streets till they came to that door of the amphitheatre which was used by those who were to take part in the games.  Now, at a word from the bishop, they began to chant a solemn hymn, and singing thus, were thrust along the passages to the place prepared for them.  This was not, as they expected, a prison at the back of the amphitheatre, but, as has been said, a spot between the enclosing wall and the podium, raised a little above the level of the arena.  Here, on the eastern side of the building, they were to sit till their turn came to be driven by the guards through a little wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving beasts of prey would be loosed upon them.

It was now the hour before sunrise, and the moon having set, the vast theatre was plunged in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray torches and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the gorgeous, but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa.  This gloom seemed to oppress the audience with which the place was crowded; at any rate none of them shouted or sang, or even spoke loudly.  They addressed each other in muffled tones, with the result that the air seemed to be full of mysterious whisperings.  Had this poor band of condemned Christians entered the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted with ironical cries and tauntings of “Dogs’ meat!” and with requests that they should work a miracle and let the people see them rise again from the bellies of the lions.  But now, as their solemn song broke upon the silence, it was answered only by one great murmur, which seemed to shape itself to the words, “the Christians!  The doomed Christians!”

By the light of a single torch the band took their places.  Then once more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with attention, almost with respect.  Their chant finished, the bishop stood up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the mighty throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him.  Strangely enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech served to while away the weary time of waiting.

“Men and brethren,” he began, in his thin, piercing notes, “princes, lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumaea, of Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an old man destined and glad to die.  Listen, if it be your pleasure, to the story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate, since to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt.”

“Be silent!” cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, “and cease preaching your accursed faith!”

“Let him alone,” answered other voices.  “We will hear this story of his.  We say—­let him alone.”

Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and yet so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes none cared even to interrupt him.  Then a far-away listener cried: