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Title: The Mother of St. Nicholas: A Story of Duty and Peril

Author: Grant Balfour

Release date: September 2, 2010 [eBook #33607]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS: A STORY OF DUTY AND PERIL ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Illustration: Cover art]





[Frontispiece: "Bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the
Nazarene."]





THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS.

(SANTA CLAUS)

A Story of Duty and Peril.


BY

GRANT BALFOUR,

Author of "The Fairy School of Castle Frank."





TORONTO:

THE POOLE PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED,

PUBLISHERS.




Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine by A. BALFOUR GRANT, in the
office of the Minister of Agriculture.




CONTENTS


Chapter

    I.  Watching for the Prey
   II.  A Ministering Angel
  III.  Still on the Watch
   IV.  The Amphitheatre
    V.  The Influence Working
   VI.  The Indignation of Tharsos
  VII.  The Perplexity of Carnion
 VIII.  Waiting for the Victim
   IX.  In the Arena
    X.  The Lion
   XI.  The Man with the Dagger
  XII.  Discipline
 XIII.  Night
  XIV.  Day
   XV.  Saint Nicholas




THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS

(SANTA CLAUS).



CHAPTER I.

WATCHING FOR THE PREY.

Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the
famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia
Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara.  Look at it well.
Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful
associations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of
the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy.

Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts
of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first
mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again.
The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred
up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity.

The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at
assault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible
pretext, and to shew them little quarter.  If they could arrest the
ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women,
in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply
exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied,
and peace in the city restored.

In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market
place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person
to pass by.  They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was
something like that of a modern detective.

Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the
knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like
shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous
eyes.  To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was
strife or the chance of gold.  He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman,
he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had
travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly
distinguished himself for a time.

Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was
lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy.

Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were passing by--a
picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while
now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were
considered either arrogant, or effeminate.

"Her carriage must have passed," said Demonicus savagely.

"It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by
custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually passes on foot shortly
after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time."

"We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered
Demonicus.  "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a
good excuse I shall invent one.  The bribe," added he with an impatient
gesture, "is too tempting for more delay."

Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus.
When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better
nature would now and again assert itself, as there stole over his
vision a beautiful figure with a noble work in hand.  He wanted the
prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious
it also felt agreeable to suggest delay.  After a brief silence he
remarked--

"There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of
the Triple Arch to-night.  The bishop is away at Myra.  But Orestes,
the shepherd, is to be present, and I promise thee something will be
said that will give us a plausible backing; his words are plain, ay
even bold as the cliffs of Mount Taurus, where he dwells.  Should we
not wait till then, Demonicus?"

"I shall not," answered he, stamping his heavy, sandalled foot
viciously; "it would be our last chance, and the woman might not be
there."

"The lady is sure to be," rejoined Timon, "she is the spirit of the
whole movement."

Demonicus paced about reflecting, and having cooled down, he
mumbled,--"I shall see, but I shall miss no chance before."

Timon now stepped out and looked along the street, then turning
immediately round to his companion with a hesitating, half-regretful
look, he whispered--

"She is coming!"

The face of Demonicus glowed with an evil flame, as he went forward
quickly to assure himself.  The lady with her attendant, a liberated
female slave, was seen approaching on foot, and both men retreated into
the recess and waited.




CHAPTER II.

A MINISTERING ANGEL.

Pathema, the eldest daughter of a prosperous merchant, walked with her
servant Miriam through the crowded street, heedless or unconscious of
danger; then passing two pairs of eyes directed towards her veiled
face, she turned at right angles into the Stenos, a short quiet street
leading towards the river Xanthus.

Without haste, yet her progress was steady and good, with a natural
grace set free by the loose Ionic dress--a cream-coloured _chiton_,
girdled at the waist and falling from the shoulders to the feet in many
folds, and above it a short mantle in gold-brown, bordered with white.
Full of work of a high order, her dark eyes and finely carved mouth
spoke beneficent purpose, while her fair countenance showed an Oriental
seriousness and thought.

Pathema might have spared herself a life of labour and risk and
self-sacrifice.  She might have enjoyed a life of fashion and pleasure
and ease.  Besides this, her beauty and accomplishments could have
easily secured for her a home and affluence, had she so desired.  But
she had cast in her lot with One who had lived a higher life, which in
working-out had made him a man of "no reputation."  Pathema was a
Christian, and as such had made herself a set of determined and
malicious enemies.  Her Christianity could not be mistaken.  There was
no mere form about it, no casual acts of duty, no hysterical nights, no
insipidity, and no compromise,--the gods must go.  It was a clear,
steady, every-day light, peeping up in childhood, and burning brighter
and brighter thro' the years.  Though a lover of knowledge and fond of
reasoning, she wasted no time in a vain jangle about faith and works,
but illustrated both in her daily life.  Encouraged by her parents, and
acting as their medium, and that of other benefactors, she attended to
the wants of a wide circle of sick and poor, both heathen and
Christian.  Like her Lord himself, she went about doing good.  No one
cheered and comforted the members of the Christian community more, no
one was a greater inspiration, and no one was more unassuming.

On the left bank of the Xanthus stood a large residence belonging to a
man of wealth, a business friend of Pathema's father.  In front there
was no altar to Apollo Agyieus, and no statue of any god, the owner
having distinct leanings toward Christianity.  All that met the eye was
a Victor's Laurel tree, behind the house, which was much greater in
depth than width, was a garden, containing such trees as pomegranate,
orange, and fig.

To that house Pathema went.  Ascending the steps and knocking at the
door, she was met by a porter (with his dog), who led her and Miriam
past his lodge and along the narrow passage to the first peristyle--a
partly open courtyard.  Here they awaited the appearance of the
mistress.  On all four sides were colonnades, under which were a
banqueting room, a picture gallery, a library, servants' office,
sitting rooms, and several bed-chambers.  The visitors had not long to
wait.

"Peace be with you!" said the mistress, with a gracious smile.

"Joy to thee!" was the reply.

Entering a chamber on the right, Pathema was gently conducted to the
bedside of Crito, an invalid boy, his parents' pride and tender care.
Crito had received a good education, and, when well, was active, witty
and intelligent.  But he had been hurt internally while wrestling in
the gymnasium with an older lad, and for a time his life hung in the
balance.  Several days had elapsed since Pathema saw him, and he was
now fast asleep.  She did not speak, but looked on him awhile with
earnest anxious eyes.  At length a gleam of hope lit up her face, and
she was about to leave softly when Crito, as if conscious of some
departing force, suddenly opened his eyes.

"Hail!  Pathema; steal not thyself away," said he smiling.

"I steal but a gem of hope--surely a lighter load," was the laughing
answer.

"And yet thou hast left it in my breast, thou absent-minded robber."

Bending down, Pathema kissed his bosom, saying, "And I am glad to leave
it there."

"And go forth hopeless?" queried he.

"Yes," said she, shaking her head in feigned solemnity, and Crito
laughed.

Leaving figures of speech, Pathema expressed her joy that there
appeared to be good ground for hope.  Then they entered into an
animated conversation about the Iliad and the Odyssey, books that the
Hellenic people used as we do Robinson Crusoe, Shakespeare, and the
Bible.  Before parting they conversed about the Memoirs of the
Apostles, called in our day the Gospels.

"I love the Nazarene's moral courage," said Crito.

"Yes," replied Pathema, "to be invited, for instance, to dine with a
number of the learned, and without personal provocation to feel
compelled to denounce them as hypocrites, must have been a severe trial
of his courage."

"It seems easier to face wounds and the loss of blood than the loss of
reputation," rejoined Crito.

"It is, but, of course, the full test is to face both.  The applause of
his comrades, of the whole army and of his nation, fires the spirit of
the brave soldier that climbs the frowning walls of a besieged city;
but the Nazarene had not the applause of a single soul when He faced
the certainty of cruel death upon the cross; worse, there was derision,
and He himself even cried out that God had forsaken Him."

"The cross means a great deal," said Crito reflectively.

"It was endured in love for us," was the reply.

"The love was great," remarked the boy.

Pathema now rose up to go, and Crito was very sorry; but he knew that
there were many other poor and tried ones waiting to welcome her, and
he urged himself to resignation.

"Come back on the morrow," said he, "and stay with me longer; I weary
much for thee."

Having kissed her hand respectfully, the boy looked after her wistfully
as she departed like a heavenly angel.

Going next into the humble abode of an old man, whose only attendant
was a little granddaughter, Pathema with her maid proceeded at once to
put the place in thorough order, aiding the slender one with the
heaviest work, such as it was.  The child had always done well, but
stronger arms could of course do better, and everything was soon in
special dress.  Then Pathema had a comforting talk with the grandfather
and with his faithful little servant-maid, ending by telling her a
charming tale of a Forest Nymph.  Before leaving she placed a silver
coin in the old man's trembling hand; and as she departed, he could
only say, "God bless thee," while the child clung to her sympathetic
hand for some distance along the street.

Thus Pathema, accompanied by her servant, went from house to house a
messenger of mercy.  The harvest-field of suffering and privation was
then, as ever, white; but the reapers were few, and of modern reaping
instruments--hospitals and "homes"--there were none.  How much
Christianity has done, yet how much to do!

Partaking of a plain mid-day meal of _maza_, barley bread, and figs,
with a venerable heathen widow whose heart was opening to Christianity,
she also supplied this poor one's need, and resumed her journey
refreshed.

The afternoon was well advanced when they passed underneath the Triple
Arch of the city wall on their way outward to a sheltered spot not far
beyond.  In a clump of olive trees and beside a limpid spring, they
came upon a hut occupied by motherless children, alone and unprotected,
the hireling having left the day before.  Sadder still, the only one
old enough to give material help, and who did help as long as she was
able, Biona, a girl of twelve, was dying of consumption.  The sight to
Pathema was very distressing, but she attended promptly to the wants of
the sick one, laving her face and hands, and giving her a little
nourishment, while Miriam looked after the younger children and the
house.

Biona was somewhat revived, and Pathema sat down beside her to whisper
just a consoling word or two at intervals.  The girl expressed heir
gratitude briefly, showing it more in her large, hollow but brilliant
eyes, which rested for a time in peace on her visitor's tender face.
The peace was of short duration, for Biona was very feeble.  She moved
her head and hands uneasily in the hot air of the little room, and at
last exclaimed in a low plaintive voice--"Oh! for breath and rest,
rest."

"Let me carry thee out, my dear, as thy father does, and lay thee among
the olive trees," said Pathema, feeling keenly, while she held the
invalid's thin, white hand bearing the marks of toil.

"Thou art not able," replied Biona huskily, and with grateful tears,
adding to herself in a dreamy whisper--"My father, poor father!"

But Pathema was wiry and enduring, easily fit for the fragile burden,
and having by a word persuaded the sufferer she wrapped her in a long
white _chiton_, and carried her with great tenderness out into the
cooler welcome air, beside the refreshing spring.

"How delightful is rest!" said the dying girl, as she gazed up through
the olive branches into the clear blue sky.

"There is abundance of rest in store, my beloved, even the rest that
remaineth for the people of God."

Biona lay quietly, enjoying a measure of peace.  Her pet white dove,
flying from an overhanging branch, came down beside her; it hopped upon
the pillow, and with gentle wing softly brushed her pallid cheek.  She
turned her head toward it, and gazing fondly upon the affectionate
creature, forgot her weariness for a time--a little time.  Then she
began to move her head restlessly, whispering often and with yearning
look the word father.

The watchful attendant changed the weary one's position, and gave her
rest again.  This was done as often as it was needed, and the need had
no end.  Pathema prayed earnestly for the sufferer's recovery or
release.  Her voice was the heart's melody, soft and soothing, if to
soothe were possible.

The father, a big sympathetic man, had by this time reached the
bordering olive trees, on his way home from a brief search for aid.
His clothing was very simple and plain: a dark _exomis_ (a short
sleeveless frock), and shoes of leather, studded with nails.  As was
common, he was bareheaded.  He had a melancholy foreboding that
calamity was near at hand.  His oxen stood idle in their stall from
early morning.  Noticing with surprised relief that his child was
already out in the grove, with some merciful one reclining by her side,
he stole up a little nearer and halted unobserved.

"Oh! for rest, rest," his daughter faintly cried; and the strong man
shook with emotion.  "Oh! that I might be at rest!" she cried again, as
if a last feeble effort, "but how hard it is, how hard! to leave my
little brothers and my poor lonely father."

Creeping closer, Pathema raised Biona's weary head and placed it
tenderly in her own bosom.  Feeling that the spark of life was low (for
the little hands were getting cold), and that words were unavailing,
she closed her eyes and became absorbed in silent prayer.

A little interval and then, with pleading face, the simple words of the
child--

"Father in heaven, take into thy kind care my father and brothers;"

And then, with a peaceful smile--

"Oh mother, I come!"

The father came forward delicately and softly behind and looked down,
his eyes full of tears.  The child raised her languid eyes and smiled,
a strange, yearning heavenly smile; then she drew a deep breath and
fell asleep--her rest, the long last rest, had come.

Let the veil lie drawn tenderly over the poor father's sorrow.  It is
sufficient to say that everything was done for his beloved one and his
home that could be done before Pathema and her faithful servant left.
The mourner's gratitude, deep and full, was their comfort and reward.

"My mistress," said Miriam, in an entreating respectful voice as they
turned towards the city in weary sad silence, "thou art much in need of
rest; wilt thou not proceed home, for the gathering of our people will
be well-nigh broken up ere we pass by?"  Miriam was wise and good, she
loved her mistress fervently, and was trusted and treated as a
companion, not as a liberated slave.

"We pass the door, my Miriam, and it would be a rest to turn aside and
listen to the life-giving Word," answered Pathema, looking tenderly
into the devoted woman's tired face; "yet for thy sake, thy needful
release, I shall go on with thee."

"No, my mistress, no,--thy desire is good and right."

The Church of the Triple Arch was not far away, and the two plodded
patiently and trustfully back into the city, thinking not of any danger
that might come.  Their day's work was done--hard and heart-trying, yet
beautiful, and as an exercise of mercy, beneficial to subject as well
as object, for "there is that scattereth and yet increaseth."  Good
were it for the world if all mankind did their possible and necessary
share.  The moon shone high and clear in the star-lit temple of the
sky.  The night was calm, and nothing broke the stillness save the
discordant, mocking cry of a laughing hyena far behind, with an
occasional, distant shout rising from the city in front.  As they
emerged from the olive-grove, the pet white dove, pursued by a
swift-winged night-hawk, swept like an arrow across their track, as if
an omen of coming trouble.




CHAPTER III

STILL ON THE WATCH.

Demonicus and Timon stood at the open door of the Christian church, not
far from the Triple Arch of the city wall, listening to the voice of
the shepherd Orestes, and eagerly watching for something whereby they
might seize him and certain others.  But Demonicus, _sycophantes_,
constable, and gladiator all in one, was irritated, for the prize had
not yet arrived; and as the time sped on, his tiger-nature exhibited
itself in low growls at his calmer companion.

"Another day," snarled he, "and the case will have turned into other
hands."

"I do not despair," replied Timon, "and yet, to be frank, I almost
repent--it seems a shame to lay hands on such a woman."

"Art thou, my brave Timon, also becoming a meek and beautiful
Christian?" said Demonicus with a sneer.

Annoyed at the tone, Timon answered firmly--"The lady's life is a
blessing to Patara."

"Soft one, weak one, coward!" hissed Demonicus.

"The lady is a goddess!" cried Timon, galled into defiance, "and the
coward is he that would lay foul hands upon her."

"Draw! defend thyself!" roared Demonicus, and the two men faced each
other with drawn swords and glaring eyes.

At this juncture, Pathema and Miriam appeared upon the scene, and
without hesitation the former gently and earnestly entreated them not
to slay one another.  As if by mutual consent, the enraged men lowered
their sword-points and turned them into the sheaths.  Demonicus was
agreeably surprised and he cooled down quickly--before him after all
was the trophy wanted.  Timon did not want it--the lady's voice and
courage strengthened his heart's bent in the right course, and he
quietly walked away.  Demonicus stepped aside; even his rough heart
could be moved to a certain degree of respect, while Pathema, pale and
sad, walked noiselessly into the church and sat down with Miriam in the
nearest empty seat.

The shepherd had finished with his earnest simple story of redemption,
illustrating it by reference to what he knew so well--the spotless,
passive lamb.  He was now telling the attentive listeners that the lamb
would one clay become a lion, that all human governments would be
broken in pieces, and that Jesus Christ would rule the earth in
righteousness and peace.  "It may be," added he with emphasis, "that
that hope-inspiring day is at hand!"

Revolutionary doctrine like this the debased Demonicus rejoiced to
hear.  Like the Jewish pretence before Pilate, it was enough, and the
love of lucre spurred him on.  He waited not a moment more, but hurried
boldly into the church.  Accusing Pathema of taking part in sedition,
he seized her by the arm and ordered her to rise up and follow him.

Startled at this interruption, the people looked round, while Orestes
stopped and made his way swiftly to Pathema's aid, thinking in all
simplicity that a robber or a madman had entered the church.  The
gladiator was strong, but the shepherd was stronger, and ere the former
could draw his sword he was pinned to the floor as with an oaken hand.
The spectacle was like the grappling of prostrate giants.

"Thou art guilty of sedition and violence!" yelled Demonicus.

Others of his official order passing by and hearing the noise, came
quickly to his aid, the accusation was repeated, and the shepherd
meekly submitted--he never meant to defy the law.

Miriam pleaded for her beloved mistress in tears, but she was rudely
thrust aside as too insignificant for arrest.

Then were Pathema and Orestes and others led out of the church and into
the street.  They formed a silent, little company, surrounded and
followed by an excited jeering crowd.  And as the crowd increased in
strength--"Death to the detested Christians!" was the noisy frequent
cry.

With bowed head and weary heart, and with her sense of modesty
painfully shocked, Pathema passed on with her fellow-Christians to the
humiliating place of safe-keeping for the night.

Their trial came off next day, but it was a mockery.  Fanatical hate
and bribery did their foul work--there was no justice whatever, and
sentence of death was passed!

An appeal was made to Rome.

To that great city Pathema and her fellow prisoners were finally
transported, and there they were imprisoned.

Among the poor and sick and dying of Patara and its neighbourhood, was
no one more missed and mourned than the compassionate maiden who
languished and wept in a far away Roman prison--wept, not so much for
her own wrongs, as for the griefs and pains of others.


        "O Lord, I cry to Thee--
  Unending night, a mournful robe,
  Enwraps my form, and veils my sight
  From flower, and stream, and all I love--
  My bondage break, O God!

       "If I no more behold
  My Crito, Lord, on him look down
  With watchful eye, and send Thy light,
  Restore his strength, and make him Thine;
  Regard my love for him.

       "Biona's tender care
  Provide for, Lord, and guard from ill;
  The father's wound, in pity heal.
  Remember all the desolate
  For whom I weep and pray.

       "My parents, Lord, uphold;
  Their grief assuage; Thy Spirit send
  And teach of Him who suffered more
  Than mortal man, to ransom me
  From death--the Christ, my strength.

  "Yet, Lord, how hard to die
  So soon.  Oh! to behold the sun,
  To breathe the air, to clasp the flowers,
  Embrace my 'loved, now loved tenfold;
  But, Lord, Thy will be done!"




CHAPTER IV.

THE AMPHITHEATRE.

The Colosseum or amphitheatre in Rome was a gigantic, costly building,
oval in shape, 100 feet in height, 1900 feet in circumference, and
capable of seating 100,000 spectators--a huge egg laid by Imperial
power and demoniac love of pleasure.  Its external wall rose up in
three rows of columns, Doric, Ionic and Corinthian, forming 80 arcades
or arches in each row, and was capped by a solid wall with Corinthian
pilasters and small square windows.  There was no roof, shelter from
sun or rain being given by a movable awning called the _velarium_.  The
higher arcades were adorned with statues and chariots, and admitted
light and air.  Four of the basement arches at the extremities were the
entrances for the great, while the remaining seventy-six were for the
common people.  Rising from the top of a low wall or balcony that stood
on the ground many feet inward, was the _gradus_ or slope of seats,
which extended half-way up the high surrounding shell.  The highest
seats were a colonnade or portico reserved for women.  On the slope
under the portico, were the three _maeniana_ or galleries, separated by
walls and by landing places for the many staircases.  The uppermost
gallery, with benches of wood, was for the _pullati_ or common people;
the next below, for the _popularia_; and the farthest down, of stone or
marble and cushioned, for members of the equestrian order.  Below this
was the inner wall or balcony (referred to above), called the _podium_,
the place of honour, on which sat the Emperor and his family, senators,
chief magistrates, vestal virgins, and distinguished visitors.  The
Emperor occupied a pavilion, named the _suggestus_, while the others
sat on cushioned chairs or reclined on couches.  The _podium_ was about
15 feet from the ground, its edge bordered with metal trellis work, and
its front faced with marble, to prevent the ascent of wild beasts when
frightened or enraged.  The arena was the immense space within, being
about 281 feet by 176, and it was covered with sand, to keep the
combatants from slipping and to absorb their blood.  Here some of the
martyrs of Jesus poured out their life, to gratify horrible curiosity,
and to satiate the hunger of lions.

On a certain day in the latter half of the third century after Christ,
and while the pagan Roman empire still held powerful sway, many
thousands of people had assembled in the amphitheatre to witness a
series of blood-curdling sights and combats.  Among these sad
spectacles was the suffering of a noted Christian from the rugged
province of Lycia.

Demonicus, the great gladiator of Patara city, had fallen, his left
cheek was embedded in the sand, his brawny upper arm lay out limp
beside his broken sword, and his life-blood was streaming away.  He
would indulge in the love of strife and watch the footsteps of the
innocent for glittering gold no more.  His conqueror, Telassar, a big
bearded warrior from Rhaetia, stood erect and proud, with his right
foot on the gladiator's neck, and drinking in the applause that flowed
from the encircling host of sensation-loving, heartless spectators.

After a fierce and prolonged battle, several other gladiators had
ploughed the sand in strange quick succession.  Here, face downward,
was a Samnite with his oblong shield; yonder lay a bare headed
_retiarius_ with his net and three-pointed lance.  Twenty feet from
Demonicus, a horseman clad in cuirass and helmet was stretched upon his
back wounded and dying, with his round shield and lance lying near.
His handsome black charger had instantly wheeled round, and it now
stood over him with lowered neck in beautiful faithfulness, a tribute
to its master's care and kindness.  The other combatants were being
hooked and drawn away like logs into the _spoliarium_, the grim
receptacle for slaughtered men; the expiring horseman's turn would soon
come.  His rival had also reeled and tumbled down, the result of
exhaustion from a severe wound received earlier in the fray.  Aided by
an official called a _lanista_, the victor's struggles to rise up and,
when risen, to keep on his feet, were pitiable in the extreme.
Deprived of its rider, his spirited grey horse, itself slightly
wounded, was bounding round the arena like a frightened antelope.  And
considering that there was a circumference of 900 feet in which to
galop and wheel, it gave its pursuers no small degree of trouble.

This state of affairs, coupled with the usual breathing time before the
next act in the tragic drama, allowed the horde of onlookers an
opportunity for a little conversation and even merriment.  In the
presence of such horrifying sport with human life, the heathen heart
revealed its kinship with the fallen angels of "Paradise Lost."
Nevertheless in that Roman pandemonium there were exceptions--a few
hearts of a different cast, in which was at work a silent influence,
destined in regal hands to reform the world.




CHAPTER V.

THE INFLUENCE WORKING.

Up in the colonnade reserved for women were two Greek ladies, natives
of Asia Minor: Myrtis, a matron of high rank, and her young friend
Coryna, a maiden of medium height and of perfect mould, with a wealth
of braided auburn hair.  The matron wore a _stola_, a long tunic girded
in broad folds under the breast, and a white _palla_, a wide upper
garment, loosely over her shoulders.  Her companion had a white robe
with a broad purple border, and over it an azure _palla_ covered with
golden stars.  Both ladies had refined feelings and elegant manners.
They were in the Colosseum for the first time.

"What dost thou think of all this, my Myrtis?" enquired Coryna, with a
marked expression of pain in her sympathetic countenance.

"Think," answered Myrtis, striving to repress her agitation; "in the
dexterity of the combatants I had a gruesome interest, but upon the
prostrate, dying men I cannot look"; and the stout but comely woman of
tender feeling turned her fair head farther away from the ghastly sight
below.

"It is horrible," remarked Coryna, casting a furtive glance into the
arena.

"I cannot remain," said Myrtis, "but what would Titanus say?" and she
glanced down over the intervening galleries to the _podium_, where her
illustrious Roman husband sat.

Beside him was Coryna's brother, Tharsos, a distinguished young
officer, wearing a _toga_, with a white _lacerna_ or mantle of elegant
form.

Behind Titanus stood his young son, Carnion, a raven-haired boy of
twelve, dressed in the _toga praetexta_, a becoming garment of white
with a wide edge of purple, and suspended from his neck the _bulla_, a
round ornament of gold, worn especially by the children of the noble.
He held in his hand a cluster of lilies, a little gift meant for
Coryna, but which he had forgotten to hand over when entering the
amphitheatre.

"See how Carnion is disturbed!" observed Coryna; "the dear boy turns
away his head and will not look at the expiring horseman right
underneath."

The mother saw her child's attitude with pleased eyes, indeed they were
often on him.

"Though tender-hearted, yet my Carnion is brave and strong," said she
with a smile of pride.

"He is a soldier, every bit of him," added Coryna.  "How different from
his elder brother, Dinarchus!"

"Yes, my Dinarchus is a great reader, a young philosopher, a hermit,
dear boy.  He is now deep in the study of the Christian books.  I would
my Carnion were at home with him to-day, but he expected to see a
wild-beast fight."

"Observe thy husband and my brother--see how calmly they look on!"

"They are soldiers, Coryna, and accustomed as we know to the spectacle
of wounds and blood.  To them, the arena must be as nothing to a field
of battle when the clash of sword and spear is past."

"Oh, it must be racking, revolting!" exclaimed the other, pained at the
mental vision of mangled heaps of slain; "and our beloved ones hate the
sight."

"They also dislike what they see before them," said Myrtis.  "They love
skill, but they have no love for wanton play with human life."

"I wish all Rome hated such idle butchery," remarked Coryna earnestly,
but rather loudly.

Overhearing these remarks, spoken in the Latin tongue, a number of
ladies sneered and smiled.  All, or nearly all, who made that wide
investing terrace a wreath of brightness and beauty, were dead to pity.
At the most they could only feel regret for a wounded favorite or a
dying hero.

"I would all the empire were of thy mind, Coryna, and then no such sad
spectacle would stain our own beloved, humaner land.

"Christianity is the deadly enemy of all this wicked work.  May it
prosper!" said the young lady fervently.

"There are no Christians here, I venture to say, civil or military,"
responded Myrtis.  "No follower of the humane Jesus would come within
these walls, unless wronged and led, or bent on some heroic deed.  But
we worshippers of a hundred gods can thank our divinities for no good
influence.  I hate the gods: may they forgive me!" and the reflective
lady smiled at her own bold scepticism.

"They are myths, so my brother says," added Coryna, with a look of
decision and relief.

"Tharsos is almost a Christian," remarked Myrtis, "and with him I
strongly sympathize."

"He is.  But see, he is telling thy husband something, and look how
earnestly Carnion watches his words.  Of a surety something strange or
startling is going to present itself next.  The uncertainty about the
time of the Christian's appearance must be removed, but my brother's
signal will tell."




CHAPTER VI.

THE INDIGNATION OF THARSOS.

Tharsos was speaking with deep but suppressed feeling.

"I have heard of the maiden," he continued, "and have seen her in my
native province.  Her good deeds to the poor and the suffering have
been countless.  Her whole life has been work and pity and
self-sacrifice.  It represents the highest moral beauty."

"Strange," remarked Titanus sympathetically, "that the maiden has held
up under prison life so long."

"Though meek and modest," replied Tharsos, "she possesses a fortitude
that bears incredible strain.  I almost believe, indeed I do believe,
that her power must come from Him whom they call Jesus of Nazareth."

"Our laws are evil," said Titanus reflectively, "or such a woman would
have known no strain but daily duty.  But thou art becoming Christian,
Tharsos, yet I do not reproach thee--it were good if all men were."

At this stage the riderless steed kicked a pursuing guard on the palm
of his uplifted hand, raised in self defence, and the spectators
laughed heartily.  Carnion's attention was diverted for a little from
the serious conversation, and he stepped a few feet away.

"'Evil,' didst thou say!  Our heathen system is corrupt and cursed, an
only too ready tool of ignorant malice.  For no other reason could the
enemies of the accomplished maiden lead her into this arena"; and
Tharsos writhed under the thought that justified his grave charge.

Titanus was astonished to see a man so loyal and reflective, and
hitherto so quiet and self-possessed, now quivering with indignation.

"Be tranquil, my friend, thou canst not mend matters, and thou hast
done thy duty.  Hast thou not told me of thy hastening to the Praefect
to plead for postponement or release, and that this dignitary had
already gone to the Colosseum, with all of the lesser magistrates who
had any possible power?"

"I would that I had received the tidings earlier," was the answer,
spoken in a low tone of deep sadness, even despair.

"Content thee, my dear Tharsos, thou hast done thy best; and strive to
think that speedy death, even if cruel and revolting, is better than
prolonged prison-hardship and degradation."

Tharsos turned and looked up at the serried mass of living faces behind
him, his indignation now controlled, yet he saw no one--none but the
beautiful face of his affectionate sister whom he warmly loved; and
there flashed into his heart--"What if she were the victim!"  His
colour changed and his lips tightened.  Some strange thought seemed to
enter him, and he arose from his seat.

"Thou wilt, of course, wait and see the maiden?" said Titanus with a
perplexed inquiring look.

But Tharsos stood up to his full height, and cast one withering look
towards Titanus, as much as if to say--"What, witness the butchery of
one like my own sister!"  Turning haughtily on his heel, he strode two
steps back to the staircase, muttering something in which there was the
distinct word Lion, and in a moment he was down and out of view.




CHAPTER VII.

THE PERPLEXITY OF CARNION.

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 the _designator_ (seat-attendant).
'Titanus' is enough."

Carnion disappeared.




CHAPTER VIII.

WAITING FOR THE VICTIM.

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.




CHAPTER IX.

IN THE ARENA.

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 the _pullati_ or
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 the _vomitoria_ or 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.




CHAPTER X.

THE LION.

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 the _podium_, 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 the
_scalaria_ or steps to the door in the _balteus_ or 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?"




CHAPTER XI.

THE MAN WITH THE DAGGER.

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.




CHAPTER XII.

DISCIPLINE.

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.




CHAPTER XIII.

NIGHT.

The unconscious officer's wound was hastily but skilfully bound up and
the blood stanched, he was raised in a _lectica_ or 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 the _lectica_ calmly 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 the _ostium_ or 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 the _atrium_, 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 the _cavaedium_, a larger
Corinthian-columned court, in whose centre stood a splashing fountain,
shooting its crystal stream towards the open sky.  Passing the
_tablinum_ or room of archives, they proceeded into the _peristylium_,
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 the _exedrae_ or
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 the _peristylium_ farewell.
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 the _peristylium_ was 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."




CHAPTER XIV.

DAY.

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.




CHAPTER XV.

SAINT NICHOLAS.

"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."


  Wonderful boy of long ago!
  Come now and tell--
  As aged man, with beard of snow
  And hair all white, what gave thy name,
  Adown the years, the glow of fame?
  Explain thy spell

  O'er countless children waiting thee
  In varied home,--
  Afar inland, beside the sea,
  In lonely cot, and crowded town,--
  Awatching oft in midnight gown,
  For thee to come.

  Wert thou a selfish, cunning boy?
  Ah no, ah no!
  Tradition findeth no alloy
  In thy make-up, but giveth thee
  A generous heart, from baseness free,
  Alike the snow.

  White out and in, a giver pure,
  With heart all warm,--
  This! is thy spell, direct and sure,
  O'er boy and girl; who think it good
  To paint thy face in comic mood--
  It does no harm.

  But clothed in loving, reverent mien
  Tradition gives--
  Thou art, in this, by seniors seen,
  To meet the life of one who was
  The mother of Saint Nicholas:
  In thee she lives.











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