“I suppose,” mused Saturius, “that this is what they call true love, and to speak plainly,” he added with a burst of candour, “I find it admirable and worthy of a noble Roman.  My lord Marcus, my mission has failed, yet I pray that the Fates may order your deliverance from your enemies, and, in reward for these persecutions, bring back to you unharmed that maiden whom you desire, but whom I go to seek.  Farewell.”

Two days later Stephanus, the steward of Marcus who waited upon him in his prison, announced that a man who said his name was Septimus wished speech with him, but would say nothing of his business.

“Admit him,” said Marcus, “for I grow weary of my own company,” and letting his head fall upon his hand he stared through the bars of his prison window.

Presently he heard a sound behind him, and looked round to see an old man clad in the robe of a master-workman, whose pure and noble face seemed in a strange contrast to his rough garments and toil-scarred hands.

“Be seated and tell me your business,” said Marcus courteously, and with a bow his visitor obeyed.

“My business, my lord Marcus,” he said in an educated and refined voice, “is to minister to those who are in trouble.”

“Then, sir, your feet have led you aright,” answered Marcus with a sad laugh, “for this is the house of trouble and you see I am its inhabitant.”

“I know, and I know the cause.”

Marcus looked at him curiously.  “Are you a Christian, sir?” he asked.  “Nay, do not fear to answer; I have friends who are Christians,” and he sighed, “nor could I harm you if I would, who wish to harm none, least of all a Christian.”

“My lord Marcus, I fear hurt at no man’s hand; also the days of Nero have gone by and Vespasian reigns, who molests us not.  I am Cyril, a bishop of the Christians in Rome, and if you will hear me I am come to preach to you my faith, which, I trust, may yet be yours.”

Marcus stared at the man; it was to him a matter of amazement that this priest should take so much trouble for a stranger.  Then a thought struck him and he asked: 

“What fee do you charge for these lessons in a new religion?”

The bishop’s pale face flushed.

“Sir,” he answered, “if you wish to reject my message, do it without insult.  I do not sell the grace of God for lucre.”

Again Marcus was impressed.

“Your pardon,” he said, “yet I have known priests take money, though it is true they were never of your faith.  Who told you about me?”

“One, my lord Marcus, to whom you have behaved well,” answered Cyril gravely.

Marcus sprang from his seat.

“Do you mean—­do you mean—?” he began and paused, looking round him fearfully.

“Yes,” replied the bishop in a whisper, “I mean Miriam.  Fear not, she and her companions are in my charge, and for the present, safe.  Seek to know no more, lest perchance their secret should be wrung from you.  I and her brethren in the Lord will protect her to the last.”