recovering herself, "he speaks in our own tongue; and they heard such expressions as—
"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding. Enduring—enduring! Life is but a fleeting breath at best. Corrupt—corrupt! Is not this foul spectacle around her the proof? She would not live for a human name—worthless from the low-viewed multitude—nor for pleasure, nor for mere living, at the price of loyalty to Christ. Yet she would live—live that she might humbly aid these people to rise up from the pit of the sensual savage mind—into the light, the glorious light. But she is rejected and despised. Like her Master, she must be sacrificed—in cruelty and shame. If it be possible, let this cup pass from her, I beseech Thee, O God!"
Pathema knew not that in the vast multitude above there was one—her fellow-countryman and co-worker, the humble shepherd of mount Taurus—pleading for her life with all the intensity of agonising pity. To her, mercy was a stranger within those living walls, yet with meekly bended head in steadfast trust she stood, bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the Nazarene.
The great iron gate was opened up. Into the arena proudly leaped a glowing-eyed gigantic brute, with tawny coat and heavy mane, the hungry king of the forest.
All eyes were directed towards him, but Pathema moved not.
"Now may her God help her!" exclaimed Myrtis, bending her head and burying her face in her hands; but unable to bear the strain, she rose up and left, leaving her companion absorbed and pained, and her husband down on thepodium, transfixed yet ashamed.
No wild-beast fighter having appeared—no one to gratify the craving for excitement—a great hum of disappointment soon ascended and rolled round the amphitheatre.
The lion raised his massive head as if in defiance, and uttered a mighty, vibrant roar.
The hum of voices stopped.
Pathema's heart trembled in the balance, as a topmast twig before the first breath of darkening storm. The mere finite fabric would surely have given way. But if the tremor lasted in varying degree, hesitation had perched for a moment only. Prolonged habit, woven in as metal cord, called forth the virtue told in the oft-read words—"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." Strengthened from above, she calmly turned her head and, as if also in defiance, fixed her eyes full upon the distant savage brute.
The hungry lion saw the human form—ah! this was strange choice game. He trod forward with swaying tail—he crept—he crouched low—he would soon spring—and that fair image of the divine would be struck down, torn asunder, bled and crunched in pieces!
Was there no eye to pity, none to save?
"Oh that I were a soldier, a gladiator,—no, just a man, a man!" said Coryna from the depth of a throbbing heart, "then would I rush to the rescue and save her or die!"
The shepherd could not stand the sight, and as he rose to go away his face was ghastly white. As he turned with vacant eyes to walk up thescalariaor steps to the door in thebalteusor wall behind, a voice at his elbow said in the Greek language—
"Here! take this true dagger, friend."
"Why?" replied the shepherd, looking bewildered.
"Dost thou not know the terms?" answered the Greek.
"I am a stranger. What terms?" Orestes asked eagerly.
"Oh, I thought thou hadst resolved to go to the woman's aid," replied the man, disappointed.
"Give me the dagger," said the shepherd, a red flush rushing into his cheek. He had now grasped the situation at a glance, and seizing the weapon without ceremony or further word, he sprang up three or four steps and passed through the vomitory of the wall to the stairs leading down to the lower part of the building.
Coryna heard and saw with joy, but with the racking pain of suspense, for the shepherd might be—(she dared not think it) would likely be—too late!
There was a brief, awful lull.
The lion would not leap while those calm heavenly eyes shone full upon him, and he would not as long as they retained strength. But if Pathema's head would bow down or turn aside, or if her vital force would go, and it could not last long, there would then be the sure and fatal spring.
During this critical pause, Carnion returned. He gave a half-expectant, eager glance down into the arena. Had there been a mere wild-beast battle—had the lion been face to face with an Indian tiger, the sight to the boy would naturally have been grand; but now it was perplexing and sore. He saw his thread-like hope of rescue broken—the monster glared upon a frail beautiful woman, and, as yet, there was no man. Turning aside, he bent his head on the back of the young officer's empty chair, and hid his tearful eyes, saying to himself despairingly—
"Will no brave man come, before it is too late?"
Another door opened up with a sudden bang, and behold! a fair-haired youth, almost naked, and armed with a simple dagger, stepped boldly into the arena. A great shout went up from the spectators, as, without the least delay, he ran forward and stood between the lion and its intended victim.
Coryna gave the would-be deliverer one bewildered, piercing glance, then instantly lowering her head she hid a face of death-like whiteness in hands clammy with a cold perspiration.
"Father, father, dost thou not know him?" cried Carnion, startled up with the bang and the shout, and quivering with mingled grief and joy.
Titanus, never without a feeble ray of hope, was yet thunderstruck when the combatant's identity dawned upon him; and though filled with admiration, he was visibly troubled.
The brave youth below stood erect and resolute, while the beast, disconcerted with the shout and the sudden check, rested back flat upon its limbs and belly. Like David of old when facing the giant, the young man came forward trusting in the God of Israel.
"Who is that courageous but foolhardy venturer?" enquired the emperor.
"Tharsos, of the praetorian guard, O sovereign."
"One of my noblest and wealthiest officers!" exclaimed the emperor; "yet let him go—he tends towards the detested Christians," added he haughtily.
Servilius, the pagan confidant of the emperor, but the enemy of Tharsos, was secretly delighted. "We shall soon get rid of him, and Emerentia will be mine," said he to himself, as he leaned over to take a satisfied, last look at the self-sacrificing nobleman below.
Pathema was struck with amazement, but inexpressibly grieved to think that the fair form of her defender would be speedily felled to the earth, and mangled, and devoured!
Tharsos did not stand on the defensive: he took the first step to battle; and the people gave a deafening shout of approval. He moved towards the formidable lion with slow but firm tread. The mysterious light of the steadfast human eye was unbearable—the suspicious beast rose up and skulked away, with trailing tail and with head turned partly round to keep watch upon its enemy. Tharsos held on steadily, purposing that if death should happen to him, it would be as far away as possible from the eyes of the sore-tried, desolate maiden.
When near the side of the arena right opposite the emperor, the lion howled with fear and sprang ten feet up towards the balcony, its eye-balls gleaming just a short space below Titanus and his eager boy.
Rising up quickly, Titanus placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Fain would he have leapt down to the aid of his beloved friend. Their eyes met for a moment; and, though pale and grave, Tharsos smiled.
Baffled in its leap, the brute turned sharply round, face to face with its determined pursuer, and uttered a terrific roar of rage. The issue would soon be decided, and the immense concourse of people held their breath, while Pathema turned away her head and offered up a silent prayer to Him who has power over the beast of the field.
Tharsos now drew slowly back, while keeping his eyes towards the enraged lion. Suddenly withdrawing his gaze, he turned and ran with swift and bounding steps straight for the eastern extremity of the arena, while the surprised spectators yelled their contempt after him. Then the man strangely swayed and tottered in front of the very door where the calm resolute woman had entered but a few minutes before.
"He plays the coward, he faints, curse him!" was heard on every hand, as they saw him finally throw up his arms and fall.
"The charge is false, false!" exclaimed an erect, indignant figure with a pale face up among the women. It was the voice of Coryna, but amidst the clamour she was not heard except by those immediately around her.
"Hear ye the madwoman!" cried they, as they scoffed and laughed.
The emperor, disappointed and even ashamed, sat in scornful silence. But Servilius, excited with malignant pleasure, laughed outright.
Then Titanus rose up and drew his glitter-sword. He stepped to the very edge of the balcony, Carnion at his side, and the eyes of the people catching sight of him, the loud storm of abuse instantly ceased.
"Too late, too late, and out of order!" Servilius fiercely cried, fearing the rescue of the man he unjustly hated.
"He who calls my friend Tharsos a coward!" exclaimed Titanus in clear ringing voice, "shall die. I challenge him to meet me next on the sand of that arena!"
And Coryna was unspeakably relieved.
But no man would wantonly accept the challenge, for Titanus was agile and strong, and was one of the most expert swordsmen in the Roman army.
There was, however, much excitement over this bold interruption and at the announcement of the name of the prostrate man, whose high rank was widely known.
The indignant Titanus was right—there was no cowardice. The multitude had entirely misjudged the tactics of the brave Tharsos. The fallen man lay quietly upon his back, with his face slightly toward the lion, and with his dagger closely clinched in his strong right hand.
Coryna's feelings were strung to the highest pitch. Her suspense was agony, but she would not have her brave brother elsewhere.
The ferocious beast, taken by surprise or freed from provocation, suddenly quieted down. It sat on its haunches for a moment, and looked after the fleeing man. Then it rose up, and preferring a fallen form to an erect, it followed him with light majestic tread. It came to within twenty feet of where he lay, and halted, sitting on its haunches again. Rising up, it walked around him twice, looking at him curiously all the time. Satisfied at last that it had an easy prey, it went forward softly, like a cat. Halting, it bent down to sniff the still, white, helpless-like figure, and to seize the flank.
The time for action had come. Swiftly Tharsos drew his arm, and with terrific force thrust the dagger right into the would-be devourer's heart!
With a mighty yell the lion leaped into the air, and fell heavily across the body of its destroyer—a dangerous struggle or two, and it was dead!
Then was the stratagem understood, and when it was coupled with the name and rank of the self-sacrificing victor, a thundering shout of applause filled the amphitheatre.
"Well done! brave Tharsos," said the Emperor proudly to the distinguished noblemen around him, who were all delighted, Servilius excepted, who vainly strove to conceal his deep displeasure.
Looking deliberately across the arena, the emperor caught Titanus' eye and smiled. That valiant officer rose up and saluted his sovereign with becoming dignity and grace.
"Oh father, what a grand fight," exclaimed Carnion, "and the Christian lady is free!"
"Yes, my son," replied the trustful soldier, resting back upon the chair for a moment with unutterable satisfaction, for the honor of his friend was upheld, and the virtuous maiden was saved.
The vast multitude were greatly gratified in their feeling of the sensational. Yet a few were stirred to better thoughts and high resolves, who would never otherwise be influenced. Thus in the providence of God does the wrath of man work out His purpose and praise.
The applause was at its height. But, strange to say, Tharsos moved not. The officials that had gone to his aid removed the huge dead lion from his body. Still Tharsos moved not. Something appeared to be wrong, and the great noise stopped. The spectators leaned forward and looked anxious. Was the dauntless destroyer himself destroyed? The attendants turned him tenderly over—when, alas! there was a frightful gash in his naked side, from which the blood was flowing freely into the sand. His face and lips were white, with an expression of peace, as if in death.
Titanus, deeply anxious, arose and hastened away to get the best physician he could find. As he disappeared he glanced upward to the colonnade, but Coryna, the sister, was gone.
Carnion remained to see more of the stricken man, and of the pale woman in the centre, silent, unnoticed, and alone.
Promptly but gently the attendants lifted up Tharsos and carried him from the arena. And as he passed from their sight the vast audience was hushed in regret.
Pathema also watched their movements and departure, fearing that the wounded youth was dead. Her heart yearned anxiously after him. Who was he that had so valiantly fought and bled for her? His name was Tharsos, and he was a brave, self-sacrificing nobleman—that was all she could tell. It was enough. Self-sacrifice vividly recalled another sacrifice, greater, perfect, and for all. The flood-gate of feeling could not be kept closed. She held the lilies in her drooping hand, she raised them, looked at them tenderly for a moment, then buried her face in them, and wept.
A herald now approached Pathema and formally announced that she was free, at the same time pointing to the open door through which they had borne the bleeding hero. But to the sensual undiscerning multitude, Pathema was no heroine. She was only a woman; and in those days when heathenism prevailed, women were not honoured as they are now. Besides, Pathema was to them a fanatic, a detested Christian, and at best but a stubborn, unbending, young woman. They knew not her supreme gentleness and modesty, which shrank from publicity like a sensitive plant from touch. They did not know that it was intense love and loyalty to her Head which gave her strength to dare even cruel death.
Pathema turned to leave the arena, but the tension and turmoil and reaction were now telling fast upon her fragile frame. As she walked away, her weakness was so great that she had the utmost difficulty to keep from falling, and it was only too visible; but she struggled on.
There was no sign of sympathy from the now talkative crowd, wailing for another scene of blood. They treated her with indifference—she was but a very secondary actor in the tragedy. Yet, though they knew her not, she was the greater victor, not that day alone, but in her past daily life of sacrifice. She was greater than he that slays a lion or takes a city!
Among the indifferent crowd there was one bright exception. Carnion, though not then a Christian, yet was fulfilling the beautiful words—"Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep." As Pathema walked away with bowed head and faltering steps, the lad stepped to the edge of the balcony, and waiving his silken handkerchief, called out—"Thy God bless thee!" And the sufferer heard the boy's sweet, strengthening voice, and struggled on.
Misunderstood and unregarded by the heartless multitude, yet Pathema's discipline and victory were the work of God, and they, even the greatest of them, were but the willing, guilty instruments. She was being fashioned through suffering in the truest beauty and for the highest honour—the beauty of holiness, which endures for ever. She walked meekly and painfully on, she reached the little door, and then she passed from their guilty presence,—a queen, though uncrowned.
The unconscious officer's wound was hastily but skilfully bound up and the blood stanched, he was raised in alecticaor litter, and carried home with great care to his mansion. In the quietest chamber of the house, he was laid upon a costly bed, one of rare wood with feet of ivory and with purple coverlets curiously broidered with gold.
Titanus, having done his utmost, had gone away with Carnion, much cast down, the more so that he was under command by the emperor to leave Rome immediately on foreign service.
Coryna was left beside her brother, with the physician and a faithful intelligent slave. The depth of her feelings could not be sounded, yet there was staying power of a kind. Grief, admiration and anxiety surged around a will of rock. Within, a whirling storm: without, a pallid calm. She watched for the first signs of consciousness as the eagle watches for its prey.
Tharsos lay as if in death, with the soft light of serenity still on his manly face and classic brow. He moved at last and opened his eyes.
"Where is the Christian maiden?" said he in dreamy feebleness, his expression changing into a look of anxiety.
Much relieved in tension, Coryna answered softly—
"Some kind one quickly conveyed her away, my brother, but I have sent several of our slaves over the city to find out her lodging-place and to enquire after her health."
A radiant joy covered his face, and he remained silent for a little. Then he spoke with quiet earnestness:—
"My sister, thou knowest her worth. Look after her, I pray thee, for her own sake, and for the sake of Him she serves so well. But"—and here he halted, trying painfully to take a deep breath.
"Speak not, my brother," said Coryna soothingly.
Becoming calm, he resumed—"Hasten the search, Coryna; ask the maiden to come and see me before I die. Tell her that I shall regard her visit as a kindness and honour. I desire much to speak to her, my beloved sister, to place thee in her care, and then I shall die in peace." Tharsos spoke these last words very feebly, and then closing his eyes he sank bask into unconsciousness.
Coryna's heart was torn, but she would not renounce hope.
*****
It was difficult to trace where Pathema had gone, humble Christian friends having taken her to a remote, obscure, but comfortable home. One messenger, however, got word of her whereabouts late the same night, but too late to be prudent to call. When he knocked at the door next day he did not know that the object of his search was well informed through her friends concerning Tharsos' critical state, and that already there was a brief, beautiful, tablet-letter in her own handwriting, lying near his unconscious pillow.
Weakened by her cruel experience, Pathema was resting quietly upon a couch beside a small open window, her heart full of gratitude to God for deliverance and of anxiety about her human deliverer.
"Is there a maiden named Pathema lodging here?" Marcellus, the messenger, enquired.
"There is, sir," said a little Roman maid, the daughter of the hostess, much excited as she looked out into the street and saw six slaves in red livery standing beside a grand palanquin.
"My master, Tharsos, is at the point of death, but he would like to see the Christian maiden ere he die."
Pathema overheard these words, and rose up at once. Though weak in body, she was resolute in mind, and she had enjoyed a providential night's rest. There was no delay in arranging matters, and she stepped into thelecticacalmly but as one about to go through a painful ordeal.
After elbowing their way through the streets, Marcellus leading, the slaves at length laid their burden down beside a statue of Caractacus in the vestibule before the door of the young nobleman's mansion.
Like the usual Roman dwelling, the exterior was not prepossessing; but when Marcellus opened the door, the prospective view was peculiarly magnificent. The doors and curtains of successive courts were drawn aside, revealing active fountains, marble pillars with splendid statuary, and a lawn and shrubbery exposed above to the blue Italian sky.
Pathema ascended the marble steps, and passing through the richly gilded door inlaid with tortoise-shell, she stood for a moment on the mosaic floor of theostiumor entrance hall. Overhead, a parrot of brilliant plumage greeted her with the salutation, "Joy be with thee." Going straight on for a few feet, she passed into theatrium, a pillared court, where Coryna, the image of Tharsos in finer mould, met her and kissed her hand in touching silence.
Leading the way, Coryna went on through thecavaedium, a larger Corinthian-columned court, in whose centre stood a splashing fountain, shooting its crystal stream towards the open sky. Passing thetablinumor room of archives, they proceeded into theperistylium, a still larger transverse court or lawn with verdant shrubbery and a chaste towering fountain.
Here there was a Roman lady, elegantly dressed and richly jewelled. Her dark-complexioned face was strikingly beautiful, yet marred by a lofty look of haughtiness. She walked around the lawn with the alert graceful movements of a panther. Evidently she was laboring under considerable excitement, and when Coryna and Pathema entered, her black eyes flashed out a deadly scorn.
Inwardly disturbed, yet meeting the lady's look with a smile, Coryna turned aside between the marble columns into one of theexedraeor rooms for conversation. Guiding Pathema to a comfortable seat, she spoke for the first time, saying,
"Welcome to our home!"
"I thank thee for the honour," answered Pathema, "and I am glad to come, yet greatly pained."
"My brother did right," was the quiet response.
"Receive, I pray thee," said Pathema in tears, "my deepest gratitude for thy brother's deed."
"Tharsos will yet receive it personally," was the happy answer.
"I rejoice to hear thy hope," replied Pathema with brightening eyes.
"I have hope, but the physicians have little or none."
After a little further conversation during which the visitor's whole heart was drawn out to the noble character before her, Coryna craved liberty for a moment to bid her friend in theperistyliumfarewell. As she went out, a female slave entered to wait upon Pathema and show her every necessary attention. The slave was not long in her presence when she bewailed the calamity that had come upon her beloved master. Then she mentioned that the young lady in theperistyliumwas much distressed.
"Emerentia," she continued, "loves him exceedingly, and he liked her in return. Her father and mother leave to-day for a distant city of the empire, and she goes with them."
Pathema was grieved, and she expressed the fervent hope that the nobleman would recover, for the distressed lady's sake, as well as his own.
"Emerentia," added the slave, "is generous and accomplished—that is why the master liked her—but her goodness is not so strong as her pride and jealousy. The lady is fierce in her feelings. She hates the Christians, and more so now than ever."
After a few minutes Coryna returned, restrained and quiet, but with the trace of a tear that had stolen down her fair face.
"My brother," said she with hesitation, "earnestly desired that thou shouldst come and stay with me for a time. Is this possible? May I hope it is."
Pathema was taken by surprise. Her home and beloved parents and the poor of Patara had been much in her heart. Her father had been more than once in Rome, trying to obtain her liberty, and he had provided long ago the temporary abode she had been carried to by Christian friends. This now swept across her vision. But it was quickly followed by another picture—the self-sacrificing act of the nobleman in whose mansion she was now a guest. And he was dying—so the physicians feared. Duty—gratitude—consolation—everything demanded her presence. Her answer was unhesitating and prompt—
"I will stay with thee."
And Coryna bent down and kissed her, with a feeling that was warmly returned.
Tharsos was beyond the stage of knowing anyone. In spite of the best medical skill, fever had quickly set in, and the battle began in earnest between life and death.
Now was the opportunity for a woman's soldiership—soldiership of the highest kind—where woman only can excel. The weapons are experience, presence of mind, patience, endurance and compassion. With all these Pathema was perfectly armed, her value was speedily recognised, and she became an unassuming soldier in the strife. There were days and nights of anxious care and watching, the utmost was performed, and nothing left undone. Yet Tharsos seemed to be marching straight without resource to the grim enemy's gloomy gate. The thought was painful beyond measure, but it seemed to Pathema that the noble-minded man must die!
While the fever lay upon him he spoke in bits of sentences about the Nazarene, mysterious, divine! and the devoted disciple Pathema. His language was now subdued and reverential, tender and touching, as if he stood in the presence of unearthly beings; then indignant, emphatic, even wild, as if he were again surrounded by the cruel and inquisitive multitude—a wildness wholly unlike that of the quiet reserved man in health. Sitting up and pointing to the walls he would cry—
"Great God! the fiends, mad, malignant, blood-thirsty, the fiends of Tartarus have entered thy fair world in the bodies of men."
Tharsos did not die. Had the lion's claws twisted, or torn a little deeper, or had there been incapable nursing, there would have been no hope. But the animal missed the vitals, and the faithful nurse made the most of what remained—she would have readily yielded life at her loving though painful duty.
When the consuming fever was completely turned and past, and a little strength gained through death-like sleep and judicious nourishment, it dawned upon the sick man's mind that someone strange but fascinating was constantly by his side. And when he learned that his attendant was Pathema, there came a peace over his soul that could not be expressed.
After a long time Tharsos recovered strength, but he was never again the same. He was subject to spells of weakness that kept him to his couch for days, and he had to resign his position in the army. Yet he lived for many years afterwards, and did a noble work, impossible to be done in the service of the emperor, a work that could not be hid, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.
Pathema, relieved in due time, went back to her home in Asia Minor. She carried many costly gifts, showered upon her and refused in vain. But, better still, she carried away the undying devotion of Tharsos, the close sisterly affection of Coryna, and the goodwill of all that really knew her worth.
Her parents in Patara were overjoyed at her return, and so were many others in the city and wide surroundings—many, who waited for tender attention and waited not in vain.
Tharsos sold his mansion in Rome, and followed Pathema to Patara. He bought a beautiful residence in that city, and built another farther up the river Xanthus among the hills. And Pathema became his wife. Staying in these two houses alternately, at different seasons of the year, they passed the rest of their lives. No two beings loved ouch other better, or did a more useful and beneficent work. Their city home was a centre of Christian light and hospitality, while their rural retreat was the scene of many joyous and instructive gatherings of the country people. In these abodes the friendless wanderer, of whatever race or tribe, could lay down his weary head and there find solace and rest.
"The house among the olive trees at the base of yonder hill—whose is it, friend?" enquired a traveller of a pagan whom he met.
"The hospitable home of Tharsos and Pathema," was the reply.
"Thanks be to God!" said the traveller, passing on.
"Who are these two men that sit together in the portico?" asked he of a Christian as he came up in front of the house.
"Tharsos, the owner of the mansion, and Orestes, a shepherd from the valley beyond."
"They speak as brothers," said the traveller, raising his eyebrows and passing by.
Going to a side door, he was about to knock when a woman approached from behind luxuriant vines, with a twig of olive blossoms in her hand. She walked towards him with quiet grace, her countenance inspiring all respect and trust.
Bowing low, the traveller said—"My name is Timon. I have travelled far, and am footsore and in want."
"Enter in," said Pathema kindly, "sit at yonder table with the rest, and thou shalt have water to wash thy feet."
Going in, the ex-detective was met by a pretty boy with golden hair and deep blue eyes, the first-born son of Tharsos and Pathema. The child took a gentle hold of his sun-brown hand to lead him to food and rest. The weary stranger clasped the tender fingers, and looking down into the trusting, thoughtful face, he said—-
"Child of a noble mother, thou hast made me glad."
"Come," said the little one lovingly, "come."
"Tell me thy name, darling."
"My name is Nicholas," replied the boy.
"Thou art a little saint," rejoined the stranger hopefully, "and thou shalt gladden many."