THE MARTYR OF THE CATACOMBS

A TALE OF ANCIENT ROME

    If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus,
    what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not?--ST. PAUL

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK: HUNT & EATON

CINCINNATI: CRANSTON & CURTS

CONTENTS.

I. THE COLISEUM
II. THE PRETORIAN CAMP
III. THE APPIAN WAY
IV. THE CATACOMBS
V. THE CHRISTIAN'S SECRET
VI. THE CLOUD OF WITNESSES
VII. THE CONFESSION OF FAITH
VIII. LIFE IN THE CATACOMBS
IX. THE PERSECUTION
X. THE ARREST
XI. THE OFFER
XII. POLLIO'S TRIAL
XIII. THE DEATH OF POLLIO
XIV. THE TEMPTATION
XV. LUCULLUS

Illustrations.

THE BOY MARTYR
PLAN OF THE CATACOMBS
A PASSAGE IN THE CATACOMBS
THE COLISEUM



CHAPTER I.

THE COLISEUM.

    "Butchered to make a Roman holiday."

It was a great festival day in Rome. From all quarters vast numbers of
people came pouring forth to one common destination. Over the Capitoline
Hill, through the Forum, past the Temple of Peace and the Arch of Titus
and the imperial palace; on they went till they reached the Coliseum,
where they entered its hundred doors and disappeared within.

There a wonderful scene presented itself. Below, the vast arena spread
out, surrounded by the countless rows of seats which rose to the top of
the outer wall, over a hundred feet. The whole extent was covered with
human beings of every class and every age. So vast an assemblage
gathered in such a way, presenting to view long lines of stern faces,
ascending far on high in successive rows, formed a spectacle which has
never elsewhere been equaled, and which was calculated beyond all others
to awe the soul of the beholder. More than one hundred thousand people
were gathered here, animated by one common feeling, and incited by one
single passion. It was the thirst for blood which drew them hither, and
nowhere can we find a sadder commentary on the boasted civilization of
ancient Rome than this her own greatest spectacle.

Here were warriors who had fought in foreign wars and were familiar with
deeds of valor, yet they felt no indignation at the scenes of cowardly
oppression displayed before them; nobles of ancient families were here,
but they could find in these brutal shows no stain upon their country's
honor. Philosophers, poets, priests, rulers, the highest as well as the
lowest in the land, crowded these seats; but the applauding shout of the
patrician was as loud and as eager as that of the plebeian. What hope
was there for Rome when the hearts of her people were, universally given
up to cruelty and brutal oppression?

Upon a raised seat in a conspicuous part of the amphitheater was the
Emperor Decius, near whom the chief people among the Romans were
gathered. Among these there was a group of officers belonging to the
Pretorian guards, who criticised the different points in the scene
before them with the air of connoisseurs. Their loud laughter, their
gayety, and their splendid attire made them the object of much attention
from their neighbors.

Several preliminary spectacles had been introduced, and now the fights
began. Several hand-to-hand combats were presented, most of which
resulted fatally, and excited different degrees of interest according to
the courage or skill of the combatants. Their effect was to whet the
appetite of the spectators to a keener relish, and fill them with eager
desire for the more exciting events which were to follow.

One man in particular had drawn down the admiration and applause of the
multitude. He was an African from Mauritania; of gigantic strength and
stature. But his skill seemed equal to his strength. He wielded his
short sword with marvelous dexterity, and thus far had slain every
opponent.

He was now matched with a gladiator from Batavia, a man fully equal in
stature and strength to himself. The contrast which the two presented
was striking. The African was tawny, with glossy curling hair and
glittering eyes; the Batavian was light in complexion, with blonde hair
and keen gray eyes. It was hard to tell which had the advantage, so
nearly were they matched in every respect; but as the former had already
fought for some time, it was thought that the odds were rather against
him. The contest, however, began with great spirit and eagerness on both
sides. The Batavian struck tremendous blows, which were parried by the
adroitness of the other. The African was quick and furious, but he could
do nothing against the cool and wary defense of his vigilant adversary.

At length, at a given signal, the combat was suspended, and the
gladiators were led away, not through anything like mercy or admiration,
but simply through a shrewd understanding of the best mode of satisfying
the Roman public. It was well understood that they would return again.

Now a large number of men were led into the arena. These were still
armed with the short sword. In a moment they had begun the attack. It
was not a conflict between two sides, but a general fight, in which
every man attacked his neighbor. Such scenes were the most bloody, and
therefore the most exciting. A conflict of this kind would always
destroy the greatest number in the shortest time. The arena presented a
scene of dire confusion. Five hundred armed men in the prime of life and
strength all struggled confusedly together. Sometimes they would all be
interlocked in one dense mass; at other times they would violently
separate into widely scattered individuals, with a heap of dead upon the
scene of the combat. But these would assail one another again with
undiminished fury; separate combats would spring up all around, the
victors in these would rush to take part in others, until at last the
survivors had once more congregated in one struggling crowd.

At length their struggles became weaker. Out of five hundred but one
hundred remained, and these were wearied and wounded. Suddenly a signal
was given, and two men leaped into the arena and rushed from opposite
sides upon this crowd. They were the African and the Batavian. Fresh
from their repose, they fell upon the exhausted wretches before them,
who had neither the spirit to combine nor the strength to resist. It
became a butchery. These two giants slaughtered right and left without
mercy, until they alone stood upright upon the arena, and the applause
of the innumerable throng came down in thunder to their ears.

These two again attacked each other, and attracted the attention of the
spectators while the bodies of the wounded and slain were being removed.
The combat was as fierce as before, and precisely similar. The African
was agile, the Batavian cautious. But finally the former made a
desperate thrust; the Batavian parried it, and returned a stroke like
lightning. The African sprang back and dropped his sword. But he was too
late, for the stroke of his foe had pierced his left arm. As he fell a
roar of joy arose from one hundred thousand human beings. But this was
not to be the end, for even while the conqueror stood over his victim
the attendants sprang forward and drew him away. Yet the Romans knew,
and the wounded man knew that it was not mercy. He was merely to be
reserved for a later but a certain fate.

"The Batavian is a skillful fighter, Marcellus," said one young officer
to a companion among the group which has been alluded to.

"He is, indeed, Lucullus," replied the other. "I do not think that I
ever saw a better gladiator. Indeed, both of them were much better than
common."

"They have a better man than either inside there."

"Ah! who is he?"

"The gladiator Macer. I think he is about the best I have ever seen."

"I have heard of him. Do you think he will be out today?"

"I understood so."

The short conversation was interrupted by a loud roar which came from
the vivarium, a place where the wild beasts were confined. It was a
fierce and a terrific roar, such as the most savage beasts give when
they are at the extremity of hunger and rage.

Soon iron gratings were flung open by men from above, and a tiger
stalked forth into the arenas. He was from Africa, whence he had been
brought but a few days previously. He had been kept three days without
food, and his furious rage, which hunger and confinement had heightened
to a terrible degree, was awful to behold. Lashing his tail, he walked
round the arena gazing with bloodshot eyes upward at the spectators. But
their attention was soon diverted to another object. From the opposite
side a man was thrust out into the arena. He had no armor, but was naked
like all gladiators, with the simple exception of a cloth around his
loins. Bearing in his hand the customary short sword, he advanced with a
firm pace toward the center of the scene.

All eyes at once were fixed upon this man. "Macer, Macer," was called
around by the innumerable spectators.

The tiger soon saw him, and uttered a short savage growl of fearful
import. Macer stood still, with his eyes calmly fixed upon the beast,
who, lashing his tail more madly than ever, bounded toward him. Finally
the tiger crouched, and then, with one terrific spring, leaped directly
upon him. But Macer was prepared. Like a flash he darted to the left,
and just as the tiger fell to the earth, he dealt a short sharp blow
straight to his heart. It was a fatal stroke. The huge beast shuddered
from head to foot, and drawing all his limbs together, he uttered a last
howl that sounded almost like the scream of a human being, and fell,
dead upon the sand.

Again the applause of the multitude rose like a thunder peal all around.

"Wonderful!" cried Marcellus. "I never saw skill equal to that of Macer!"

"Without doubt he has been fighting all his life," rejoined his friend.

But soon the carcass of the tiger was drawn away, and again the creak of
a grating as it swung apart attracted attention. This time it was a
lion. He came forth slowly, and looked all around upon the scene as if
in surprise. He was the largest of his species, a giant in size, and had
long been preserved for some superior antagonist. He seemed capable of
encountering two animals like the tiger that had preceded him. Beside
him Macer was like a child.

The lion had fasted long, but he showed no fury like that of the tiger.
He walked across the arena, and then completely around it in a kind of
trot, as though searching for escape. Finding every side closed, he
finally retreated to the center, and putting his face close to the
ground, he uttered a roar so deep, so loud, and so long, that the
ponderous stones of the coliseum itself vibrated at the sound.

Macer stood unmoved. Not a muscle of his face changed. He carried his
head erect with the same watchful expression, and held his sword ready.
At length the lion turned full upon him. The wild beast and the man
stood face to face eyeing one another. But the calm gaze of the man
seemed to fill the animal with wrath. He started back with his hair and
tail erect, and tossing his mane, he crouched for the dreadful spring.

The vast multitude stood spellbound. Here, indeed, was a sight worthy of
their interest.

The dark form of the lion darted forward, but again the form of the
gladiator, with his customary maneuver, leaped aside and struck. This
time, however, his sword struck a rib, and fell from his hand. The lion
was slightly wounded, but the blow served only to rouse his fury to the
highest point.

Yet Macer lost not one jot of his coolness in that awful moment.
Perfectly unarmed, he stood before the beast waiting his attack. Again
and again the lion sprang, but each time he was evaded by the nimble
gladiator, who by his own adroit movements contrived to reach the spot
where his weapon lay and regain possession of it. Armed with his trusty
sword, he waited a final spring. The lion came down as before, but this
time Macer's aim was true. The sword pierced his heart. The enormous
beast fell, writhing in pain. Rising again to his feet, he ran across
the arena, and with a last roar he fell dead by the bars at which he had
entered.

Macer was now led away, and the Batavian reappeared. The Romans required
variety. A small tiger was let loose upon the Batavian and was
vanquished. A lion was then set upon him. He was extremely fierce,
although of only ordinary size. It was evident that the Batavian was not
at all equal to Macer. The lion made a spring and was wounded, but on
making a second attack, he caught his opponent and literally tore him to
pieces. Upon this Macer was sent out again, and killed this lion easily.

And now, while Macer stood there the recipient of unbounded applause, a
man entered from the opposite side. It was the African. His arm had not
been bound up, but hung down by his side covered with blood. He
staggered toward Macer with painful steps. The Romans knew that he had
been sent out to be killed. The wretch knew it himself also, for as he
drew near to his antagonist he dropped his sword, and cried out in a
kind of desperation,

"Quick! kill me, and put me out of pain."

To the amazement of all, Macer stepped back and flung down his sword.
The spectators stared and wondered. Still more amazed were they when
Macer turned toward the emperor and stretched out his hands.

"August Emperor," he cried, "I am a Christian. I will fight wild beasts,
but I will not raise my hand against a fellow-man. I can die, but I will
not kill."

Whereupon a mighty murmur arose.

"What does he say?" cried Marcellus. "A Christian! when did that happen?"

"I heard," said Lucullus, "that he was visited in his cell by some of
these wretched Christians, and joined their contemptible sect. They are
made up of the offscouring of man kind. It is very probable that he is a
Christian."

"And will he incur death rather than fight?"

"That is the way with these fanatics."

Rage took the place of surprise in the fierce multitude. They were
indignant that a mere gladiator should dare to disappoint them. The
attendants rushed out to interfere. The fight must go on. If Macer would
not fight he should take the consequences.

But he was firm. Unarmed, he advanced toward the African, whom he could
have slain even then with a blow of his fist. The face of the African
was like that of a fiend. Surprise, joy, and triumph gleamed in his
sinister eyes. Seizing his sword in a firm grasp, he struck Macer to the
heart.

"Lord Jesus receive my spirit--" The words were drowned in a torrent of
blood, and this humble but bold witness for Christ passed away from
earth to join the noble army of martyrs.

"Are there many such scenes as this?" asked Marcellus.

"Often. Whenever Christians appear. They will fight any number of
beasts. Young girls will come firmly to meet lions and tigers, but not
one of the madmen will fight with men. The populace are bitterly
disappointed in Macer. He is the very best of all the gladiators, and in
becoming a Christian he has acted like a fool."

"It must be a wonderful religion which could make a common gladiator act
thus," said Marcellus.

"You'll have a chance to learn more about it."

"How so?"

"Haven't you heard? You are appointed to unearth some of these
Christians. They have got down in the Catacombs, and they must be hunted
up."

"I should think they have enough already. Fifty were burned this morning."

"And a hundred were beheaded last week. But that is nothing. The city is
swarming with them. The emperor has determined to restore the old
religion perfectly. Since these Christians have appeared the empire has
been declining. He has made up his mind to annihilate them. They are a
curse, and must be dealt with accordingly. You will soon understand."

"I haven't been in Rome long enough to know," said Marcellus meekly,
"and I do not understand what the Christians really believe. I have
heard almost every crime imputed to them. However, if it be as you say I
will have a chance of learning."

But now another scene attracted their attention.

An old man entered upon the scene. His form was bowed, and his hair
silver white with extreme old age. His appearance was hailed with shouts
of derision, although his majestic face and dignified manner were only
calculated to excite admiration. As the shouts of laughter and yells of
derision came down to his ears he raised his head and uttered a few words.

"Who is he?" asked Marcellus.

"Alexander, a teacher of the abominable Christian sect. He is so
obstinate that he will not recant--"

"Hush, he is speaking."

"Romans!" said the old man, "I am a Christian. My God died for me, and I
gladly lay down my life for him--"

A loud outburst of yells and execrations from the fierce mob drowned his
voice. Before it was over three panthers came bounding toward him. He
folded his arms, and looking up to heaven, his lips moved as if
murmuring prayers. The savage beasts fell upon him as he stood, and in a
few minutes he was torn in pieces.

Other wild animals were now let in. They bounded around the inclosure,
they leaped against the barrier, and in their rage assailed one another.
It was a hideous scene.

Into the midst of this a helpless band of prisoners were rudely thrust.
They were chiefly young girls, who were thus sacrificed to the
bloodthirsty passions of the savage Roman mob. The sight would have
moved to pity any heart in which all soft feelings had not been
blighted. But pity had no place in Rome. Cowering and fearful, the poor
young maidens showed the weakness of human nature when just confronted
with death in so terrible a form, but after a few moments faith resumed
its power, and raised them above all fear. As the beasts became aware of
the presence of their prey and began to draw near, these young maidens
joined hands, and raising their eyes to heaven, sang out a solemn chant
which rose clear and wondrously sweet upward to heaven:

    "Unto Him that loved us
    To Him that washed us from our sins
    In his own blood;
    To Him that made us kings and priests,
    To God and the Father;
    To Him be glory and dominion
    Forever and ever.
    Halleluiah. Amen!"

One by one the voices were hushed in blood, and agony, and death; one by
one the shrieks of anguish were mingled with the shouts of praise; and
these fair young spirits, so heroic under suffering and faithful unto
death, had carried their song to join it with the psalm of the redeemed
on high.



CHAPTER II.

THE PRETORIAN CAMP.

    "Cornelius the centurion, a just man, and one that feared God."

Marcellus was born in Gades, and had been brought up in the stern
discipline of a Roman army. He had been quartered in Africa, in Syria,
and in Britain, where he had distinguished himself not only by bravery
in the field but also by skill in the camp. For these reasons he had
received honors and promotions, and upon his arrival at Rome, to which
place he had come as the bearer of dispatches, he had so pleased the
emperor that he had been appointed to an honorable station among the
Pretorians.

Lucullus had never been out of Italy, scarcely indeed out of the city.
He belonged to one of the oldest and most noble Roman families, and
enjoyed corresponding wealth and influence. He was charmed by the bold
and frank nature of Marcellus, and the two young men had become firm
friends. The intimate knowledge of the capital which Lucullus possessed
enabled him also to be of service to his friend, and the scene which has
been described in the preceding chapter was one of the first visits
which Marcellus had made to the renowned Coliseum.

The Pretorian camp was situated close to the city wall, to which it was
joined by another wall which inclosed it. The soldiers lived in rooms
like cells made in the wall itself. They were a numerous and finely
appointed body of men, and their situation at the capital gave them a
power and an influence so great that for ages they controlled the
government of the capital. A command among the Pretorians was a sure
road to fortune, and Marcellus could look forward with well-grounded
prospects of future honors.

On the morning of the following day Lucullus entered his room. After the
usual salutation he spoke of the fight which they had witnessed.

"Such scenes are not to my taste," said Marcellus. "They are cowardly. I
like to see two well-trained men engage in a fair combat, but such
butchery as you have in the Coliseum is detestable. Why should Macer be
murdered? He was a brave man, and I honor his courage. And why should
old men and young children be handed over to wild beasts?"

"It is the law. They are Christians."

"That is always the answer. What have the Christians done? I have seen
them in all parts of the world, but have never known them to be engaged
in disturbances."

"They are the worst of mankind."

"So it is said, but what proof is there?"

"Proof? It is too well known. Their crime is that they plot in secret
against the laws and the religion of the state. So intense is the hatred
which they bear toward our institution, that they will die rather than
offer sacrifice. They own no king or monarch but the crucified Jew who
they believe is alive now. And they show their malevolence to us by
asserting that we shall all hereafter be tortured in Hades for ever."

"This may be true. I know not. I know nothing at all about them."

"The city is swarming with them; the empire is overrun. And mark this.
The decline of our empire, which all see and lament; the spread of
weakness and insubordination, the contraction of our boundaries, all
this increases as the Christians increase. To what else are these evils
owing if not to them?"

"How have they produced this?"

"By their detestable teachings and practices. They teach that fighting
is wrong, that soldiers are the basest of men, that our glorious
religion under which we have prospered is a curse, and that the immortal
gods are accursed demons. In their teachings they aim to overthrow all
morality. In their private practices they perform the darkest and
foulest crimes. They always keep by themselves in impenetrable secresy,
but sometimes we overhear their evil discourses and lewd songs."

"All this is indeed serious, and if true they deserve severe punishment.
But according to your own statement they keep by themselves, and but
little is known of them. Tell me, did those who suffered yesterday seem
like this? Did that old man look as though he had passed his life in
vicious scenes? Did those fair young girls sing lewd songs as they
waited for the lions?"

    "'Unto Him that loved us;
    To Him that washed us from our sins:'"

And Marcellus sang in a soft voice the words which he had heard.

"I confess, my friend, that I mourned for them."

"And I," said Marcellus, "could have wept had I not been a Roman
soldier. Consider for a moment. You tell me things about these
Christians which you confess only to have learned from those who
themselves are ignorant. You assert that they are infamous and base, the
offscouring of the earth. I see them confronted with a death that tries
the highest qualities of the soul. They meet it nobly. They die grandly.
In all her history Rome can produce no greater scene of devotion than
that of yesterday. You say they detest soldiers, yet they are brave; you
tell me that they are traitors, yet they do not resist the laws; you
declare that they are impure, yet if purity is on earth it belonged to
those maidens who died yesterday."

"You are enthusiastic for those outcasts."

"Not so, Lucullus. I wish to know the truth. All my life I have heard
these reports. But yesterday for the first time I suspected that they
might be false. I now question you earnestly, and I find that your
knowledge is based upon nothing. I now remember that throughout all the
world these Christians are peaceable and honest. They are engaged in no
riots or disturbances, and none of these crimes with which they are
charged can be proved against them. Why, then, should they die?"

"The emperor has good reasons no doubt for his course."

"He may be instigated by ignorant or malicous advisers."

"I think it is entirely his own design."

"The number of those that have been put to death is very large."

"O yes, some thousands; but plenty more remain. These, however, are out
of reach, and that reminds me of my errand here. I bring you the
imperial commission."

Lucullus drew from the folds of his military mantle a scroll of
parchment, which he handed to Marcellus. The latter eagerly examined its
contents. It appointed him to a higher grade, and commissioned him to
search out and arrest the Christians in their hiding-places, mentioning
particularly the Catacombs.

Marcellus read it with a clouded brow, and laid it down.

"You do not seem very glad."

"I confess the task is unpleasant. I am a soldier, and do not like to
hunt out old men and weak children for the executioner; yet, as a
soldier, I must obey. Tell me something about these Catacombs."

"The Catacombs? It is a subterranean district that extends to unknown
bounds underneath the city. The Christians fly to the catacombs whenever
there is danger, and they also are in the habit of burying their dead
there. Once there, they are beyond the reach of the utmost power of the
state."

"Who made the Catacombs?"

"No one knows exactly. They have existed for ages. I believe that they
were excavated for the sake of getting building sand for cement. At
present all our cement comes from there, and you may see workmen
bringing it into the city along any of the great roads. They have to go
far away for it now, for in the course of ages they have excavated so
much beneath us that this city now rests upon a foundation like a
honeycomb."

"Is there any regular entrance?"

"There are innumerable entrances. That is the difficulty. If there were
but few, then we might catch the fugitives. But we cannot tell from
which direction to advance upon them."

"Is any district suspected?"

"Yes. About two miles down the Appian Way, near the tomb of Caecilia
Metella, the large round tower, you know, bodies have frequently been
discovered. It is conjectured that these are the bodies of the
Christians which have been obtained from the amphitheater and carried
away for burial. On the approach of the guards, the Christians have
dropped the bodies and fled. But, after all, this gives no assistance,
for after you enter the Catacombs you are no nearer your aim than
before. No human being can penetrate that infinite labyrinth without
assistance from those who live there."

"Who live there?"

"The fossors, who still excavate sand for the builders. They are nearly
all Christians, and are always at work cutting out graves for the dead
of the Christians. These men have lived there all their lives, and are
not only familiar with the passages, but they have a kind of instinct to
guide them."

"Were you ever in the Catacombs?"

"Once, long ago, a fossor guided me. I remained but a short time. My
impression was that it was the most terrible place in all the world."

"I have heard of the Catacombs, but never before knew anything about
them. It is strange that they are so little known. Could not these
fossors be engaged to lead the guards through this labyrinth?"

"No. They will not betray the Christians."

"Have they been tried?"

"Certainly. Some comply, and lead the officers of justice through a
network of passages till they get bewildered. Their torches become
extinguished, and they grow terrified. Then they ask to be led back. The
fossor declares that the Christians must have fled, and so takes back
the soldiers to the starting point."

"Are none resolute enough to continue on till they find the Christians?"

"If they insist upon continuing the search the fossor will lead them on
forever. But he merely leads them through the countless passages which
intersect some particular district."

"Are none found who will actually betray the fugitives?"

"Sometimes; but of what use is it? Upon the first alarm, every Christian
vanishes through the side ways, which open everywhere."

"My prospect of success seems small."

"Very small, but much is hoped from your boldness and shrewdness. If you
succeed in this enterprise it will be your fortune. And now, farewell.
You have learned from me all that I know. You will find no difficulty in
learning more from any one of the fossors."

So saying, Lucullus departed. Marcellus leaned his head on his hands,
and lost himself in thought. But ever amid his meditations came floating
the strains of that glorious melody which told of triumph over death:

    "Unto Him that loved us,
    To him that washed us from our sins--"



CHAPTER III.

THE APPIAN WAY.

    "Sepulchers in sad array
    Guard the ashes of the mighty
    Slumbering on the Appian Way."

Marcellus entered upon the duty that lay before him without delay. Upon
the following day he set out upon his investigations. It was merely a
journey of inquiry, so he took no soldiers with him. Starting forth from
the Pretorian barracks, he walked out of the city and down the Appian Way.

This famous road was lined on both sides with magnificent tombs, all of
which were carefully preserved by the families to whom they belonged.
Further back from the road lay houses and villas as thickly clustered as
in the city. The open country was a long distance away.

At length he reached a huge round tower, which stood about two miles
from the gate. It was built with enormous blocks of travertine, and
ornamented beautifully yet simply. Its severe style and solid
construction gave it an air of bold defiance against the ravages of time.

At this point Marcellus paused and looked back. A stranger in Rome,
every view presented something new and interesting. Most remarkable was
the long line of tombs. There were the last resting-places of the great,
the noble, and the brave of elder days, whose epitaphs announced their
claims to honor on earth, and their dim prospects in the unknown life to
come. Art and wealth had reared these sumptuous monuments, and the pious
affection of ages had preserved them from decay. Here where he stood was
the sublime mausoleum of Caecilia Metella; further away were the tombs
of Calatinus and the Sarvilii. Still further his eye fell upon the
resting-place of the Scipios, the classic architecture of which was
hallowed by "the dust of its heroic dwellers."

The words of Cicero recurred to his mind, "When you go out of the Porta
Capena, and see the tombs of Calatinus, of the Scipios, the Sarvilii,
and the Metelli, can you consider that the buried inmates are unhappy?"

There was the arch of Drusus spanning the road: on one side was the
historic grotto of Egeria, and further on the spot where Hannibal once
stood and hurled his javelin at the walls of Rome. The long lines of
tombs went on till in the distance it was terminated by the lofty
pyramid of Caius Cestius, and the whole presented the grandest scene of
sepulchral magnificence that could be found on earth.

On every side the habitations of men covered the ground, for the
Imperial City had long ago burst the bounds that originally confined it,
and sent its houses far away on every side into the country, till the
traveler could scarcely tell where the country ended and where the city
began.

From afar the deep hum of the city, the roll of innumerable chariots,
and the multitudinous tread of its many feet, greeted his ears. Before
him rose monuments and temples, the white sheen of the imperial palace,
the innumerable domes and columns towering upward like a city in the
air, and high above all the lofty Capitoline mount, crowned with the
shrine of Jove.

But, more impressive than all the splendor of the home of the living was
the solemnity of the city of the dead.

What an array of architectural glory was displayed around him! There
arose the proud monuments of the grand old families of Rome. Heroism,
genius, valor, pride, wealth, everything that man esteems or admires,
here animated the eloquent stone and awakened emotion. Here were the
visible forms of the highest influences of the old pagan religion. Yet
their effects upon the soul never corresponded with the splendor of
their outward forms, or the pomp of their ritual. The epitaphs of the
dead showed not faith, but love of life, triumphant; not the assurance
of immortal life, but a sad longing after the pleasures of the world.

Such were the thoughts of Marcellus as he mused upon the scene and again
recalled the words of Cicero, "Can you think that the buried inmates are
unhappy?"

"These Christians," thought he, "whom I am now seeking, seem to have
learned more than I can find in all our philosophy. They not only have
conquered the fear of death, but have learned to die rejoicing. What
secret power have they which can thus inspire even the youngest and the
feeblest among them? What is the hidden meaning of their song? My
religion can only hope that I may not be unhappy, theirs leads them to
death with triumphant songs of joy."

But how was he to prosecute his search after the Christians? Crowds of
people passed by, but he saw none who seemed capable of assisting him.
Buildings of all sizes, walls, tombs, and temples were all around, but
he saw no place that seemed at all connected with the Catacombs. He was
quite at a loss what to do.

He went down into the street and walked slowly along, carefully
scrutinizing every person whom he met, and examining closely every
building. Yet no result was obtained from this beyond the discovery that
the outward appearance gave no sign of any connection with subterranean
abodes. The day passed on, and it grew late; but Marcellus remembered
that there were many entrances to the Catacombs, and still he continued
his search, hoping before the close of the day to find some clue.

At length his search was rewarded. He had walked backward and forward
and in every direction, often retracing his steps and returning many
times to the place of starting. Twilight was coming on, and the sun was
near the edge of the horizon, when his quick eye caught sight of a man
who was walking in an opposite direction, followed by a boy. The man was
dressed in coarse apparel, stained and damp with sand and earth. His
complexion was blanched and pallid, like that of one who has long been
imprisoned, and his whole appearance at once arrested the glance of the
young soldier.

He stepped up to him, and laying his hand upon his shoulder said,

"You are a fossor. Come with me."

The man looked up. He saw a stern face. The sight of the officer's dress
terrified him. In an instant he darted away, and before Marcellus could
turn to follow he had rushed into a side lane and was out of sight.

But Marcellus secured the boy.

"Come with me," said he.

The poor lad looked up with such an agony of fear that Marcellus was moved.

"Have mercy, for my mother's sake; she will die if I am taken."

The boy fell at his feet murmuring this in broken tones.

"I will not hurt you. Come," and he led him away toward an open space
out of the way of the passers-by.

"Now," said he, stopping and confronting the boy, "tell me the truth.
Who are you?"

"My name is Pollio," said the boy.

"Where do you live?"

"In Rome."

"What are you doing here?"

"I was out on an errand."

"Who was that man?"

"A fossor."

"What were you doing with him?"

"He was carrying a bundle for me."

"What was in the bundle?"

"Provisions."

"To whom were you carrying it?"

"To a destitute person out here."

"Where does he live?

"Not far from here."

"Now, boy, tell me the truth. Do you know anything about the Catacombs?"

"I have heard about them," said the boy quietly.

"Were you ever in them?"

"I have been in some of them."

"Do you know any body who lives in them?"

"Some people. The fossor stays there."

"You were going to the Catacombs then with him?"

"What business would I have there at such a time as this?" said the boy
innocently.

"That is what I want to know. Were you going there?"

"How would I dare to go there when it is forbidden by the laws?"

"It is now evening," said Marcellus abruptly, "come with me to the
evening service at yonder temple."

The boy hesitated. "I am in a hurry," said he.

"But you are my prisoner. I never neglect the worship of the gods. You
must come and assist me at my devotions."

"I cannot," said the boy firmly.

"Why not?"

"I am a Christian."

"I knew it. And you have friends, in the Catacombs, and you are going
there now. They are the destitute people to whom you are carrying
provisions, and the errand on which you are is for them."

The boy held down his head and was silent. "I want you now to take me to
the entrance of the Catacombs."

"O, generous soldier, have mercy! Do not ask me that. I cannot do it!"

"You must."

"I will not betray my friends."

"You need not. It is nothing to show the entrance among the many
thousands that lead down below. Do you think that the guards do not know
every one?"

The boy thought for a moment, and at length signified his assent.

Marcellus took his hand and followed his lead. The boy turned away to
the right of the Appian Way, when he walked a short distance. Here he
came to an uninhabited house. He entered, and went down into the cellar.
There was a door which apparently opened into a closet. The boy pointed
to this, and stopped.

"I wish to go down," said Marcellus, firmly.

"You would not dare to go down alone surely, would you?"

"The Christians say that they do not commit murder. Why then should I
fear? Lead on."

"I have no torches."

"But I have some. I came prepared. Go on."

"I cannot."

"Do you refuse?"

"I must refuse," said the boy. "My friends and my relatives are below.
Sooner than lead you to them I would die a hundred deaths."

"You are bold. You do not know what death is."

"Do I not? What Christian can fear death? I have seen many of my friends
die in agony, and I have helped bury them. I will not lead you there.
Take me away to prison."

The boy turned away.

"But if I take you away what will your friends think? Have you a mother?"

The boy bowed his head and burst into a passion of tears. The mention of
that dear name had overcome him.

"I see that you have, and that you love her. Lead me down, and you shall
join her again."

"I will never betray them. I will die first. Do with me as you wish."

"If I had any evil intentions," said Marcellus, "do you think I would go
down unaccompanied?"

"What can a soldier, and a Pretorian, want with the persecuted
Christians, if not to destroy them?"

"Boy, I have no evil intentions. If you guide me down below I swear I
will not use my knowledge against your friends. When I am below I will
be a prisoner, and they can do with me what they like."

"Do you swear that you will not betray them?"

"I do, by the life of Caesar and the immortal gods," said Marcellus,
solemnly.

"Come along, then," said the boy. "We do not need torches. Follow me
carefully."

And the lad entered the narrow opening.



CHAPTER IV.

THE CATACOMBS

    "No light, but rather darkness visible
    Served only to discover sights of woe,
    Regions of sorrow, doleful shades."

They went on in utter darkness, until at length the passage widened and
they came to steps which led below. Marcellus held the boy's dress and
followed him.

It was certainly a situation that might provoke alarm. He was
voluntarily placing himself in the power of men whom his class had
driven from the upper air into these drear abodes. To them he could only
be known as a persecutor. Yet such was the impression which he had
formed of their gentleness and meekness that he had no fear of harm. It
was in the power of this boy to lead him to death in the thick darkness
of these impenetrable labyrinths, but even of this he did not think. It
was a desire to know more of these Christians, to get at their secret,
that led him on, and as he had sworn, so had he resolved that this visit
should not be made use of to their betrayal or injury.

After descending for some time the steps ended, and they walked along
the level ground. Soon they turned and entered a small vaulted chamber
which was lighted from the faint glow of a furnace. The boy had walked
on with the unhesitating step of one perfectly familiar with the way.
Arriving at the chamber, he lighted a torch which lay on the floor and
resumed his journey.

There is something in the air of a burial place which is unlike that of
any other place. It is not altogether the closeness, or the damp, or the
sickening smell of earth, but a certain subtle influence which unites
with them and intensifies them. The spell of the dead is there, and it
rests alike on mind and body. Such was the air of the catacombs. Cold
and damp, it struck upon the visitor like the chill atmosphere from the
realms of death. The living felt the mysterious power of the dead.

The boy Pollio went on before and Marcellus followed after. The torch
but faintly illumined the intense darkness. No beam of day, no ray
however weak, could ever enter here to relieve the thickness of the
oppressive gloom. It was literally darkness that might be felt. The
torchlight shone out but a few paces and then died in the darkness.

The path went winding on with innumerable turnings. Suddenly Pollio
stopped and pointed downward. Peering through the gloom, Marcellus saw
an opening in the path which led further down. It was a pit to which no
bottom appeared.

"Where does this lead to?"

"Below."

"Are there more passages below?"

"O yes. As many as there are here, and still below that again. I have
been in three different stories of these paths, and some of the old
fossors say that in certain places they go down to a very great depth."

The passage wound along till all idea of locality was utterly lost.
Marcellus could not tell whether he was within a few paces of the
entrance or many furlongs off. His bewildered thoughts soon began to
turn to other things. The first impressions of gloom departed he looked
more particularly upon what he passed, and regarded more closely the
many wonders of this strange place. All along the walls were tablets
which appeared to cover long and narrow excavations. These cellular
niches were ranged on both sides so closely that but little space was
left between. The inscriptions that were upon the tablets showed that
they were Christian tombs. He had not time to stop and read, but he
noticed the frequent recurrence of the same expression, such as,

HONORIA--SHE SLEEPS IN PEACE.
FAUSTA--IN PEACE.

On nearly every tablet he saw the same sweet and gentle word. "PEACE,"
thought Marcellus; "what wonderful people are these Christians, who even
amid such scenes as these can cherish their lofty contempt of death!"

His eyes grew more and more accustomed to the gloom as he walked along.
Now the passage way grew narrower; the roof drooped, the sides
approached; they had to stoop and go along more slowly. The walls were
rough and rudely cut as the workmen left them when they drew along here
their last load of sand for the edifices above. Subterranean damps and
fungous growths overspread them in places, deepening their somber color
and filling the air with thick moisture, while the smoke of the torches
made the atmosphere still more oppressive.

They passed hundreds of side passages and scores of places where many
paths met, all branching off in different directions. These innumerable
paths showed Marcellus how hopelessly he was now cut off from the world
above. This boy held his life in his hands.

"Do any ever lose their way?"

"Often."

"What becomes of them?"

"Sometimes they wander till they meet some friends, sometimes they are
never heard of again. But at present, most of us know the place so well
that if we lose our way we soon wander into familiar paths again."

One thing particularly struck the young soldier, and that was the
immense preponderance of small tombs. Pollio told him that they were the
graves of children, and thus opened to him thoughts and emotions unfelt
before.

"Children!" thought he, "what do they here, the young, the pure, the
innocent? Why were they not buried above, where the sun might shine
kindly and the flowers bloom sweetly over their graves? Did they tread
such dark paths as these on their way through life? Did they bear their
part in the sufferings of those that lingered here flying from
persecution? Did the noxious air and the never-ending gloom of these
drear abodes shorten their fair young lives, and send their stainless
spirits out of life before their time?"

"We have been a long time on the way," said Marcellus, "will we soon be
there?"

"Very soon," said the boy. Whatever ideas Marcellus might have had about
hunting out these fugitives before he entered here, he now saw that all
attempts to do so must be in vain. An army of men might enter here and
never come in sight of the Christians. The further they went, the more
hopeless would be their journey. They could be scattered through the
innumerable passages and wander about till they died.

But now a low sound arose from afar which arrested his attention. Sweet
beyond all description, low and musical, it came down the long passages
and broke upon his charmed senses like a voice from the skies.

As they went on, a light beamed before them which cast forth its rays
into the darkness. The sounds grew louder, now swelling into a
magnificent chorus, now dying away into a tender wail of supplication.

In a few minutes they reached a turn in the path, and then a scene burst
upon their sight.

"Stop," said Pollio, arresting his companion and extinguishing the
torch. Marcellus obeyed, and looked earnestly at the spectacle before
him. It was a vaulted chamber about fifteen feet in height and thirty
feet square. In this place there were crowded about a hundred people,
men, women, and children. At one side there was a table, behind which
stood a venerable man who appeared to be the leader among them. The
walls of the room seemed to have been rudely decorated with coarse
pictures. The place was illuminated with the glare of torches which
threw a lurid glow upon the assembly. The people were careworn and
emaciated, and their faces were characterized by the same pallor which
Marcellus had observed in the fossor. But the expression which now
rested upon them was not of sorrow, or misery, or despair. Hope
illumined their eyes, their upturned faces spoke of joy and triumph. The
scene moved the soul of the beholder to its inmost depths, for it
confirmed all that he had seen of the Christians, their heroism, their
hope, their peace, which rested on something hidden from him. As he
listened he heard their song, chanted by the whole congregation:

    "Great and marvelous are thy works
        Lord God Almighty,
    Just and true are thy ways
        Thou king of saints.
    Who shall not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name?
        For thou only art holy.
    For all nations shall come and worship before thee,
    For thy judgments are made manifest."

Then there was a pause. The venerable leader read something from a
scroll which was new to Marcellus. It was a sublime assertion of the
immortality of the soul, and life after death. The congregation seemed
to hang upon the words as though they were the words of life. Finally,
the reader came to a burst of joyous exclamation which drew murmurs of
gratitude and enthusiastic hope from the audience. The words thrilled
upon the heart of the listener, though he did not understand their full
meaning. "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But
thanks be to God which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus
Christ."

These words seemed to open to his mind a new world with new thoughts.
Sin--death--Christ, with all the infinite train of ideas that rested
upon them, arose dimly before his awakening soul. The desire for the
Christian's secret which he had conceived now burned more eagerly within
him.

The leader raised his head, and stretching out his hands, uttered a
fervent prayer. Addressing the invisible God, he poured forth a
confession of sin and guilt. He plead for pardon through the atoning
death of Christ. He prayed for the Spirit from on high, so that they
might become holy. Then he enumerated all their sorrows, and prayed for
deliverance, asking for faith in life, victory in death, and immortality
in heaven for the sake of the Redeemer, Jesus.

After this followed another chant which was sung as before:

    "Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men,
    And he will dwell with them,
    And they shall be his people,
    And God himself shall be with them
    And be their God.
    And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,
    And there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor sighing,
    Neither shall there be any more pain,
    For the former things are passed away. Amen.
    Blessing, and glory, and wisdom.
    And thanksgiving, and honor, and power, and might,
    Be unto our God
    For ever and ever. Amen."

Now the congregation began to disperse. Pollio walked forward, leading
Marcellus. At the sight of his martial figure and glittering armor
they all started backward, and would have fled by the different paths.
But Marcellus called in a loud voice,

"Fear not, Christians, I am alone and in your power."

Upon this they all turned back, and looked at him with anxious
curiosity. The aged man who led the meeting advanced and looked
earnestly upon him.

"Who are you, and why do you seek us out in the last resting-place that
is left to us on earth?"

"Do not suspect me of evil. I come alone, unattended. I am at your mercy."

"But what can a soldier and a Pretorian wish of us? Are you pursued? Are
you a criminal? Is your life in danger?"

"No. I am an officer high in rank and authority. But I have all my life
been seeking anxiously after the truth. I have heard much of you
Christians, but in these times of persecution it is difficult to find
you in Rome. I have sought you here."

At this the aged man requested the assembly to withdraw, that he might
converse with the new comer. The others readily did so, and retired by
different ways, feeling much relieved. A pale lady advanced eagerly to
Pollio and caught him in her arms.

"How long you were, my son!"

"I encountered this officer, dear mother, and was detained."

"Thank God you are safe. But who is he?"

"I think he is an honest man," said the boy, "see how he confides in us."

"Caecilia," said the leader, "do not go away for a little time." The
lady remained, and a few others did the same.

"I am Honorius," said the old man, addressing Marcellus, "a humble elder
in the Church of Christ. I believe that you are sincere and earnest.
Tell us now what you want with us."

"My name is Marcellus, and I am a captain in the Pretorian Guard."

"Alas!" cried Honorius, and clasping his hands he fell back in his seat.
The others looked at Marcellus with mournful eyes, and the lady Caecilia
cried out in an agony of grief,

"Pollio! how have you betrayed us!"



CHAPTER V.

THE CHRISTIAN'S SECRET.

    "The mystery of godliness, God manifest in the flesh."

The young soldier stood astonished at the effect which his name produced.

"Why do you all tremble so?" said he. "Is it on my account?"

"Alas!" said Honorius, "though we are banished to this place we have
constant communication with the city. We have heard that new efforts
were making to persecute us more severely, and that Marcellus, a captain
in the Pretorians, had been appointed to search us out. We see you here
among us, our chief enemy. Have we not cause to fear? Why should you
track us here?"

"You have no cause to fear me," cried Marcellus, "even if I were your
worst enemy. Am I not in your power? If you chose to detain me could I
escape? If you killed me could I resist? I am helpless among you. My
situation here, alone among you, is proof that there is no danger from me."

"True," said Honorius, assuming his calm demeanor, "you are right; you
could never return without our assistance."

"Hear me, then and I will explain all to you. I am a Roman soldier. I
was born in Spain, and was brought up in virtue and morality. I was
taught to fear the gods and do my duty.

"I have been in many lands, and have confined myself chiefly to my
profession. Yet I have never neglected religion. In my chamber I have
studied all the writings of the philosophers of Greece and Rome. The
result is that I have learned from them to despise our gods and
goddesses, who are no better, and even worse than myself.

"From Plato and Cicero I learn that there is one Supreme Deity whom it
is my duty to obey. But how can I know him, and how shall I obey him? I
learn, too, that I am immortal, and shall become a spirit when I die.
How shall I be then? Shall I be happy or miserable? How shall I secure
happiness in that spiritual life? They describe the glories of that
immortal life in eloquent language, but they give no directions for
common men like me. To learn more of this is the desire of my soul.

"The priests can tell me nothing. They are wedded to old forms and
ceremonies in which they do not believe. The old religion is dead, and
men care for it no more.

"In different lands I have heard much of Christians. Shut up in the
camp, I have not had much opportunity to see them. Indeed, I never cared
to know them until lately. I have heard all the usual reports about
their immorality, their secret vice, their treasonable doctrines. I
believed all this until lately.

"A few days ago I was in the Coliseum. There, first, I learned something
about the Christians. I saw the gladiator Macer, a man to whom fear was
utterly unknown, lay down his life calmly rather than do what he
believed to be wrong. I saw an old man meet death with a peaceful smile;
and above all, I saw a band of young girls give themselves up to the
wild beasts with a song of triumph on their lip:

    "'Unto Him that loved us,
    That washed us from our sins.'"

As Marcellus spoke a wonderful effect was produced. The eyes of his
listeners glistened with eagerness and joy. When he mentioned Macer they
looked at each other with meaning glances; when he spoke of the old man,
Honorius bowed his head; and when he spoke of the children and murmured
the words of their song, they turned away their faces and wept.

"For the first time in my life I saw death conquered. I myself can meet
death without terror, and so can every soldier when he comes in the
battle-field. It, is our profession. But these people rejoiced in death.
Here were not soldiers, but children, who carried the same wonderful
feeling in their hearts.

"Since then I have thought of nothing else. Who is he that loved you?
Who is he that washes you from your sins? Who is he that causes this
sublime courage and hope to arise within you? What is it that supports
you here? Who is he to whom you were just now praying?

"I have a commission to lead soldiers against you and destroy you. But I
wish to learn more of you first. And I swear by the Supreme that my
present visit shall bring no harm to you. Tell me, then, the Christian's
secret."

"Your words," said Honorius, "are true and sincere. Now I know that you
are no spy or enemy, but an inquiring soul sent here by the Spirit to
learn that which you have long been seeking. Rejoice, for he that cometh
unto Christ shall be in no wise cast out.

"You see before you men and women who have left friends, and home, and
honor, and wealth, to live here in want, and fear, and sorrow, and they
count all this as nothing for Christ, yes, they count even their own
lives nothing. They give up all for Him who loved them.

"You are right, Marcellus, in thinking that there is some great power
which can do all this: It is not fanaticism, nor delusion, nor
excitement. It is the knowledge of the truth and love for the great God.

"What you have sought for all your life is our dearest possession.
Treasured up in our hearts, it is worth far more to us than all that the
world can give. It gives us happiness in life even in this place of
gloom, and in death it makes us victorious.

"You wish to know the Supreme Being. Our religion is his revelation, and
through this he makes himself known. Infinite in greatness and power, he
also is infinite in love and mercy. This religion draws us so closely to
him that he is our best friend, our guide, our comfort, our hope, our
all, our Creator, our Redeemer, and our final Saviour.

"You wish to know of the immortal life. Our religion tells of this. It
shows us that by loving and serving God on earth we shall dwell with him
in infinite blessedness in heaven. It shows us how to live so as to
please him here, and it makes us know how we shall praise him hereafter.
By this we learn that death is no longer a curse, but rather a blessing,
since it becomes but the sure passage way unto happiness unspeakable in
the presence of Him who loved us."

"O then," cried Marcellus, "if this be so, make known to me this truth.
For this I have looked for years; for this I have prayed to that Supreme
Being of whom I have heard. You are the possessor of that which I long
to know. The end and aim of my life lies here. The whole night is before
us. Do not put me off, but at once tell me all. Has God, indeed, made
known all this, and have I been ignorant of it?"

Tears of joy glistened in the eyes of the Christians. Honorius murmured
a few words of silent thankfulness and prayer. After which he drew forth
a manuscript, which he handled with tender care.

"Here," said he, "beloved youth, is the word of life which came from
God, which brings such peace and joy to man. In this we can find all
that the soul desires. In these divine words we learn that which we can
find no where else; and though the mind may brood over it for a
lifetime, yet the extent of its glorious truths can never be reached."

Then Honorius opened the book and began to tell of Jesus. He told him of
the long succession of prophets which had heralded his coming, of the
chosen people of God who had kept alive the knowledge of the truth for
so many ages, and of the marvelous works which they had witnessed.

He spoke of his birth, his childhood, his first appearance, his
miracles, his teachings. All this he read, with a few comments of his
own, from the sacred manuscript.

Then he related the treatment which he received, the scorn, contempt,
and persecution which hurried him on to his betrayal.

Finally, he read the story of his death on Calvary.

Upon Marcellus the effect of all this was wonderful. Light seemed to
burst upon his mind. The holiness of God, which turned with abhorrence
from human sin; his justice, which demanded punishment; his patience,
which endured so much; his mercy, which contrived a way to save his
creatures from the ruin which they drew on themselves; his amazing love,
which brought him down to sacrifice himself for their salvation, all
were clear. When Honorius reached the end of the mournful story of
Calvary, and came to the cry, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken
me!" he was roused by a sob from Marcellus. Looking up through the tears
which dimmed his own eyes, he saw the form of the strong man bowed, and
his frame quivering with emotion. "No more, no more now," he murmured,
"Let me think of Him:

    "'Him who loved us,
    Who washed us from our sins,
    In his own blood.'"

And Marcellus buried his face in his hands.

Honorius raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. The two were alone, for
their companions had long since departed. The light from a lamp in a
niche behind Honorius but dimly illumined the scene. Thus they remained
in silence for a long time.

At last Marcellus raised his head.

"I feel," said he, "that I too had a part in causing the death of the
Holy One. Read on, more of that word of life, for my own life hangs upon
it."

Then Honorius read the story of the burial, the resurrection, the
appearance again to the disciples, and the ascension. Nor did he end
with this. He sought to give peace to the soul of his friend. He read to
him all the words of Jesus which invite the sinner, and assure to him a
gracious reception and complete forgiveness.

"It is the word of God," cried Marcellus, "it is a voice from heaven. My
heart responds to everything that I have heard, and I know that it must
be eternal truth.

"But how can I be a sharer in these blessings? I am a sinner; I seem now
to have my eyes cleared of mist. I know myself at last. Before I thought
I was a just and a righteous man. But beside the Holy One of whom I have
heard I sink down into the dust, I see that I am a sinner before him."

"He has atoned for all."

"But how can I be benefited?"

"He will pardon everything even to the uttermost."

"How can he pardon me?"

"Lift up your soul to him and pray for pardon. If you ask you shall
receive."

"O, then, if I may dare to approach, if it be permitted for me to utter
a word to him, teach me the words, tell me the way."

In the dimness of the gloomy vault, in solitude and solemn silence,
Honorius knelt down, and Marcellus bowed himself by his side.

The venerable Christian lifted up his soul in prayer. Marcellus felt as
though his own soul was being lifted up to the courts of heaven, to the
presence of the Saviour, by the power of that, fervent and agonizing
prayer. The words seemed to find an echo in his own soul. In his deep
abasement he rested his wants upon his companion so that he might
present them in a more acceptable manner.

But finally his own desires grew stronger. Hope came to him, timidly,
tremblingly, yet still it was hope, and his soul grew stronger at her
presence. At, last, when Honorius ended, his feelings burst forth. It
was the prayer of the publican: "God be merciful unto me a sinner!"

Hours passed on. But who can fittingly describe the progress of a soul
on its way to its God? Enough, that when morning dawned on the earth
above, a better day had dawned over the soul of Marcellus in the vaults
below. His longings were completely satisfied; the load was all removed;
the Christians; secret was his; and with rapture unfelt before, he could
now sing the song of the Christian:

    "Unto Him that loved us,
    To Him that washed us from our sins
    In his own blood,
    To Him be glory and dominion
    For ever and ever."



CHAPTER VI.

THE CLOUD OF WITNESSES.

    "These all died in faith."

The new convert soon learned more of the Christians. After a brief
repose he rose and was joined by Honorius, who offered to show him the
nature of the place where they lived.

Those whom he had seen at the chapel service formed but a small part of
the dwellers in the catacombs. Their numbers rose to many thousands, and
they were scattered throughout its wide extent in little communities,
each of which had its own means of communication with the city.

He walked far on, accompanied by Honorius. He was astonished at the
numbers of people whom he encountered; and though he knew that the
Christians were numerous, yet he did not suppose that so vast a
proportion would have the fortitude to choose a life in the catacombs.

Nor was he less interested in the dead than in the living. As he passed
along he read the inscriptions upon their tombs, and found in them all
the same strong faith and lofty hope. These he loved to read, and the
fond interest which Honorius took in these pious memorials made him a
congenial guide.

"There," said Honorius, "lies a witness for the truth."

Marcellus looked where he pointed, and read as follows:

    PRIMITIUS, IN PEACE, AFTER MANY TORMENTS, A MOST VALIANT MARTYR. HE
    LIVED ABOUT THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS. HIS WIFE RAISED THIS TO HER DEAREST
    HUSBAND, THE WELL-DESERVING.

"These men," said Honorius, "show us how Christians ought to die. Yonder
is another who suffered like Primitius."

    PAULUS WAS PUT TO DEATH IN TORTURES, IN ORDER THAT HE MIGHT LIVE IN
    ETERNAL BLISS.

"And there," said Honorius, "is the tomb of a noble lady, who showed
that fortitude which Christ can always bestow even to the weakest of his
followers in the hour of need."

    CLEMENTIA, TORTURED, DEAD, SLEEPS, WILL RISE.

"We do not die," said Honorius; "we but sleep, and when the last trump
shall sound we shall awake to be forever with the Lord. Here," he
continued, "lies Constans, doubly constant to his God by a double trial.
Poison was given to him first, but it was powerless over him, so he was
put to the sword:"

    THE DEADLY DRAUGHT DARED NOT PRESENT TO CONSTANS THE CROWN WHICH THE
    STEEL WAS PERMTTED TO OFFER.

Thus they walked along, reading the inscriptions which appeared on every
side. New feelings came to Marcellus as he read the glorious catalogue
of names. It was to him a history of the Church of Christ. Here were the
acts of the martyrs portrayed before him in words that burned. The rude
pictures that adorned many of the tombs carried with them a pathos that
the finest works of the skillful artist could not produce. The rudely
carved letters, the bad spelling and grammatical errors, that
characterized many of them, gave a touching proof of the treasure of the
Gospel to the poor and lowly. Not many wise, not many mighty are called;
but to the poor the Gospel is preached.

On many of them there was a monogram, which was formed of the initial
letters of the name of Christ, "X" and "P" being joined so as to form
one cypher. Some bore a palm branch, the emblem of victory and
immortality, the token of that palm of glory which shall hereafter wave
in the hands of the innumerable throng that are to stand around the
throne. Others bore other devices.

"What is this?" said Marcellus, pointing to a picture of a ship.

"It shows that the redeemed spirit has sailed from earth to the haven of
rest."

"And what is the meaning of this fish that I see represented so often?"

"The fish is used because the letters that form its name in Greek are
the initials of words that express the glory and hope of the Christian.
'iota' stands for 'Jesus,' 'chi' for 'Christ,' 'theta' and 'gamma' for
'the Son of God,' and 'sigma' for 'Saviour,' so that the fish symbolizes
under its name 'iota chi theta gamma sigma,' 'Jesus Christ, the Son of
God, the Saviour.'"

"What means this picture that I see so often--a ship and a huge sea
monster?"

"That is Jonah, a prophet of God, of whom as yet you are ignorant."
Honorius then related the story of Jonah, and showed him how the escape
from the bowels of the fish reminded the Christian of his deliverance
from the darkness of the tomb. "This glorious hope of the resurrection
is an unspeakable comfort," said he, "and we love to bring it to our
thoughts by different symbols. There, too, is another symbol of the same
blessed truth--the dove carrying an olive branch to Noah." He related to
his companion the story of the flood, so that Marcellus might see the
meaning of the representation. "But of all the symbols which are used,"
said he, "none is so clear as this," and he pointed to a picture of the
resurrection of Lazarus.

"There too," said Honorius, "is an anchor, the sign of hope, by which
the Christian, while tossing amid the stormy billows of life, holds on
to his heavenly home.

"There you see the cock, the symbol for watchfulness; for our Lord has
said, 'Watch and pray.' There also is the lamb, the type of innocence
and gentleness, which also brings to our mind the Lamb of God, who bore
our sins, and by whose sacrifice we receive pardon. There again is the
dove, which, like the lamb, represents innocence; and yet again you see
it bearing the olive branch of peace.

"There are the letters Alpha and Omega, which represent our Lord; for
you know that he said, 'I am Alpha and Omega.' And there is the crown,
which reminds of that crown of immortality which the Lord, the righteous
judge, shall give us. Thus we love to surround ourselves with all that
can remind us of the joy that lies before us. Taught by these, we look
up from the surrounding gloom and see above us the light of immortal life."

"Here," said Marcellus, pausing, "is something that seems adapted to my
condition. It sounds prophetic. Perhaps I too may be called upon to give
my testimony for Christ: may I then be found faithful!"

    IN CHRIST, IN THE TIME OF THE EMPEROR ADRIAN, MARIUS, A YOUNG
    MILITARY OFFICER, WHO LIVED LONG ENOUGH, AS HE SHED HIS BLOOD FOR
    CHRIST, AND DIED IN PEACE. HIS FRIENDS SET UP THIS WITH TEARS AND IN
    FEAR.

"'In this world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have
overcome the world.' Thus Christ assures us; but while he warns us of
evil, he consoles us with his promise of support. In him we can find
grace sufficient for us."

"May the example of this young officer be for me," said Marcellus. "I
may shed my blood for Christ like him. May I die as faithfully! To lie
here among my brethren with such an epitaph, would be higher honor for
me than a mausoleum like that of Caecilia Metella."

They walked on as before.

"How sweet," said Marcellus, "is the death of the Christian! Its horror
has fled. To him it is a blessed sleep, and death, instead of awakening
terror, is associated with thoughts of rest or of victory."

    THE SLEEPING PLACE OF ELPIS.

    ZOTICUS LAID HERE TO SLEEP.

    ASELUS SLEEPS IN CHRIST.

    MARTYRIA IN PEACE.

    VIDALIA IN THE PEACE OF CHRIST.

    NICEPHORUS, A SWEET SOUL, IN THE PLACE OF REFRESMENT.

"Some of those inscriptions tell of the characters of the departed
brethren," said Honorius. "Look at these."

    MAXIMIUS, WHO LIVED TWENTY-THREE YEARS, FRIEND OF ALL MEN.

    IN CHRIST, ON THE FIFTH KALENDS OF NOVEMBER, SLEPT GORGONIUS, FRIEND
    OF ALL, AND ENEMY TO NONE.

"And here too," he continued, "are others which tell of their private
lives and domestic experiences."

    CAECILIUS THE HUSBAND, TO CAECILIA PLACIDINA, MY WIFE, OF EXCELLETT
    MEMORY, WITH WHOM I LIVED TEN YEARS WITHOUT ANY QUARREL, IN JESUS
    CHRIST, SON OF GOD, THE SAVIOUR.

    SACRED TO CHRIST THE SUPREME GOD. VITALIS, BURIED ON SATURDAY,
    KALENDS OF AUGUST, AGED TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AND EIGHT MONTHS. SHE
    LIVED WITH HER HUSBAND TEN YEARS AND THIRTY DAYS. IN CHRIST THE
    FIRST AND THE LAST.

    TO DOMNINA, MY SWEETEST AND MOST INNOCENT WIFE, WHO LIVED SIXTEEN
    YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS, AND WAS MARRIED TWO YEARS FOUR MONTHS AND
    NINE DAYS: WITH WHOM, I WAS NOT ABLE TO LIVE, ON ACCOUNT OF MY
    TRAVELING, MORE THAN SIX MONTHS, DURING WHICH TIME I SHEWED HER MY
    LOVE AS I FELT IT. NONE ELSE SO LOVED EACH OTHER. BURIED ON THE
    FIFTEENTH BEFORE THE KALENDS OF JUNE.

    TO CLAUDIUS, THE WELL-DESERVING AND AFFECTIONATE, WHO LOVED ME. HE
    LIVED ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE YEARS IN CHRIST.

"There is the tribute of a loving father," said Marcellus, as he read
the following:

    LAURENCE TO HIS SWEETEST SON SEVERUS. BORNE AWAY BY ANGELS ON THE
    SEVENTH IDES OF JANUARY.

"And here of a wife."

    Domitius in peace, Lea erected this.

"Yes," said Honorius, "the religion of Jesus Christ changes the nature
of man, and while it awakens within him love to God, it makes him
susceptible of more tender affection to his friends and relatives."

Passing on, they found many epitaphs which exhibited this tender love of
departed relatives.

    CONSTANTIA, OF WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND AMIABILITY, WHO LIVED EIGHTEEN
    YEARS SIX MONTHS AND SIXTEEN DAYS. CONSTANTIA IN PEACE.

    SIMPLICIUS, OF GOOD AND HAPPY MEMORY, WHO LIVED TWENTY-THREE YEARS
    AND FORTY-THREE DAYS IN PEACE. HIS BROTHER MADE THIS MONUMENT.

    TO ADSERTOR OUR SON, DEAR, SWEET MOST INNOCENT, AND INCOMPARABLE,
    WHO LIVED SEVENTEEN YEARS SIX MONTHS AND EIGHT DAYS. HIS FATHER AND
    MOTHER SET UP THIS.

    TO JANUARIUS, SWEET AND GOOD SON, HONORED AND BELOVED BY ALL: WHO
    LIVED TWENTY-THREE YEARS FIVE MONTHS AND TWENTY-TWO DAYS.

    HIS PARENTS     LAURINIA, SWEETER THAN HONEY SLEEPS IN PEACE.

    TO THE HOLY SOUL, INNOCENS, WHO LIVED ABOUT THREE YEARS.

    DOMITIANUS, AN INNOCENT SOUL, SLEEPS IN PEACE

    "Farewell, O Sabina; she lived viii years, viii months and xxii days,
    Mayst thou live sweet in God."

    IN CHRIST: DIED ON THE KALENDS OF SEPTEMBER, POMPEIANUS THE
    INNOCENT, WHO LIVED SIX YEARS NINE MONTHS EIGHT DAYS AND FOUR HOURS.
    HE SLEEPS IN PEACE.

    TO THEIR DESERVING SON, CALPURNIUS, HIS PARENTS MADE THIS: HE LIVED
    FIVE YEARS, EIGHT MONTHS AND TEN DAYS, AND DEPARTED IN PEACE ON THE
    THIRTEENTH OF JUNE.

"Unto the epitaph of this child," said Marcellus, "they have added the
symbols of peace and of glory." He pointed to a child's tomb, upon the
slab of which was engraved a dove and a laurel crown, together with the
following inscription:

    RESPECTUS, WHO LIVED FIVE YEARS AND EIGHT MONTHS, SLEEPS IN PEACE.

"And this one," continued Marcellus, "has a palm branch, the symbol of
victory."

"Yes," said Honorius, "the Saviour has said, 'Suffer little children to
come unto me,'" and he read the following inscription:

    MACUS, AN INNOCENT BOY. YOU HAVE ALREADY BEGUN TO BE AMONG THE
    INNOCENT ONES. HOW ENDURING IS SUCH A LIFE TO YOU. HOW GLADLY WILL
    YOUR MOTHER, THE CHUCH OF GOD, RECEIVE YOU, RETURNING TO THIS WORLD!
    LET US RESTRAIN OUR GROANS AND CEASE FROM WEEPING.

Their attention was also attracted by epitaphs over the graves of women
who had been wives of Christian ministers.

    MY WIFE LAURENTIA MADE ME THIS TOMB. SHE WAS EVER SUITED TO MY
    DISPOSITION, VENERABLE AND FAITHFUL. AT LENGTH DISAPPOINTED ENVY
    LIES CRUSHED. THE BISHOP LEO SURVIVED HIS EIGHTIETH YEAR.

    THE PLACE OF BASIL THE PRESBYTER AND HIS FELICITAS. THEY MADE IT FOR
    THEMSELVES.

    ONCE THE HAPPY DAUGHTER OF THE PRESBYTER GABINUS, HERE LIES SUSANNA,
    JOINED WITH HER FATHER IN PEACE.

    CLAUDIUS ATTICIANUS, A LECTOR, AND CLAUDIA FELICISSIMA HIS WIFE.

"I see here," said Marcellus, "a larger tomb. Are two buried here?"

"Yes, this is a 'bisomum,' and two occupy that cell. Read the inscription:"

    THE BISOMUM OF SABINUS. HE MADE IT FOR HIMSELF DURING HIS LIFETIME
    IN THE CEMETERY OF BALBINA IN THE NEW CRYPT.

"Sometimes," continued Honorius, "three are buried in the same grave. In
other places, Marcellus, you will see that large numbers are buried; for
when persecution rages it is not always possible to pay to each
individual the separate attention that is required. Yonder is a tablet
that marks the burial place of many martyrs whose names are unknown, but
whose memories are blessed." He pointed to, a slab bearing the following
inscription:

    MARCELLA AND FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MARTYRS OF CHRIST.

"Here is a longer one," said Marcellus, "and its words may well find an
echo in the hearts of all of us." With deep emotion they read the
following:

    IN CHRIST. ALEXANDER IS NOT DEAD, BUT LIVES ABOVE THE STARS, AND HIS
    BODY RESTS IN THIS TOMB. HE ENDED HIS LIFE UNDER THE EMPEROR
    ANTONINE, WHO, ALTHOUGH HE MIGHT HAVE FORESEEN THAT GREAT BENEFIT
    WOULD RESULT FROM HIS SERVICES, RENDERED UNTO HIM HATRED INSTEAD OF
    FAVOR. FOR WHILE ON HIS KNEES, AND ABOUT TO SACRIFICE UNTO THE TRUE
    GOD, HE WAS LED AWAY TO EXECUTION. O SAD TIMES! IN WHICH EVEN AMONG
    SACRED RITES AND PRAYERS, NOT EVEN IN CAVERNS COULD WE BE SAFE. WHAT
    CAN BE MORE WRETCHED THAN SUCH A LIFE? AND WHAT THAN SUCH A DEATH?
    WHERE THEY CANNOT BE BURIED BY THEIR FRIENDS AND RELATIONS! AT
    LENGTH THEY SPARKLE IN HEAVEN. HE HAS SCARCELY LIVED WHO HAS LIVED
    IN CHRISTIAN TIMES.

"This," said Honorius, "is the resting place of a well loved brother,
whose memory is still cherished in all the Churches. Around this tomb we
shall hold the 'Agape' upon the anniversary of his birthday. At this
feast the barriers of different classes and ranks, of different kindreds
and tribes and tongues and peoples, are all broken down. We are all
brethren in Christ Jesus, for we remember that as Christ loved us, so
ought we also to love one another."

In this walk Marcellus had ample opportunity to witness the presence of
that fraternal love to which Honorius alluded. He encountered men,
women, and children of every rank and of every age. Men who had filled
the highest stations in Rome associated in friendly intercourse with
those who were scarcely above the level of slaves; those who had once
been cruel and relentless persecutors, now associated in pleasant union
with the former objects of their hate. The Jewish priest, released from
the fetters of bigotry and stubborn pride, walked hand in hand with the
once hated Gentile. The Greek had beheld the foolishness of the Gospel
transformed into infinite wisdom, and the contempt which he had once
felt for the followers of Jesus had given place to tender affection.
Selfishness and ambition, haughtiness and envy, all the baser passions
of human life, seemed to have fled before the almighty power of
Christian love. The religion of Christ dwelt in their hearts in all its
fullness, and its blessed influences were seen here as they might not be
witnessed elsewhere; not because its nature or its power had been
changed for their sakes, but because the universal persecution which
pressed on all alike had robbed them of earthly possessions, cut them
off from earthly temptations, and by the great sympathy of common
suffering had forced them closer to one another.

"The worship of the true God," said Honorius, "differs in one respect
from all false worship. The heathen must enter into his temple, and
there through the medium of the priest offer up his prayers and his
sacrifice. But for us Christ has made a sacrifice once for all. Every
one of his followers can now approach God for himself, for each one is
made, through Jesus, a king and a priest unto God. To us, then, it is a
matter of no moment, as far as worship is concerned, whether our chapels
are left unto us, or whether we are banished from them out of the sight
of earth. Heaven is the throne of God and the universe is his temple,
and each one of his children can lift up his voice from any place and at
any time to worship the Father."

Marcellus's journey extended for a long time and for a great distance.
Prepared as he was to find a great extent, he was still astonished at
its vastness. The half had not been told him! and though he had
traversed so much, he was told that this was but a fraction of the whole
extent. The average height of the passage ways was about eight feet, but
in many places it rose to twelve or fifteen feet. Then the frequent
chapels and rooms which had been formed by widening the arches gave
greater space to the inhabitants, and made it possible for them to live
and move in greater freedom. In some places, also, there were narrow
openings in the roof, through which faint rays of light passed from the
upper air. These were chosen as places for resort, but not for living.
The presence of the blessed light of day, however faint, was pleasant
beyond expression, and served in some slight degree to mitigate the
surrounding gloom.

Marcellus saw some places which had been walled up forming a sudden
termination to the passage way, but other paths branched off and
encircled them and went on as before. "What is this place which is thus
inclosed?" he asked.

"It is a Roman tomb," said Honorius. "On excavating this passage the
workmen struck upon it, so they stopped and walled up the place and
carried on their excavation around it. It was not from the fear of
disturbing the tomb, but because in death, no less than in life, the
Christian desires to follow the command of his Lord, and 'come out from
among them and be separate.'"

"Persecution rages around us and shuts us in," said Marcellus. "How long
shall the people of God be scattered, how long shall the enemy distress
us?"

"Such are the cries of many among us," said Honorius, "but it is wrong
to complain. The Lord has been good to his people. Throughout the empire
they have gone on for many generations protected by the laws and
unmolested. True, we have had terrible persecutions, in which thousands
have died in agony, but these again have passed away and left the Church
in peace.

"All the persecutions which we have yet received have served only to
purify the hearts of the people of God and exalt their faith. He knows
what is best for us. We are in his hands, and he will give us no more
than we can bear. Let us be sober and watch and pray, O Marcellus, for
the present storm tells us plainly that the great and terrible day so
long expected is at hand."

Thus Marcellus walked about with Honorius, conversing and learning new
things every hour about the doctrines of God's truth and the experiences
of his people. The sight of their love, their purity, their fortitude,
their faith, sank deeply into his soul.

The experience which he too had felt was not transient. Every new sight
but strengthened his desire to unite himself with the faith and fortunes
of the people of God. Accordingly, before the following Lord's day he
was baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

On the morning of the Lord's day he sat around the table of the Lord in
company with other Christians. There they held that simple and affecting
ceremony by which the Christians showed forth the death of Jesus.
Honorius offered up the prayer for blessing on the repast. And for the
first time Marcellus partook of the wine and the bread, the sacred
symbols of the body and blood of his dying Lord.

"And when they had sung a hymn, they went out."



CHAPTER VII.

THE CONFESSION OF FAITH.

    "Yea, and all that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer
    persecution."

Four days had elapsed since the young soldier had left his chamber.
Eventful days they had been to him; days full of infinite importance.
Endless weal or woe had hung upon their issue. But the search of this
earnest soul after the truth had not been in vain.

His resolution had been taken. On the one side lay fame, honor, and
wealth; on the other, poverty, want, and woe; yet he had made his
choice, and turned to the latter without a moment's hesitation. He chose
rather to suffer affliction with the people of God than to enjoy the
pleasures of sin for a season.

Upon his return he visited the general and reported himself. He informed
him that he had been among the Christians, that he could not execute his
commission, and was willing to take the consequences. The general
sternly ordered him to his quarters.

Here in the midst of deep meditation, while, conjecturing what might be
the issue of all this, he was interrupted by the entrance of Lucullus.
His friend greeted him most affectionately, but was evidently full of
anxiety.

"I have just seen the general," said he, "who sent for me to give me a
message for you. But first tell me what is this that you have done?"

Marcellus then related everything from the time he had left until his
return, concealing nothing whatever. His deep earnestness showed how
strong and true the impression was that had been made upon him. He then
related his interview with his general.

"I entered the room feeling the importance of the step I was taking. I
was about to commit an act of virtual treason, a crime which can only be
punished with death. Yet I could do nothing else.

"He received me graciously, for he thought that I had met with some
important success in my search. I told him that since I left I had been
among the Christians, and from what I had seen of them I had been forced
to change my feelings toward them. I had thought that they were enemies
of the state and worthy of death, but I found that they were loyal
subjects of the emperor and virtuous men. I could never use my sword
against such as these, and rather than do so I would give it up.

"'A soldier's feelings,' said he, 'have no right to interfere with his
duties.'

"'But my duties to the God who made me are stronger than any which I owe
to man.'

"'Has your sympathy with the Christians made you mad?' said he. 'Do you
not know that this is treason?'

"I bowed, and said that I would take the consequences.

"'Rash youth,' he cried sternly, 'go to your quarters, and I will
communicate to you my decision.'

"And so I came here at once, and have been here ever since then,
anxiously awaiting my sentence."

Lucullus had listened to the whole of Marcellus's recital without a word
or even a gesture. An expression of sad surprise upon his face told what
his feelings were. He spoke in a mournful tone as Marcellus ended.

"And what that sentence must be you certainly know as well as I. Roman
discipline, even in ordinary times, can never be trifled with, but now
the feelings of the government are excited to an unusual degree against
these Christians. If you persist in your present course you must fall."

"I have told you all my reasons."

"I know, Marcellus, your pure and sincere nature. You have always been
of a devout mind. You have loved the noble teachings of philosophy. Can
you not satisfy yourself with these as before? Why should you be
attracted by the wretched doctrine of a crucified Jew?"

"I have never been satisfied with the philosophy of which you speak. You
yourself know that there is nothing certain in it on which the soul may
trust. But the Christian religion is the truth of God, brought down by
himself, and sanctified by his own death."

"You have thoroughly explained the whole Christian creed to me. Your own
enthusiasm has made it appear attractive, I will confess; and if all its
followers were really like yourself my dear Marcellus, it might be
adapted to bless the world. But I come not here to argue upon religion.
I come to speak about yourself. You are in danger, my dear friend; your
station, your honor, your office, your very life is at stake. Consider
what you have done. An important commission was intrusted to you, upon
the execution of which you set out. It was expected that you would
return bringing important information. But instead of this you come back
and inform the general that you have gone over to the enemy, that you
are one of them in heart, and that you refuse to bear arms against them.
If the soldier is free to choose whom he will fight what becomes of
discipline? He must obey orders. Am I right?"

"You are, Lucullus."

"The question for you to decide is not whether you will choose
philosophy or Christianity, but whether you will be a Christian or a
soldier. For as the times are now you see that it is impossible for you
to be a soldier and a Christian at the same time. One of the two must be
given up. And not only so, but if you decide upon being a Christian you
must at once share their fate, for no distinction can be made in favor
of you. On the other hand, if you continue a soldier you must fight
against the Christians."

"That is no doubt the question."

"You have warm friends who are willing to forget your great offense,
Marcellus. I know your enthusiastic nature, and I have pleaded with the
general for you. He too respects you for your soldierly qualities. He is
willing to forgive you under certain circumstances."

"What are they?"

"The most merciful of all conditions. Let the past four days be
forgotten. Banish them from your memory. Resume your commission. Take
your soldiers and go at once about your duty in arresting these
Christians."

"Lucullus," said Marcellus, rising from his seat with folded arms, "I
love you as a friend, I am grateful for your faithful affection. Never
can I forget it. But I have that within me to which you are a stranger,
which is stronger than all honors of state. It is the love of God. For
this I am ready, to give up all, honor, rank, and life itself. My
decision is irrevocable. I am a Christian."

For a moment Lucullus sat in astonishment and grief looking at his
friend. He was well acquainted with his resolute soul, and saw with pain
how completely his persuasions had failed. At length he spoke again. He
used every argument that he could think of. He brought forward every
motive that might influence him. He told him of the terrible fate that
awaited him, and the peculiar vengeance that would be directed against
him. But all his words were completely useless. At length he rose in
deep sadness.

"Marcellus," he said, "you tempt fate. You are rushing madly upon a
terrible destiny. Everything that fortune can bestow is before you, but
you turn away from all to cast your lot among wretched outcasts. I have
done the duty of a friend in trying to turn you from your folly, but all
that I can do is of no avail.

"I have brought you the sentence of the general. You are degraded from
office. You are put under arrest as a Christian. To-morrow you will be
seized and handed over to punishment. But many hours are yet before you,
and I may still have the mournful satisfaction of assisting you to
escape. Fly then at once. Hasten, for there is no time to lose. There is
only one place in the world where you can be secure from the vengeance
of Caesar."

Marcellus heard in silence. Slowly he took off his splendid arms and
laid them down, sadly he unfastened his gorgeous armor which he had worn
so proudly. He stood in his simple tunic before his friend.

"Lucullus, again I say that I can never forget your faithful friendship.
Would we were flying together, that your prayers might ascend with mine
to Him whom I serve. But enough, I will go. Farewell."

"Farewell, Marcellus. We may never meet in life again. If you are ever
in want or peril you know on whom you can rely."

The two young men embraced, and Marcellus hastily took his departure.

He walked out of the camp and onward until he reached the Forum. All
around him were stately marble temples and columns and monuments. There
the arch of Titus spanned the Via Sacra; there the imperial palace
reared its gigantic form on high, rich in stately architecture, in
glorious adornments of precious marbles, and glowing in golden
decorations. On one side the lofty walls of the Coliseum arose; beyond,
the stupendous dome of the Temple of Peace; and on the other the
Capitoline Hill upraised its historic summit, crowned with a cluster of
stately temples that stood out in sharp relief against the sky.

To this he directed his steps, and ascended the steep declivity up to
the top of the hill. From the summit he looked around upon the scene.
The place itself was a spacious square paved with marble, and surrounded
with lordly temples. On one side was the Campus Martius bounded afar
onward to the Mediterranean. On every other side the city spread its
unequaled extent, crowding to the narrow walls, and over-leaping them to
throw out its radiating streets far away on every side into the country.
Temples and columns and monuments reared their lofty heads. Innumerable
statues filled the streets with a population of sculptured forms,
fountains dashed into the air, chariots rolled through the streets, the
legions of Rome marched to and fro in military array, and on every side
surged the restless tide of life in the Imperial city.

Far away the plain extended, dotted with countless villages and houses
and palaces, rich in luxuriant verdure, the dwelling-place of peace and
plenty. On one side arose the blue outline of the Apennines, crowned
with snow; on the other the dark waves of the Mediterranean washed the
far distant shore.

Suddenly Marcellus was startled by a shout. He turned. An old man in
scant clothing, with emaciated face and frenzied gesticulation, was
shouting out a strain of fearful denunciation. His wild glance and
fierce manner showed that he was partly insane.

    "'Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen,
    And is become the habitation of devils,
    And the hold of every foul spirit,
    And a cage of every unclean and hateful bird;
    For God hath remembered her iniquities.
    Reward her even as she rewarded you,
    And double unto her double according to her works.
    How much hath she glorified herself and lived deliciously,
    Therefore shall her plagues come in one day,
    Death, and mourning, and famine;
    And she shall be utterly burned with fire;
    For strong is the Lord God who judgeth her.
    The kings of the earth
    Shall bewail and lament,
    Seeing the smoke of her burning,
    Standing afar off for fear of her torment,
    Crying, Alas, alas, that great city Babylon,
    That mighty city Babylon,
    For in one hour is thy judgment come.
    The merchants of the earth,
    Standing afar off for fear of her torment,
    Shall weep and wail.
    Crying, Alas, alas, that great city Babylon,
    That was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet.
    And decked with gold, and precious stones, and pearls.
    For in one hour so great riches is come to naught!
    And every shipmaster, and the company in ships,
    And sailors and traders by sea,
    Shall cry when they see the smoke of her burning,
    Standing afar off for fear of her torment.
    'What city is like unto that great city!'
    And casting dust on their head they shall cry,
    Weeping and wailing,
    Alas, alas, that great city,
    Wherein were made rich all that had ships at sea,
    For in one hour is she brought to naught.
    Rejoice over her thou heaven!
    And ye holy apostles and prophets,
    For God hath avenged you on her!"

A vast crowd collected around him in amazement, but scarcely had he
ceased when some soldiers appeared and led him away.

"Doubtless it is some poor Christian whose brain has been turned by
suffering," thought Marcellus. As the man was led away he still shouted
out his terrific denunciations, and a great crowd followed, yelling and
deriding. Soon the noise died away in the distance.

"There is no time to lose. I must go," said Marcellus; and he turned away.



CHAPTER VIII.

LIFE IN THE CATACOMBS.

    "O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon.
    Irrevocably dark, total eclipse,
    Without all hope of day!"

Upon his return to the Catacombs he was welcomed with tears of joy. Most
eagerly they listened to the account of his interview with his
superiors; and while they sympathized with his troubles, they rejoiced
that he had been found worthy to suffer for Christ.

Amid these new scenes he learned more of the truth every day, and saw
what its followers endured. Life in the Catacombs opened around him with
all its wondrous variety.

The vast numbers who dwelt below were supplied with provisions by
constant communication with the city above. This was done at night. The
most resolute and daring of the men volunteered for this dangerous task.
Sometimes also women, and even boys, went forth upon this errand, and
the lad Pollio was the most acute and successful of all these. Amid the
vast population of Rome it was not difficult to pass unnoticed, and
consequently the supply was well kept up. Yet sometimes the journey met
with a fatal termination, and the bold adventurers never returned.

Of water there was a plentiful supply in the passage ways of the
lowermost tier. Wells and fountains here supplied sufficient for all
their wants.

At night, too, were made the most mournful expeditions of all. These
were in search of the dead which had been torn by the wild beasts or
burned at the stake. These loved remains were obtained at the greatest
risk, and brought down amid a thousand dangers. Then the friends of the
lost would perform the funeral service and hold the burial feast. After
this they would deposit their remains in the narrow cell, and close the
place up with a marble tablet graven with the name of the occupant.

The ancient Christian, inspired by the glorious doctrine of the
resurrection, looked forward with ardent hope to the time when
corruption should put on incorruption, and the mortal, immortality. He
was unwilling that the body which so sublime a destiny awaited should be
reduced to ashes, and thought that even the sacred funeral flames were a
dishonor to that temple of God which had been so highly favored of
heaven. So the cherished bodies of the dead were brought here out of the
sight of man, where no irreverent hand might disturb the solemn
stillness of their last repose, to lie until the last trump should give
that summons for which the primitive Church waited so eagerly, in daily
expectation. In the city above the Christian religion had been
increasing for successive generations, and during all this time the dead
had been coming here in ever-increasing numbers, so that now the
Catacombs formed a vast city of the dead, whose silent population
slumbered in endless ranges, rank above rank, waiting till

    "The wakeful trump of doom should thunder through the deep."

In many places the arches had been knocked away and the roof heightened
so as to form rooms. None of them were of very great size, but they
formed areas where the fugitives might meet in larger companies and
breathe more freely. Here they passed much of the time, and here, too,
they had their religious services.

The nature of the times in which they lived will explain their
situation. The simple virtues of the old republic had passed away, and
freedom had taken her everlasting flight. Corruption had moved over the
empire and subdued every thing beneath its numbing influence. Plots,
rebellions, and treasons cursed the state by turns, but the fallen
people stood by in silence. They saw their bravest suffer, their noblest
die, all unmoved. The generous heart, the soul of fire, awaked no more.
Only the basest passions aroused their degenerate feelings.

Into such a state as this the truth came boldly, and through such
enemies as these it had to fight its way over such obstacles to make its
slow but sure progress. They who enlisted under her banner had no life
of ease before them. Her trumpet gave forth no uncertain sound. The
conflict was stern, and involved name, and fame, and fortune, and
friends, and life, all that was most dear to man. Ages rolled on. If the
followers of truth increased in number, so also did vice intensify her
power and her malignity; the people sank into deeper corruption, the
state drifted on to more certain ruin.

Then arose those terrible persecutions which aimed to obliterate from
the earth the last vestige of Christianity. A terrible ordeal awaited
the Christian if he resisted the imperial decree; to those who followed
her, the order of Truth was inexorable; and when a decision was made, it
was a final one. To make that decision for Christianity was often to
accept instant death, or else to be driven from the city, banished from
the joys of home and from the light of day.

The hearts of the Romans were hardened and their eyes blinded. Neither
childhood's innocence, nor womanly purity, nor noble manhood, nor the
reverend hairs of age, nor faith immovable, nor love triumphant over
death, could touch them or move them to pity. They did not see the black
cloud of desolation that hovered over the doomed empire, nor know that
from its fury those whom they persecuted alone could save them.

Yet in that reign of terror the Catacombs opened before the Christian
like a city of refuge. Here lay the bones of their fathers who from
generation to generation had fought for the truth, and their worn bodies
waited here for the resurrection morn. Here they brought their
relatives, as one by one they had left them and gone on high. Here the
son had borne the body of his aged mother, and the parent had seen his
child committed to the tomb. Here they had carried the mangled remains
of those who had been torn to pieces by the wild beasts of the arena;
the blackened corpses of those who had been given to the flames; or the
wasted bodies of those most wretched who had sighed out their lives amid
the lingering agonies of death by crucifixion. Every Christian had some
friend or relative lying here in death. The very ground was sanctified,
the very air hallowed. It was not strange that they should seek for
safety in such a place.

Moreover, in these subterranean abodes, they found their only place of
refuge from persecution. They could not seek foreign countries nor fly
beyond the sea, because for them there were no countries of refuge, and
no lands beyond the sea held out a hope. The imperial power of Rome
grasped the civilized world in its mighty embrace; her tremendous police
system extended through all lands, and none might escape her wrath. So
resistless was this power, that from the highest noble down to the
meanest slave, all were subject to it. The dethroned emperor could not
escape her vengeance, nor was such an escape even hoped for. When Nero
fell, he could only go and kill himself in a neighboring villa. Yet
here, amid these infinite labyrinths, even the power of Rome was
unavailing, and her baffled emissaries faltered at the very entrance.

Here, then, the persecuted Christians tarried, and their great numbers
peopled these paths and grottoes, by day assembling to exchange words of
cheer and comfort, or to bewail the death of some new martyr; by night
sending forth the boldest among them, like a forlorn hope, to learn
tidings of the upper world, or to bring down the blood-stained bodies of
some new victims. Through the different persecutions, they lived here so
secure that although millions perished throughout the empire, the power
of Christianity at Rome was but slightly shaken.

Their safety was secured and life preserved, but on what terms? For what
is life without light, or what is the safety of the body in gloom that
depresses the soul? The physical nature of man shrinks from such a fate,
and his delicate organization is speedily aware of the lack of that
subtle renovating principle which is connected with light only. One by
one the functions of the body lose their tone and energy. This weakening
of the body affects the mind, predisposing it to gloom, apprehension,
doubt, and despair. It is greater honor for a man to be true and
steadfast under such circumstances than to have died a heroic death in
the arena or to have perished unflinchingly at the stake. Here, where
there closed around these captives the thickest shades of darkness, they
encountered their sorest trial. Fortitude under the persecution itself
was admirable; but against the persecution, blended with such horrors as
these, it became sublime.

The cold blast that forever drifted through these labyrinths chilled
them, but brought no pure air from above; the floors, the walls, the
roofs, were covered over with the foul deposits of damp vapors that
forever hung around; the atmosphere was thick with impure exhalations
and poisonous miasma; the dense smoke from the ever-burning torches
might have mitigated the noxious gases, but it oppressed the dwellers
here with its blinding and suffocating influence. Yet amid all these
accumulated horrors the soul of the martyr stood up unconquered. The
Roman spirit that endured all this rises up to grander proportions than
were ever attained in the proudest days of the old republic. The
fortitude of Regulus, the devotion of Curtius, the constancy of Brutus,
were here surpassed, not by the strong man, but by the tender virgin and
the weak child. Thus, scorning to yield to the fiercest power of
persecution, these men went forth, the good, the pure in heart, the
brave, the noble. For then death had no terrors, nor that appalling life
in death which they were compelled to endure here in the dismal regions
of the dead. They knew what was before them, and they accepted it all.
Willingly they descended here, carrying with them all that was most
precious to the soul of man, and they endured all this for the great
love wherewith they were loved.

The constant efforts which they made to diminish the gloom of their
abodes were visible all around. In the ancient world art was cultivated
more universally than in the modern. Wherever any large number of men
was collected a large proportion had the taste and the talent for art.
When the Christians peopled the Catacombs the artist was here too, and
his art was not unemployed. In these chapels, which to the population
here were like what public squares are to the inhabitants of a city,
every effort was made to lessen the surrounding cheerlessness. So the
walls were in some places covered over with white stucco, and in others
these again were adorned with pictures, not of deified mortals for
idolatrous worship, but of those grand old heroes of the truth who in
former generations had "through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought
righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched
the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness
were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of
the aliens." If in the hour of bitter anguish they sought for scenes or
thoughts that might relieve their souls and inspire them with fresh
strength for the future, they could have found no other objects to look
upon so strong to encourage, so mighty to console.

Such were the decorations of the chapels. The only furniture which they
contained was a simple wooden table upon which they placed the bread and
wine of the sacrament, the symbols of the body and blood of their dying
Lord.

Christianity had struggled long, and it was a struggle with corruption.
It will not be thought strange, then, if the Church contracted some
marks of a too close contact with her foe, or if she carried some of
them down to her place of refuge. Yet if they had some variations from
the apostolic model, these were so trifling that they might be
overlooked altogether, were it not that they opened the way to greater
ones. Still, the essential doctrines of Christianity knew no pollution,
no change. The guilt of man, the mercy of the Father, the atonement of
the Son, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, salvation through faith in
the Redeemer, all these foundations of truth were cherished with a
fervor and an energy to which no language can do justice.

Theirs was that heavenly hope, the anchor of the soul, so strong and so
secure that the storm of an empire's wrath failed to drive them from the
Rock of Ages where they were sheltered.

Theirs was that lofty faith which upheld them through the sorest trials,
a sincere trust in God that could not doubt. There was no need here
either of discussions about the theological term "faith," or of formal
prayers that regarded it as some immaterial essence. Faith with them was
everything. It was the very breath of life; so true that it upheld them
in the hour of cruel sacrifices; so lasting that even when it seemed
that all the followers of Christ had vanished from the earth, they could
still look up trustfully and wait.

Theirs was that love which Christ when on earth defined as comprising
all the law and the prophets. Sectarian strife, denominational
bitterness, were unknown. They had a great general foe to fight, how
could they quarrel with one another. Here arose love to man which knew
no distinction of race or class, but embraced all in its immense
circumference, so that one could lay down his life for his brother; here
arose love to God which stopped not at the sacrifice of life itself. The
persecutions which raged around them gave them all that zeal, faith, and
love which glowed so brightly amid the darkness of the age. It confined
their numbers to the true and the sincere. It was the antidote to
hypocrisy. It gave to the brave the most daring heroism, and inspired
the fainthearted with the courage of despair. They lived in a time when
to be a Christian was to risk one's life. They did not shrink, but
boldly proclaimed their faith and accepted the consequences. They drew a
broad line between themselves and the heathen, and stood manfully on
their own side. To utter a few words, to perform a simple act, could
often save from death; but the tongue refused to speak the formula, and
the stubborn hand refused to pour the libation. The vital doctrines of
Christianity met from them far more than a mere intellectual response.
Christ himself was not to them an idea, a thought, but a real existence.
The life of Jesus upon earth was to them a living truth. They accepted
it as a proper example for every man. His gentleness, humility,
patience, and meekness they believed were offered for imitation, nor did
they ever separate the ideal Christian from the real. They thought that
a man's religion consisted as much in the life as in the sentiment, and
had not learned to separate experimental from practical Christianity. To
them the death of Christ was a great event to which all others were but
secondary. That he died in very deed, and for the sons of men, none
could understand better than they. Among their own brethren they could
think of many a one who had hung upon the cross for his brethren or died
at the stake for his God. They took up the cross and followed Christ,
bearing the reproach. That cross and that reproach were not figurative.
Witness these gloomy labyrinths, fit home for the dead only, which
nevertheless for years opened to shelter the living. Witness these names
of martyrs, those words of despair. The walls carry down to later ages
the words of grief, of lamentation, and of ever-changing feeling which
were marked upon them during successive ages by those who were banished
to these Catacombs. They carry down their mournful story to future
times, and bring to imagination the forms, the feelings and the deeds of
those who were imprisoned here. As the forms of life are taken upon the
plates of the camera, so has the great voice once forced out by
suffering from the very soul of the martyr become stamped upon the wall.

Humble witnesses of the truth; poor, dispised, forsaken; in vain their
calls for mercy went forth to the ears of man; they were stifled in the
blood of the slaughtered and the smoke of the sacrifice! Yet where their
own race only answered their cry of despair with fresh tortures these
rocky walls proved more merciful; they heard their sighs, they took them
to their bosoms, and so their cries of suffering lived here, treasured
up and graven in the rock forever.

The conversion of Marcellus to Christianity had been sudden. Yet such
quick transitions from error to truth were not unfrequent. He had tried
the highest forms of Pagan superstition and heathen philosophy but had
found them wanting, and as soon as Christianity appeared before him he
beheld all that he desired. It possessed exactly what was needed to
satisfy the cravings of his soul and fill his empty heart with the
fullness of peace. And if the transition was quick, it was none the less
thorough. Having opened his eyes and seen the light of the Sun of
Righteousness, he could not close them. Rather than relapse into his
former blindness, he gladly welcomed his share in the sufferings of the
persecuted.

Conversions like these distinguished the first preaching, of the Gospel.
Throughout the heathen world there were countless souls who felt as
Marcellus did, and had gone through the same experiences. It needed only
the preaching of the truth, accompanied by the power of the Holy Spirit,
to open their eyes and bring them to see the light. Apart from divine
influence over human reason, we see here a cause for the rapid spread of
Christianity.

Living and moving and conversing with his new brethren, Marcellus soon
began to enter into all their hopes and fears and joys. Their faith and
trust communicated themselves to his heart, and all the glorious
expectations which sustained them became the solace of his own soul. The
blessed word of life became his constant study and delight, and all its
teachings found in him an ardent disciple.

Meetings for prayer and praise were frequent throughout the Catacombs.
Cut off from ordinary occupations of worldly business, they were thrown
entirely upon other and higher pursuits. Deprived of the opportunity to
make efforts for the support of the body, they were forced to make their
chief business the care of the soul. They gained what they sought. Earth
with its cares, its allurements, and its thousand attractions, lost its
hold upon them. Heaven drew nearer; their thoughts and their language
were of the kingdom. They loved to talk of the joy that awaited those
who continued faithful unto death; to converse upon those departed
brethren who to them were not lost but gone before; to anticipate the
moment when their own time should come. Above all, they looked every day
for that great final summons which should rouse the quick and dead, and
arraign all before the great white throne.

Thus Marcellus saw these dismal passages not left to the silent slumber
of the dead, but filled with thousands of the living. Wan and pale and
oppressed, they found even amid this darkness a better fate than that
which might await them above. Busy life animated the haunts of the dead;
the pathways rang to the sound of human voices. The light of truth and
virtue, banished from the upper air, burned anew with a purer radiance
amid this subterranean gloom. The tender greetings of affection, of
friendship, of kinship, and of love, arose amid the mouldering remains
of the departed. Here the tear of grief mingled with the blood of the
martyr, and the hand of affection wrapped his pale limbs in the shroud.
Here in these grottoes the heroic soul rose up superior to sorrow. Hope
and faith smiled exultingly, and pointed to the light of immortal life,
and the voice of praise breathed forth from the lips of the mourner.



CHAPTER IX.

THE PERSECUTION.

    "Ye have need of patience, that after ye have done the will of God
    ye might receive the promise."

The persecution raged with greater fury. In the few weeks that passed
since Marcellus had lived here, great numbers had sought refuge in this
retreat. Never before had so many congregated here. Generally the
authorities had been content with the more conspicuous Christians, and
the fugitives to the Catacombs were consequently composed of this class;
it was a severe persecution indeed which embraced all, and such
indiscriminate rage had been shown only under a few emperors. But now
there was no distinction of class or station. The humblest follower as
well as the highest teacher was hurried away to death.

Until this time the communication with the city was comparatively easy,
for the poor Christians above ground never neglected those below or
forgot their wants. Provisions and assistance of of all kinds were
readily obtained. But now the very ones on whom the fugitives relied for
help were themselves driven out, to share their fate and become the
partakers instead of the bestowers of charity.

Still their situation was not desperate. There were many left in Rome
who loved them and assisted them, although they were not Christians. In
every great movement there will be an immense class composed of
neutrals, who either from interest or indifference remain unmoved. These
people will invariably join the strongest side, and where danger
threatens will evade it by any concessions. Such was the condition of
large numbers in Rome. They had friends and relatives among the
Christians whom they loved, and for whom they felt sympathy. They were
always ready to assist them, but had too much regard for their own
safety to cast in their lot with them. They attended the temples and
assisted at the worship of the heathen gods as before, and were
nominally adherents of the old superstition. Upon these now the
Christians were forced to depend for the necessaries of life.

The expeditions to the city were now accompanied with greater danger,
and only the boldest dared to venture. Such, however, was the contempt
of danger and death with which they were inspired that there was never
any scarcity of men for this perilous duty.

To this task Marcellus offered himself, glad that he could in any way do
good to his brethren. His fearlessness and acuteness, which had formerly
raised him so high as a soldier, now made him conspicuous for success in
this new pursuit.

Numbers were destroyed every day. Their bodies were sought for and
carried away by the Christians for purposes of burial. This was not very
difficult to accomplish, since it relieved the authorities of the
trouble of burning or burying the corpses.

One day tidings came to the community beneath the Appian Way that two of
their number had been captured and put to death. Marcellus and another
Christian went forth to obtain their bodies. The boy Pollio also went
with them, to be useful in case of need. It was dusk when they entered
the city gate, and darkness came rapidly on. Soon, however, the moon
arose and illumined the scene.

They threaded their way through the dark streets, and at length came to
the Coliseum, the place of martyrdom for so many of their companions.
Its dark form towered up grandly before them, vast and gloomy and stern
as the imperial power that reared it. Crowds of keepers and guards and
gladiators were within the iron gates, where the vaulted passage ways
were illuminated with the glare of torches.

The keepers knew their errand, and rudely ordered them to follow. They
led them on till they came to the arena. Here lay a number of bodies,
the last of those who had been slain that day. They were fearfully
mangled; some indeed were scarcely distinguishable as human beings.
After a long search they found the two whom they sought. Their bodies
were then placed in large sacks, in which they prepared to carry them
away. Marcellus looked in upon the scene. All around him rose the
massive walls, ascending by many terraces back to the outer circle. Its
black form seemed to shut him in with a barrier which he could not pass.

"How long will it be," he thought, "before I too shall take my place
here and lay down my life for my Saviour? When that time comes shall I
be true? Lord Jesus, in that hour sustain me!"

The moon had not yet risen high enough to shine into the arena. Within
it was dark and forbidding. The search had been made with torches
obtained from the keepers.

At this moment Marcellus heard a deep voice from some of the vaults
behind them. Its tones rang out upon the night air with startling
distinctness, and were heard high above the rude clamor of the keepers:

    "Now is come salvation and strength,
    And the kingdom of our God,
    And the power of his Christ;
    For the accuser of our brethren is cast down,
    Which accused them before our God day and night.
    And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb,
    And by the word of his testimony,
    And they loved not their lives unto the death."

"Who is that?" said Marcellus.

"Do not notice him," said his companion. "It is Brother Cinna. His
griefs have made him mad. His only son was burned at the stake at the
beginning of the persecution, and since then he has gone about the city
denouncing woe. Hitherto they have let him alone; but now at last they
have seized him."

"And is he a prisoner here?"

"He is."

Again the voice of Cinna arose, fearfully, menacingly, and terribly,

"How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not avenge our blood on them
that dwell upon the earth?"

"This, then, is the man that I heard in the Capitol?"

"Yes. He has been all through the city, and even in the palace, uttering
his cry."

"Let us go."

They took their sacks and started for the gates. After a short delay
they were allowed to pass. As they went out they heard the voice of
Cinna in the distance:

    "Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen,
    And is become the habitation of devils,
    And the hold of every foul spirit,
    And the cage of every unclean and hateful bird:
    Come ye out of her, my people!"

None of them spoke until they had reached a safe distance from the
Coliseum.

"I felt afraid," said Marcellus, "that we should be kept in there."

"Your fears were reasonable," said the other. "Any sudden whim of the
keeper might be our doom. But this we must be prepared for. In times
like this we must be ready to meet death at any moment. What says our
Lord? 'Be ye also ready.' We must be able to say when the time comes, 'I
am now ready to be offered.'"

"Yes," said Marcellus, "our Lord has told us what we will have: 'In this
world ye shall have tribulation--"

"And he says also, 'Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world. Where I
am, there ye shall be also.'"

"Through him," said Marcellus, "we can come off more than conquerors
over death. The afflictions of this present time are not worthy to be
compared to the glory that shall be revealed to us."

Thus they solaced themselves with the promises of that blessed Word of
life which in all ages and under all circumstances can give such
heavenly consolation. Bearing their burdens, they finally reached their
destination in safety, thankful that they had been preserved.

A few days afterward Marcellus went up for provisions. This time he was
alone. He went to the house of a man who was friendly to them and had
been of much assistance. It was outside of the walls, in the suburb
nearest the Appian Way.

After obtaining the requisite supply, he began to inquire after the
news. "The news is bad for you," said the man. "One of the Pretorian
officers was recently converted to Christianity, and the emperor is
enraged. He has appointed another to the office which he held, and has
sent him after the Christians. They are catching some every day. No man
is too poor to be seized in these days."

"Ah! Do you know the name of this Pretorian officer who is seeking the
Christians?"

"Lucullus."

"Lucullus!" cried Marcellus. "How strange!"

"He is said to be a man of great skill and energy."

"I have heard of him. This is indeed bad news for the Christians."

"The conversion of the other Pretorian officer has greatly enraged the
emperor. A price is now set upon his head. If you chance to see him or
to be in his way, friend, you had better let him know. They say he is in
the Catacombs."

"He must be there. There is no other place of safety."

"These are indeed terrible times. You have need to be cautious."

"They cannot kill me more than once," said Marcellus.

"Ah! you Christians have wonderful fortitude. I admire your bravery; yet
still I think you might conform outwardly to the emperor's decree. Why
should you rush so madly upon death?"

"Our Redeemer died for us. We are ready to die for him. And since he
died for his people, we also are willing to imitate him and lay down our
lives for our brethren."

"You are wonderful people," said the man, raising his hands.

Marcellus now bade him farewell, and departed with his load. The news
which he had just heard filled his mind.

"So Lucullus has taken my place," thought he. "I wonder if he has turned
against me? Does he now think of me as his friend Marcellus, or only as
a Christian? I may soon find out. It would be strange indeed if I should
fall into his hands; and yet if I am captured it will probably be by him.

"Yet it is his duty as a soldier, and why should I complain? If he is
appointed to that office he can do nothing else than obey. As a soldier
he can only treat me as an enemy of the state. He may pity or love me in
his heart, yet he must not shrink from his duty.

"If a price is put on my head they will redouble their efforts for me.
My time I believe is at hand. Let me be prepared to meet it."

With such thoughts as these, he walked down the Appian Way. He was
wrapped up in his own meditations, and did not see a crowd of people
that had gathered at a corner of a street until he was among them. Then
he suddenly found himself stopped.

"Ho, friend!" cried a rude voice, "not so fast. Who are you, and where
are you going?"

"Away," cried Marcellus in a tone of command natural to one who had
ruled over men; and he motioned the man aside.

The crowd were awe-struck by his authoritative tone and imperious
manner, but their spokesman showed more courage.

"Tell us who you are, or you shall not pass."

"Fellow," cried Marcellus, "stand aside! Do you not know me? I am a
Pretorian."

At that dreaded name the crowd quickly opened, and Marcellus passed
through it. But scarcely had he moved five paces away than a voice
exclaimed:

"Seize him! It is the Christian, Marcellus!"

A shout arose from the crowd. Marcellus needed no further warning.
Dropping his load, he started off down a side street toward the Tiber.
The whole crowd pursued. It was a race for life, and death. But
Marcellus had been trained to every athletic sport, and increased the
distance between himself and his pursuers. At last he reached the Tiber,
and leaping in, he swam to the opposite side.

The pursuers reached the river's brink, but followed no further.



CHAPTER X.

THE ARREST.

    "The trial of your faith worketh patience."

Honorius was seated in the chapel with one or two others, among whom was
the lady Caecilia. The feeble rays of a single lamp but faintly
illuminated the scene. They were silent and sad. A deeper melancholy
than usual rested upon them. Around them was the sound of footsteps and
of voices and a confused murmur of life.

Suddenly a quick step was heard, and Marcellus entered. The occupants of
the chapel sprang up with cries of joy.

"Where is Pollio?" cried Caecilia eagerly.

"I have not seen him," said Marcellus.

"Not seen him! said Caecilia, and she fell back upon her seat.

"Why? Is he beyond his time?"

"He ought to have returned six hours ago, and I am sick with anxiety."

"O there is no danger," said Marcellus soothingly. "He can take care of
himself." He tried to pass it off with a careless tone, but his looks
belied his words.

"No danger!" said Caecilia. "Alas! we know too well what new dangers
there are. Never has it been so dangerous as now."

"What has delayed you, Marcellus? We had begun to give you up."

"I was stopped near the Via Alba," said Marcellus. "I dropped my load
and ran to the river. The crowd followed, but I jumped into the river
and swam across. There I took a circuitous route among the streets on
the opposite side, after which I came across again and reached this
place in safety."

"You had a narrow escape. A price is on your head."

"Have you heard it?"

"Yes, and much more. We have heard of the redoubled efforts which they
are making to crush us. All through the day tidings of sorrow have been
reaching us. We must rely more than ever on Him who alone can save us."

"We can baffle them still," said Marcellus hopefully.

"They watch our principal entrances," said Honorius.

"Then we can make new ones. The openings are numberless."

"They have offered rewards for all the prominent brethren."

"What then? We will guard those brethren more carefully than ever."

"Our means of living are gradually lessening."

"But there are as many bold and faithful hearts as ever. Who is afraid
to risk his life now? There will never cease to be a supply of food so
long as we live in the Catacombs. If we escape pursuit we bring help to
our brethren; if we die we receive the crown of martyrdom."

"You are right, Marcellus. Your faith puts my fear to shame. How can
those who live in the Catacombs be afraid of death? It is but a
momentary gloom and it will pass. But this day we have heard much to
distress our hearts and fill our spirits with dismay."

"Alas," continued Honorius in a mournful voice, "how are the people
scattered and the Churches left desolate! But a few months ago and there
were fifty Christian churches within this city where the light of truth
shone, and the sound of prayer and praise ascended to the Most High. Now
they are overthrown, the people dispersed, and driven out of the sight
of men."

He paused, overcome by emotion, and then in a low and plaintive voice he
repeated the mournful words of the eightieth psalm:

    "How long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people?
    Thou feedest them with the bread of tears;
    And givest them tears to drink in great measure.
    Thou makest us a strife unto our neighbors;
    And our enemies laugh among themselves.
    Turn us again, O God of hosts,
    And cause thy face to shine,
    And we shall be saved.
    Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt;
    Thou hast cast out the heathen, and planted it.
    Thou preparedst room before it,
    And didst cause it to take deep root,
    And it filled the land.
    The hills were covered with the shadow of it,
    And the boughs thereof were like goodly cedars.
    She sent out her boughs to the sea,
    And her branches unto the river.
    Why hast thou broken down her hedges,
    So that all who pass by the way do pluck her?
    The boar out of the wood doth waste it,
    And the wild beast of the field doth devour it.
    Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts,
    Look down from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine.
    And the vineyard which thy right hand planted,
    And the branch which thou madest strong for thyself.
    It is burned with fire, it is cut down;
    They perish at the rebuke of thy countenance."

"You are sad, Honorius," said Marcellus. "Our sufferings, it is true,
increase upon us; but we can be more than conquerors through Him who
loved us. What says he--"

"'To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the tree of life which is
in the midst of the Paradise of God.'

"'Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life. He
that overcometh shall not be hurt of the second death.'

"'To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and
will give him a white stone, and in the stone a new name written, which
no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.'

"'He that overcometh and keepeth my words unto the end, to him will I
give power over the nations, and I will give him the morning star.'

"'He that overcometh, the same shall be clothed in white raiment; and I
will not blot his name out of the Book of Life, but I will confess his
name before my Father, and before his angels.'

"'Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the temple of my God, and
he shall go no more out, and I will write upon him the name of my God,
and the name of the city of my God, which is New Jerusalem, which cometh
down out of heaven from my God, and I will write upon him my new name.'

"' To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with me on my throne, even
as I also overcame, and am set down with my Father in his throne.'"

As Marcellus spoke these words his form grew erect, his eye brightened,
and his face flushed with enthusiasm. His emotions were transmitted to
his companions, and as one by one these glorious promises fell upon
their ears they forgot for a while their sorrows in the thought of their
approaching blessedness. The New Jerusalem, the golden streets, the
palms of glory, the song of the Lamb, the face of Him who sitteth upon
the throne; all these were present to their minds.

"Marcellus," said Honorius, "you have driven away my gloom by your
words; let us, rise superior to earthly troubles. Come, brethren, lay
aside your cares. The youngest born into the kingdom puts our faith to
shame. Let us look to the joy set before us. 'For we know that if this
earthly tabernacle be destroyed we have a house not made with hands,
eternal in the heavens.'"

"Death comes nearer," he continued, "our enemies encircle us, and the
circle grows narrower. Let us die like Christians--"

"Why these gloomy forebodings?" said Marcellus. "Is death nearer to us
than it was before? Are we not safe in the Catacombs?"

"Have you not heard, then?"

"What?"

"Of the death of Chrysippus!"

"Chrysippus! dead! No--how? when?"

"The soldiers of the emperor were led down into the Catacombs by some
one who knew the way. They advanced upon the room where service was
going on. This was in the Catacombs beyond the Tiber. The brethren gave
a hasty alarm and fled. But the venerable Chrysippus, either through
extreme old age or else through desire for martyrdom, refused to fly. He
threw himself upon his knees and raised his voice in prayer. Two
faithful attendants remained with him. The soldiers rushed in, and even
while Chrysippus was upon his knees they dashed out his brains. He fell
dead at the first blow, and his two attendants were slain by his side."

"They have gone to join the noble army of martyrs. They have been
faithful unto death, and will receive the crown of life," said Marcellus.

But now they were interrupted by a tumult without. Instantly every one
started upright. "The soldiers!" exclaimed all.

But, no; it was not the soldiers. It was a Christian; a messenger from
the world above. Pale and trembling, he flung himself upon the floor,
and wringing his hands, cried out as he panted for breath,

"Alas! alas!"

Upon the lady Caecilia the sight of this man produced a terrible effect.
She staggered back against the wall trembling from head to foot, her
hands clenched each other, her eyes stared wildly, her lips moved as
though she wished to speak, but no sound escaped.

"Speak--speak! Tell us all," cried Honorius.

"Pollio!" gasped the messenger.

"What of him?" said Marcellus sternly.

"He is arrested--he is in prison!"

At that intelligence a shriek burst forth which sounded fearfully amid
the surrounding horrors. It came from the Lady Caecilia. The next moment
she fell heavily, to the floor.

The bystanders hurried to attend her. They carried her away to her own
quarters. There they applied the customary restoratives and she revived.
But the blow had struck heavily, and though sense and feeling returned,
yet she seemed like one in a dream.

Meanwhile the messenger had recovered strength and told all that he knew.

"Pollio was with you, was he?" asked Marcellus.

"No, he was alone."

"On what errand?"

"Finding out the news. I was on one side of the street a little behind.
He was coming home. We walked on until we came to a crowd of men. To my
surprise, Pollio was stopped and questioned. I did not hear what passed,
but I saw their threatening gestures, and at length saw them seize him.
I could do nothing. I kept at a safe distance and watched. In about half
an hour a troop of Pretorians came along. Pollio was handed over to
them, and they carried him away."

"Pretorians?" said Marcellus. "Do you know the captain?"

"Yes; it was Lucullus."

"It is well," said Marcellus, and he fell into a deep fit of musing.



CHAPTER XI.

THE OFFER.

    "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
    for his friends."

It was evening in the Pretorian camp. Lucullus was in his room seated by
a lamp which threw a bright light around. He was roused by a knock at
the door. At once rising, he opened it. A man entered and advanced
silently to the middle of the room. He then disencumbered himself of the
folds of a large mantle in which he was dressed and faced Lucullus.

"Marcellus!" cried the other in amazement, and springing forward he
embraced his visitor with every mark of joy.

"Dear friend," said he, "to what happy chance do I owe this meeting? I
was just thinking of you and wondering when we should meet again."

"Our meetings, I fear," said Marcellus sadly "will not be very frequent
now. I make this one at the risk of my life."

"True," said Lucullus, participating in the sadness of the other. "You
are pursued, and there is a price on your head. Yet here you are as safe
as you ever were in those happy days before this madness seized you. O,
Marcellus why can they not return again?"

"I cannot change my nature nor undo what is done. Moreover, Lucullus,
although my lot may appear to you a hard one, I never was so happy."

"Happy!" cried the other in deep surprise.

"Yes, Lucullus, though afflicted I am not cast down; though persecuted I
am not in despair."

"The persecution of the emperor is no slight matter."

"I know it well. I see my brethren fall before it every day. Every day
the circle that surrounds me is lessened. Friends leave me and never
appear again. Companions go up to the city, but when they return they
are carried back dead to be deposited in their graves."

"And yet you say you can be happy?"

"Yes, Lucullus, I have a peace that the world knows nothing of; a peace
that cometh from above, that passeth all understanding."

"I know, Marcellus, that you are too brave to fear death; but I never
knew that you had sufficient fortitude to endure calmly all that I know
you must now suffer. Your courage is superhuman, or rather it is the
courage of madness."

"It comes from above, Lucullus. Once I was incapable of feeling it, but
now old things have passed away and all has become new. Sustained by
this new power, I can endure the utmost evils that can be dealt upon me.
I expect nothing but suffering in life, and know that I shall die in
agony; yet the thought can not overcome the strong faith that is
within me."

"It pains me," said Lucullus sadly, "to see you so determined. If I saw
the slightest sign of wavering in you I would hope that time might
change or modify your feelings. But you seem to me to be fixed
unalterably in your new course."

"God grant that I may remain steadfast unto the end!" said Marcellus
fervently. "But it is not of my feelings that I came to speak. I come,
Lucullus, to ask your assistance, to claim your sympathy and help. You
promised me once to show me your friendship if I needed it. I come now
to claim it."

"All that is in my power is yours already, Marcellus. Tell what you want."

"You have a prisoner."

"Yes, many."

"This is a boy."

"I believe my men captured a boy a short time since."

"This boy is too insignificant to merit capture. He is beneath the wrath
of the emperor. He is yet in your power. I come, Lucullus, to implore
his delivery."

"Alas, Marcellus, what is it that you ask? Have you forgotten the
discipline of the Roman army, or the military oath? Do you not know that
if I did this I would violate that oath and make myself a traitor? If
you asked me to fall upon my sword I would do it more readily than this."

"I have not forgotten the military oath or the discipline of the camp,
Lucullus. I thought that this lad, being scarcely more than a child,
might not be considered a prisoner. Do the commands of the emperor
extend to children?"

"He makes no distinction of age. Have you not seen children as young as
this lad suffer death in the Coliseum?"

"Alas I have," said Marcellus, as his thoughts reverted to those young
girls whose death-song once struck so painfully and so sweetly upon his
heart. "This young boy, then, must also suffer?"

"Yes," said Lucullus, "unless he abjures Christianity."

"And that he will never do."

"Then he will rush upon his fate. The law does this, not I, Marcellus. I
am but the instrument. Do not blame me."

"I do not blame you. I know well how strongly you are bound to
obedience. If you hold your office you must perform its duties. Yet let
me make another proposal. Surrender of prisoners is not allowed, but an
exchange is lawful."

"Yes."

"If I could tell you of a prisoner far more important than this boy, you
would exchange, would you not?"

"But you have taken none of us prisoners?"

"No, but we have power over our own people. And there are some among us
on whose heads the emperor has placed a large reward. For the capture of
these a hundred lads like this boy would be gladly given."

"Is it then a custom among Christians to betray one another?" asked
Lucullus in surprise.

"No, but sometimes one Christian will offer his own life to save that of
another."

"Impossible!"

"It is so in this instance."

"Who is it that is offered for this boy?"

"I Marcellus!"

At this astounding declaration Lucullus started back.

"You!" he cried.

"Yes, I myself."

"You are jesting. It is impossible."

"I am serious. It is for this that I have already exposed my life in
coming to you. I have shown the interest that I take in him by this
great risk. I will explain.

"This boy Pollio is the last of an ancient and noble Roman family. He is
the only son of his mother. His father died in battle. He belongs to the
Servilii."

"The Servilii! Is his mother the Lady Caecilia?"

"Yes. She is a refugee in the Catacombs. Her whole life and love is
wrapped up in this boy. Every day she lets him go up into the city, a
dangerous adventure, and in his absence she suffers indescribable agony.
Yet she is afraid to keep him there always for fear that the damp air
which is so fatal to children may cut him off. So she exposes him to
what she thinks is a smaller danger.

"This boy you have a prisoner. That mother has heard of it, and now lies
hovering between life and death. If you destroy him she too will die,
and one of the noblest and purest spirits in Rome will be no more.

"For these reasons I come to offer myself in exchange. What am I? I am
alone in the world. No life is wrapped up in mine. No one depends on me
for the present and the future. I fear not death. It may as well come
now as at any other time. It must come sooner or later, and I would
rather give my life as a ransom for a friend than lay it down uselessly.

"For these reasons, Lucullus, I implore you, by the sacred ties of
friendship, by your pity, by your promise to me, give me your assistance
now and take my life in exchange for him."

Lucullus rose to his feet and paced the room in great agitation.

"Why, O Marcellus," he cried at last, "do you try me so terribly?"

"My proposal is easy to receive."

"You forget that your life is precious to me."

"But think of this young lad."

"I pity him deeply. But do you think I can receive your life as a forfeit?"

"It is forfeited already, and will be surrendered sooner or later. I
pray you let it be yielded up while it may be of service."

"You shall not die as long as I can prevent it. Your life is not yet
forfeited. By the immortal gods, it will be long before you take your
place in the arena."

"No one can save me when once I am taken. You might try your utmost.
What could you do to save one on whom the emperor's wrath is falling?"

"I might do much to avert it. You do not know what might be done. But
even if I could do nothing, still I would not listen to this proposal now."

"If I went to the emperor himself he would grant my prayer."

"He would take you prisoner at once and put both of you to death."

"I could send a messenger with my proposal."

"The message would never reach him; or at least not until it would be
too late."

"There is then no hope?" said Marcellus mournfully.

"None."

"And you absolutely refuse to grant my request?"

"Alas, Marcellus, how can I be guilty of the death of my friend? You
have no mercy on me. Forgive me if I refuse so unreasonable a proposal."

"The will of the Lord be done," said Marcellus. "I must hasten back.
Alas! how can I carry with me this message of despair?"

The two friends embraced in silence, and Marcellus departed, leaving
Lucullus overcome with amazement at this proposal.

Marcellus returned to the Catacombs in safety. The brethren there who
knew of his errand received him again with mournful joy. The lady
Caecilia still lay in a kind of stupor, only half conscious of
surrounding events. At times her mind would wander, and in her delirium
she would talk of happy scenes in her early life.

But the life which she had led in the Catacombs, the alternating hope
and fear, joy and sorrow, the ever present anxiety, and the oppressive
air of the place itself, had overcome both mind and body. Her delicate
nature sank beneath the fury of such an ordeal, and this last heavy blow
completed her prostration. She could not rally from its effects.

That night they watched around her couch. Every hour she grew feebler,
and life was slowly but surely passing away. From that descent unto
death not even the restoration of her son could have saved her.

But though earthly thoughts had left her and earthly feelings had grown
faint, the one master passion of her later years held undiminished power
over her. Her lips murmured still the sacred words which had so long
been her support and consolation. The name of her darling boy was
breathed from her lips though his present danger was forgotten; but it
was the blessed name of Jesus that was uttered with the deepest fervor.

At length the end came. Starting from a long period of stillness, her
eyes opened wide, a flush passed over her wan and emaciated face and she
uttered a faint cry, "Come, Lord Jesus!" With the cry life went out, and
the pure spirit of the lady Caecilia had returned unto God who gave it.



CHAPTER XII.

POLLIO'S TRIAL.

    "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou hast ordained praise."

It was a large room in a building not far from the imperial palace. The
pavement was of polished marble, and columns of porphyry supported a
paneled dome. An altar with a statue of a heathen deity was at one end
of the apartment. Magistrates in their robes occupied raised seats on
the opposite end. In front of them were some soldiers guarding a prisoner.

The prisoner was the boy Pollio. His face was pale, but his bearing was
erect and firm. The remarkable intelligence which had always
characterized him did not fail him now. His quick eye took in
everything. He knew the inevitable doom that impended over him. Yet
there was no trace of fear or indecision about him.

He knew that the only tie that bound him to earth had been severed.
Early that morning the news of his mother's death had reached him. It
had been carried to him by a man who thought that the knowledge of this
would fortify his resolution. That man was Marcellus. The kindness of
Lucullus had gained him an interview. His judgment had been correct.
While his mother lived, the thought of her would have weakened his
resolution; now that she was dead, he was eager to depart also. In his
simple faith he believed that death would unite him at once to the dear
mother whom he loved so fondly.

With these feelings he awaited the examination.

"Who are you?"

"Marcus Servilius Pollio."

"What is your age?"

"Thirteen years."

At the mention of his name a murmur of compassion went round the
assemblage, for that name was well known in Rome.

"You are charged with the crime of being a Christian. What have you to
say?"

"I am guilty of no crime," said the boy. "I am a Christian, and I am
glad to be able to confess it before men."

"It is the same with them all," said one of the judges. "They all have
the same formula."

"Do you know the nature of your crime?"

"I am guilty of no crime," said Pollio. "My religion teaches me to fear
God and honor the emperor. I have obeyed every just law, and am not a
traitor."

"To be a Christian is to be a traitor."

"I am a Christian, but I am not a traitor."

"The law of the state forbids you to be a Christian under pain of death.
If you are a Christian you must die."

"I am a Christian," repeated Pollio firmly.

"Then you must die."

"Be it so."

"Boy, do you know what it is to suffer death?"

"I have seen much of death during the last few months. I have always
expected to lay down my life for my religion when my turn should come."

"Boy, you are young. We pity your tender age and inexperience. You have
been trained so peculiarly that you are scarcely responsible for your
present folly. For all this we are willing to make allowance. This
religion which infatuates you is foolishness. You believe that a poor
Jew, who was executed a few hundred years ago, is a God. Can anything be
more absurd than this! Our religion is the religion of the state. It has
enough in itself to satisfy the minds of young and old, ignorant and
learned. Leave your foolish superstition and turn to our wiser and older
religion."

"I cannot."

"You are the last of a noble family. The state recognizes the worth and
the nobility of the Servilii. Your ancestors lived in pomp and wealth
and power. You are a poor miserable boy and a prisoner. Be wise, Pollio.
Think of the glory of your forefathers and throw aside the miserable
obstacle that keeps you away from all their illustrious fame."

"I cannot."

"You have lived a miserable outcast. The poorest beggar in Rome fares
better than you. His food is obtained with less labor and less
humiliation. His shelter is in the light of day. Above all he is safe.
His life is his own. He need not live in hourly fear of justice. But you
have had to drag out a wretched existence in want and danger and
darkness. What has your boasted religion given you? What has this
deified Jew done for you? Nothing, worse than nothing. Turn, then, from
this deceiver. Wealth and comfort and friends and the honors of the
state and the favor of the emperor will all be yours."

"I cannot."

"Your father was a loyal subject and a brave soldier. He died in battle
for his country. He left you an infant, the heir of all his honors, and
the last prop of his house. Little did he think of the treacherous
influences that surrounded you to lead you astray. Your mother's mind,
weakened by sorrow, surrendered to the insidious wiles of false
teachers, and she again ignorantly wrought your ruin. Had your noble
father lived you would now have been the hope of his ancient line; your
mother, too, would have followed the faith of her illustrious ancestors.
Do you value your father's memory? Has he no claims on your filial duty?
Do you think it no sin to heap dishonor on the proud name that you bear
and throw so foul a blot upon the unsullied fame handed down to you from
your fathers? Away with this delusion that blinds you. By your father's
memory, by the honor of your family, turn from your present course."

"I can do them no dishonor. My religion is pure and holy. I can die, but
I cannot be false to my Saviour."

"You see that we are merciful to you. Your name and your inexperience
excites our pity. Were you but a common prisoner we would offer you in
short words the choice between retraction or death. But we are willing
to reason with you, for we do not wish to see a noble family become
extinct through the ignorance or obstinacy of a degenerate heir."

"I thank you for your consideration," said Pollio; "but your arguments
have no weight with me beside the higher claims of my religion."

"Rash and thoughtless boy! There is another argument which you will find
more powerful. The wrath of the emperor is terrible."

"Yet still more terrible is the wrath of the Lamb."

"You speak an unintelligible language. What is the wrath of the Lamb?
You do not think on what is before you."

"My companions and friends have already endured all that you can
inflict. I trust that I may have like fortitude."

"Can you endure the terrors of the arena?"

"I hope to have more than mortal strength."

"Can you face the savage lions and tigers that will then rush upon you?"

"He in whom I trust will not desert me in my time of need."

"You are confident."

"I confide in Him who loved me and gave himself for me."

"Have you thought of the death by fire? Are you ready to meet the flames
at the stake?"

"Alas! If I must bear it I will not shrink. At the worst it will soon be
over, and then I shall be forever with the Lord."

"Fanaticism and superstition have taken complete possession of you. You
know not what awaits you. It is easy to face threats, it is easy to
utter words and make professions of courage. But how will it be with you
when the dread reality comes upon you?"

"I will look to Him who never deserts his own in their hour of need."

"He has done nothing for you thus far!"

"He has done all for me. He gave his own life that I might live. Through
him I receive a nobler life than this which you take from me."

"This is but a dream of yours. How is it possible that a miserable Jew
can do this."

"He was the fullness of the Godhead; God manifest in the flesh. He
suffered death of the body that we might receive life for the soul."

"Can nothing open your eyes? Is it not enough that thus far your mad
belief has brought you nothing but misery and woe? Must you still hold
on to it? When you see that death is inevitable will you not turn away
from your errors?"

"He gives me strength to overcome death; I fear it not. I look upon
death itself as but a change from this life of sorrow to an immortality
of bliss. Whether I die by the wild beasts or by the flames it will be
all the same. If I continue faithful he will support me and lead my soul
at once to immortal life in heaven. The death which you threaten me with
has no terrors; but the life to which you invite me is more terrible to
me than a thousand deaths."

"For the last time we give you an opportunity. Rash youth, pause for one
moment in your mad career of folly. Forget for an instant the insane
counsels of your fanatical teachers. Think of all that has been said to
you. Life is before you; life full of joy and pleasure; a life rich in
every blessing. Honor, friends, wealth, power, all is yours. A noble
name, and the possessions of your family, await you. They are all yours.
To gain them you have but to take this goblet and pour the libation on
yonder altar. Take it. It is but a simple act. Perform it quickly. Save
yourself from a death of agony."

Every eye was fixed upon Pollio as this last offer was held out to him.
Amazement had filled the minds of the spectators to find him thus far so
unmoved. They could not account for it.

But even this last appeal had no effect. Pale but resolute, Pollio
motioned away the proffered goblet.

"I will never be false to my Saviour."

At these words there was a moment's pause. Then the chief magistrate spoke:

"You have uttered your own doom. Away with him," he continued,
addressing the soldiery.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE DEATH OF POLLIO.

    "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."

The sentence of Pollio was swift and sure. On the following day there
was a spectacle at the Coliseum. Crowded to its topmost terrace of seats
with the bloodthirsty Roman multitude, it displayed the same sickening
succession of horrors which has been before detailed.

Gladiators again fought and slew one another singly and in multitudes.
There was every different mode of combat known in the arena, and of
these the most deadly were sure to find the most favor.

Again were the ever-recurring scenes of blood and agony presented; the
fierce champion of the day received the short-lived congratulations of
the fickle spectators. Again man fought with man, or waged a fiercer
contest with the tiger. Again the wounded gladiator looked up
despairingly for mercy, but received only the signal of death from the
pitiless spectators.

The satiated appetites of the multitude now demanded a larger supply of
slaughter. The combats between men who were equally matched had lost
their attraction for that day. It was known that Christians were
reserved for the concluding spectacle, and the appearance of these was
impatiently demanded.

Lucullus stood among the guards near the emperor's seat. Yet his brow
was more thoughtful, and his olden gayety had all departed.

High up among the loftier seats behind him was a pale stern face, that
was conspicuous among all around it for the concentrated gaze which it
fixed upon the arena. There was an expression of deep anxiety upon that
face which made it far different from all within the vast inclosure.

Now the harsh sound of the gratings arose, and a tiger leaped forth into
the arena. Throwing up its head and lashing its sides with its tail, it
stalked about glancing with fiery eyes upon the vast assemblage of human
beings which hemmed it in.

Soon a murmur arose. A boy was thrust into the arena.

Pale in face and slight in limb, his slender form was nothing before the
huge bulk of the furious beast. As if in derision, he was dressed like a
gladiator.

Yet in spite of his youth and his weakness there was nothing in his face
or manner that betrayed fear. His glance was calm and abstracted. He
moved forward quietly to the center of the arena, and there, in the
sight of all, he joined his hands together and lifted up his eyes and
prayed.

Meanwhile, the tiger moved around as before. He had seen the boy, but
the sight had no effect. He still raised his bloodshot eyes toward the
lofty walls and occasionally uttered a savage growl.

The man with the stern sad face looked on with all his soul absorbed in
that gaze.

There appeared to be no desire on the part of the tiger to attack the
boy, who still continued praying.

The multitude now grew impatient. Murmurs arose and cries and shouts
with the intention of maddening the tiger and urging him on.

But now, even in the midst of the tumult, there came forth the sound of
a voice deep and terrible:

"How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not avenge our blood on them
that dwell upon the earth?"

A deep stillness followed. Every one in surprise looked at his neighbor.
But the silence was soon broken by the same voice, which rang out in
terrific emphasis:

    "Behold, he cometh in the clouds,
    And every eye shall see him,
    And they also which pierced him,
    And all the kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him.
    Even so. Amen!
    Thou art righteous, O Lord,
    Which art, and wast, and shalt be,
    Because thou hast judged thus.
    For they have shed the blood of saints and prophets,
    And thou hast given them blood to drink,
    For they are worthy.
    Even so, Lord God Almighty,
    True and righteous are thy judgments!"

But now murmurs and cries and shouts passed around. Soon the cause of
the disturbance became known.

"It is an accursed Christian"--"It is the fanatic Cinna"--"He has been
confined four days without, food"--"Bring him out"--"Throw him to the
tiger!"

Shouts and execrations arose on high and mingled in one vast roar. The
tiger leaped in frenzy around. The keepers within heard the words of the
multitude and hurried to obey.

Soon the gratings opened. The victim was thrust in.

Fearfully emaciated and ghastly pale, he tottered forward with tremulous
steps. His eyes had an unearthly luster, his cheeks a burning flush, and
his neglected hair and long beard were matted in a tangled mass.

The tiger saw him, and came leaping toward him. Then at a little
distance away the furious beast crouched. The boy arose from his knees
and looked. But Cinna saw no tiger. He fixed his eyes on the multitude,
and waving his withered arm on high he shouted in the same tone of menace:

"Woe! woe! woe to the inhabitants of the earth--"

His voice was hushed in blood. There was a leap, a fall, and all was over.

And now the tiger turned toward the boy. His thirst for blood was fully
aroused; with bristling hair, flaming eyes, and sweeping tail he stood
facing his prey.

The boy saw that the end was coming, and again fell upon his knees. The
crowd was hushed to stillness, and awaited in deep excitement the new
scene of slaughter. The man who had been gazing so intently now rose
upward and stood erect, still watching the scene below. Loud cries arose
from behind him which increased still louder, "Down," "down," "sit
down," "you obstruct the view!"

But the man either did not hear or else purposely disregarded it. At
length the crowd grew so noisy that the officers below turned to see the
cause.

Lucullus was one of them. Turning round he saw the whole scene. He
started and grew pale as death.

"Marcellus!" he cried. For a moment he staggered back, but soon
recovering he hurried away to the scene of the disturbance.

But now a deep murmur broke forth from the multitude. The tiger, who had
been walking round and round the boy, lashing himself to greater fury,
now crouched for a spring.

The boy arose. A seraphic expression was upon his face. His eyes beamed
with a lofty enthusiasm. He saw no longer the arena, the high
surrounding walls, the far-extending seats with innumerable faces; he
saw no more the relentless eyes of the cruel spectators, or the gigantic
form of his savage enemy. [See Frontispiece.]

Already his soaring spirit seemed to enter into the golden gates of the
New Jerusalem, and the ineffable glory of the noonday of heaven gleamed
upon his sight.

"Mother, I come to thee! Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!"

His words sounded clearly and sweetly upon the ears of the multitude.
They ceased, and the tiger sprang. The next moment these was nothing but
a struggling mass half hidden in clouds of dust.

The struggle ended. The tiger started back, the sand was red with blood,
and upon it lay the mangled form of the true-hearted, the noble Pollio.

Then amid the silence that followed there came forth a shout that
sounded like a trumpet peal and startled every one in the assembly:

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? . . .
Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

A thousand men rose with a simultaneous burst of rage and indignation.
Ten thousand hands were outstretched toward the bold intruder.

"A Christian"--"A Christian"--"To the flames with him"--"Throw him to
the tiger"--"Hurl him into the arena!"

Such were the shouts that answered the cry. Lucullus reached the spot
just in time to rescue Marcellus from a crowd of infuriated Romans, who
were about to tear him in pieces. The tiger below was not more fierce,
more bloodthirsty than they. Lucullus rushed among them, dashing them to
the right and left as a keeper among wild beasts.

Overawed by his authority they fell back, and soldiers approached.

Lucullus gave Marcellus in charge to them, and led the company out of
the amphitheater.

Outside he took charge of the prisoner himself. The soldiers followed them.

"Alas, Marcellus! was it well to throw away your life?"

"I spoke from the impulse of the moment. That dear boy whom I loved died
before my eyes! I could not restrain myself. Yet I do not repent. I,
too, am ready to lay down my life for my King and my God."

"I cannot reason with you. You are beyond the reach of argument."

"I did not intend to betray myself, but since it is done I am content.
Nay, I am glad, and I rejoice that it is my lot to suffer for my Redeemer."

"Alas, my friend! Have you no regard for life?"

"I love my Saviour better than life."

"See, Marcellus, the road before us is open. You can run quickly. Fly
and be saved."

Lucullus spoke this in a hurried whisper.

The soldiers were some twenty paces behind. The chances were all in
favor of escape. Marcellus pressed the hand of his friend.

"No, Lucullus. I would not gain life by your dishonor. I love the warm
heart that prompted it, but you shall not be led into difficulty by your
friendship for me."

Lucullus sighed, and walked on in silence.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE TEMPTATION.

    "All this will I give thee if thou wilt fall down and worship me."

That night Lucullus remained in the cell with his friend. He sought by
every possible argument to shake his resolution. He appealed to every
motive that commonly influences men. He left no means of persuasion unused.

All in vain. The faith of Marcellus was too firmly fixed. It was founded
on the Rock of Ages, and neither the storm of violent threats nor the
more tender influences of friendship could weaken his determination.

"No," said he, "my course is taken and my choice is made. Come weal,
come woe, I must follow it out to the end. I know all that is before me.
I have weighed all the consequences of my action, but in spite of all I
will continue as I have begun."

"It is but a small thing that I ask," said Lucullus. "I do not wish you
to give up this religion forever, but only for the present. A terrible
persecution is now raging, and before its fury all must fall, whether
young or old, high or low. You have seen that no class or age is
respected. Pollio would have been saved if it had been possible. There
was a strong sympathy in his favor. He was young, and scarcely
accountable for his errors; he was also noble, the last of an ancient
family. But the law was inexorable, and he suffered its penalty. Cinna,
too, might have been overlooked. He was neither more nor less than a
madman. But so vehement is the zeal against Christians that even his
evident madness was no security whatever for him."

"I know it well. The Prince of Darkness struggles against the Church of
God, but it is founded on a rock, and the gates of hell cannot prevail
against it. Have I not seen the good, the pure, the noble, the holy, and
the innocent all suffer alike? Do I not know that there is no mercy for
the Christian? I knew it well long ago. I have always been prepared for
the consequences."

"Hear me, Marcellus. I have said that I asked but a small thing. This
religion which you prize so highly need not be given up. Keep it, if it
must be so. But make allowance for circumstances. Since the storm is
raging bow before it. Take the course of a wise man, not of a fanatic."

"What is it that you would have me to do?"

"It is this. In the course of a few years a change will take place.
Either the persecution will wear itself out, or a reaction will take
place, or the emperor may die and other rulers with different feelings
may succeed. It will then be safe to be a Christian. Then these people
who are now afflicted may come back from their hiding-places to occupy
their old places, and to rise to dignity and wealth. Remember this. Do
not therefore throw away a life which yet may be serviceable to the
state and happy to yourself. Cherish it for your own sake. Look about
you now. Consider all these things. Leave aside your religion for a
time, and return to that of the state. It need only be for a time. Thus
you may escape from present danger, and when happier times return you
may go back and be a Christian again."

"This is impossible, Lucullus. It is abhorrent to my soul. What, can I
thus be doubly a hypocrite? Would you ask me to perjure my immortal soul
to the world and to my God? Better to die at once by the severest
tortures that can be inflicted."

"You take such extreme views that I despair of saving you. Will you not
look at this subject rationally? It is not perjury, but policy; not
hypocrisy, but wisdom."

"God forbid that I should do this thing and sin against him!"

"Look further also. You will not only benefit yourself but others. These
Christians whom you love will be assisted by you far more than they are
now. In their present situation you know well that they are enabled to
live by the sympathy and assistance of those who profess the religion of
the state but in secret prefer the religion of the Christians. Do you
call these men hypocrites and perjurers? Are they not rather your
benefactors and friends?"

"These men have never learned the Christian's faith and hope as I have.
They have never felt the new birth of the soul as I have. They have not
known the love of God springing up within their hearts to give them new
feelings and hopes and desires. For them to sympathize with the
Christians and to help them is a good thing; but the Christian who could
be base enough to abjure his faith and deny the Saviour that redeemed
him, could never have enough generosity in his traitorous soul to assist
his forsaken brethren."

"Then, Marcellus, I have but one more offer to make, and I go. It is a
last hope. I do not know whether it will be possible or not. I will try
it, however, if I can but gain your consent. It is this. You need not
abjure your faith; you need not sacrifice to the gods; you need not do
anything whatever of which you disapprove. Let the past be forgotten.
Return again, not in heart, but in outward appearance, to what you were
before. You were then a gay, lighthearted soldier, devoted to your
duties. You never took any part in any religious services. You were
seldom present in the temples. You passed your time in the camp, and
your devotions were in private. You gathered your instruction from the
books of the philosophers and not from the priests. Be all this again.
Return to your duties. Appear again in public in company with me; again
join in pleasant conversation, and devote yourself to your old pursuits.
This will be easy and pleasant to do, and it will not require anything
that is base or distasteful. The authorities will overlook your absence
and your misconduct, and if they are not willing that you should be
restored to all your former honors, then you can be placed in your
former command in your old legion. All will then be well. A little
discretion will be needed, a wise silence, an apparent return to your
former round of duties. If you remain in Rome it will be thought that
the tidings of your conversion to Christianity was wrong; if you go
abroad it will not be known."

"I do not think, Lucullus, that the plan which you propose would be
possible for many reasons. Proclamations have been made about me,
rewards have been offered for my apprehension, and above all, my last
appearance in the Coliseum before the emperor himself was sufficient to
take away all hope of pardon. Yet even if it were possible I could not
consent. My Saviour cannot be worshiped in this way. His followers must
confess him openly. 'Whosoever,' he says, 'is ashamed to confess me
before men, of him will I be ashamed before my Father and the holy
angels.' To deny him in my life or in outward appearance is precisely
the same as denying him by the formal manner which the law lays down.
This I cannot do. I love him who first loved me and gave himself for me.
My highest joy is to proclaim him before men; to die for him will be my
noblest act, and the martyr's crown my most glorious reward."

Lucullus said no more, for he found that all persuasion was useless. The
remainder of the time was passed in conversation about other things.
Marcellus did not waste these last precious hours which he passed with
his friend. Filled with gratitude for his noble and generous affection,
he sought to recompense him by making him acquainted with the highest
treasure that man can possess--the religion of Christ.

Lucullus listened to him patiently, more through friendship than
interest. Yet some, at least, of Marcellus's words were impressed upon
his memory.

On the following day the trial took place. It was short and formal.
Marcellus was immovable, and received his condemnation with a calm
demeanor.

The afternoon of the same day was the time appointed for him to suffer.
He was to die, not by the wild beasts, nor by the hand of the gladiator,
but by the keener torments of death by fire.

It was in that place where so many Christians had already borne their
witness to the truth that Marcellus sealed his faith with his life. The
stake was placed in the center of the Coliseum, and the fagots were
heaped high around it.

Marcellus entered, led on by the brutal keepers, who added blows and
ridicule to the horrors of the approaching punishment. He looked around
upon the vast circle of faces, hard, cruel, and pitiless; he looked upon
the arena and thought of the thousands of Christians who had preceded
him in suffering, and had gone from thence to join the noble army of
martyrs who worship forever around the throne. He thought of the
children whose death he had witnessed, and recalled once more their
triumphant song,

    "Unto Him that loved us,
    To Him that washed us from our sins."

Now the keepers seized him rudely and led him to the stake, where they
bound him with strong chains so that escape was impossible.

"'I am now ready to be offered,'" murmured he, "'and the time of my
departure is at hand. . . . Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown
of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at
that day.'"

Now the torch was applied, and the flames rose up and dense volumes of
smoke concealed the martyr for a while from view. When it passed away he
was seen again standing amid the fire with upturned face and clasped hands.

The flames increased around him. Nearer and nearer they came, devouring
the fagots and enveloping him in a circle of fire. Now they threw over
him a black vail of smoke, again they dashed forward and licked him with
their forked tongues.

But the martyr stood erect, calm amid suffering, serene amid his
dreadful agony, by faith clinging to his Saviour. He was there though
they saw him not; his everlasting arm was round about his faithful
follower, and his Spirit inspired him.

Nearer grew the flames and yet nearer. Life, assailed more violently,
trembled in her citadel and the spirit prepared to wing its way to its
mansion of rest.

At last the sufferer gave a convulsive start, as though some sharper
pang flashed resistlessly through him. But he conquered his pain with a
violent effort. Then he raised his arms on high and feebly waved them.
Then, with a last effort of expiring nature, he cried out in a loud
voice "Victory!"

With the cry life seemed to depart, for he fell forward amid the rushing
flames, and the soul of Marcellus had ascended to the bosom of the Father.



CHAPTER XV.

LUCULLUS.

    "The memory of the just is blessed."

At the scene of torture and of death there was one spectator whose face,
full of agony, was never turned away from Marcellus, whose eyes saw
every act and expression, whose ears drank in every word. Long after all
had departed he remained in the same place, the only human being in all
the vast extent of deserted seats. At length he rose to go.

The old elasticity of his step had departed. He moved with a slow and
feeble gait; his abstracted gaze and expression of pain made him look
like a man suddenly struck with disease. He motioned to some of the
keepers, who opened for him the gates that led to the arena.

"Bring me a cinerary urn," said he, and he walked forward to the dying
embers. A few fragments of crumbled bone, pulverized by the violence of
the flames, were all that remained of Marcellus.

Silently Lucullus took the urn which the keeper brought him, and
collecting what human fragments he could find, he carried away the dust.

As he was leaving he was accosted by an old man. He stopped mechanically.

"What do you wish of me?" said he courteously. "I am Honorius, an elder
among the Christians. A dear friend of mine was put to death this day in
this place. I have come to see if I could obtain his ashes."

"It is well that you have addressed yourself to me, venerable man," said
Lucullus. "Had you proclaimed your name to others you would have been
seized, for there is a price on your head. But I cannot grant your
request. Marcellus is dead, and his ashes are here in this urn. They
will be deposited in the tomb of my family with the highest ceremonies,
for he was my dearest friend, and his loss makes the earth a blank to me
and life a burden."

"You, then," said Honorius, "can be no other than Lucullus, of whom I
have so often heard him speak in words of affection?"

"I am he. Never were there two friends more faithful than we. If it had
been possible I would have saved him. He would never have been arrested
had he not thrown himself into the hands of the law. O hard fate! At a
time when I had made arrangements that he should never be arrested, he
came before the emperor himself, and I was compelled with my own hands
to lead him whom I loved to prison and to death."

"What is your loss is to him immeasurable gain. He has entered into the
possession of immortal happiness."

"His death was a triumph," said Lucullus. "The death of Christians I
have noticed before, but never before have I been so struck by their
hope and confidence. Marcellus died as though death were an unspeakable
blessing."

"It was so to him, but not more so than to many others who lie buried in
the gloomy place where we are forced to dwell. To their numbers I wish
to add the remains of Marcellus. Would you be willing to part with them?"

"I had hoped, venerable Honorius, that since my dear friend had left me
I might have at least the mournful pleasure of giving to his remains the
last pious honors, and of weeping at his tomb."

"But, noble Lucullus, would not your friend have preferred a burial with
the sacred ceremonies of his new faith, and a resting place among those
martyrs with whose names his is now associated forever?"

Lucullus was silent, and thought for some time. At length he spoke:

"Of his wishes there can be no doubt. I will respect them, and deny
myself the honor of performing the funereal rites. Take them, Honorius.
But I will, nevertheless, assist at your services. Will you permit the
soldier, whom you only know as your enemy, to enter your retreat and to
witness your acts?"

"You shall be welcome, noble Lucullus, even as Marcellus was welcome
before you, and perhaps you will receive among us the same blessing that
was granted to him."

"Do not hope for anything like that," said Lucullus. "I am far different
from Marcellus in taste and feeling. I might learn to feel kindly toward
you, or even to admire you, but never to join you."

"Come with us, then, whatever you are, and assist at the funeral
services of your friend. A messenger will come for you to-morrow."

Lucullus signified his assent, and after handing over the precious urn
to the care of Honorius, he went sadly to his own home.

On the following day he went with the messenger to the Catacombs. There
he saw the Christian community, and beheld the place of their abode. But
from the previous accounts of his friend he had gained a clear idea of
their life, their sufferings, and their afflictions.

Again the mournful wail arose in the dim vaults and echoed along the
arched passage ways, that wail that spoke of a new brother committed to
the grave; but the grief that spoke of mortal sorrow was succeeded by a
loftier strain that expressed the faith of the aspiring soul, and a hope
full of immortality.

Honorius took the precious scroll, the word of life, whose promises were
so powerful to sustain amid the heaviest burden of grief, and in solemn
tones read that chapter in the first epistle to the Corinthians which in
every age and in every clime has been so dear to the heart that looked
beyond the realms of time to seek for refuge in the prospect of the
resurrection.

Then he raised his head and in fervent tones offered up a prayer to the
Holy One of heaven, through Christ the divine mediator, by whom death
and the grave had been conquered and immortal life secured.

The pale sad face of Lucullus was conspicuous among the mourners. If he
was not a Christian he could still admire such glorious doctrines and
listen with pleasure to such exalted hopes. It was he who placed the
loved ashes within their final resting-place; he, whose eyes took the
last look at the dear remains; and he whose hands lifted to its place
the slab whereon the name and the epitaph of Marcellus was engraven.

Lucullus went to his home, but he was a changed man. The gayety of his
nature seemed to have been driven out by the severe afflictions that he
had endured. He had rightly said that he would not become a Christian.
The death of his friend had filled him with sadness, but there was no
sorrow for sin, no repentance, no desire for a knowledge of God. He had
lost the power of taking pleasure in the world, but had gained no other
source of happiness.

Yet the memory of his friend produced one effect on him. He felt a
sympathy for the poor and oppressed people with whom Marcellus had
associated. He admired their constancy and pitied their unmerited
sufferings. He saw that all the virtue and goodness left in Rome were in
the possession of these poor outcasts.

These feelings led him to give them his assistance. He transferred to
them the friendship and the promise of aid which he had once given to
Marcellus. His soldiers arrested no more, or if they did arrest any they
were sure to escape in some way. His high position, vast wealth, and
boundless influence, were all at the service of the Christians. His
palace was well known to them as their surest place of refuge or
assistance, and his name was honored as that of their most powerful
human friend.

But all things have an end; and so the constant sufferings of the
Christians and the friendship of Lucullus at length were brought to a
termination. In about a year after the death of Marcellus the stern
emperor Decius was overthrown, and a new ruler entered into the imperial
power. The persecution was stayed. Peace returned to the Church, and the
Christians came forth from the Catacombs again to dwell within the glad
light of day, again to sound in the ears of men the praises of Him who
had redeemed them, and again to carry on their never-ending contest with
the hosts of evil.

Years passed on, but no change came to Lucullus. When Honorius came from
the Catacombs he was taken by Lucullus to his own palace, and maintained
there for the rest of his life. He sought to repay his debt of gratitude
to his noble benefactor by making him acquainted with the truth, but he
died without seeing his desires gratified.

The blessing came at last, but not till years had passed away. Far on
beyond the prime of manhood, even upon the borders of old age, Lucullus
found the Saviour. For years the world had lost all charms. Wealth and
honor and power were nothing to him; his life was tinged with sadness
that nothing could cure. But the Spirit of God at length entered into
his heart, and through his divine power he at last was enabled to
rejoice in the love of that Saviour, of whose power over the human heart
he had witnessed so many striking proofs.

Fifteen centuries have rolled over the city of the Caesars since the
persecution of Decius drove the humble followers of Jesus into the
gloomy Catacombs. Let us take our stand upon the Appian Way and look
around.

Before us goes the long array of tombs up to the ancient city. Here the
mighty men of Rome once found a resting-place, carrying with them even
to their graves all the pomp of wealth, of glory, and of power. Beneath
our feet are the rude graves of those whom in life they cast out as
unworthy to breathe the same air of heaven.

Now what a change! Around us lie these stately tombs all in ruins, their
sanctity desecrated, their doors broken down, their dust scattered to
the winds. The names of those who were buried here are unknown; the
empire which they reared has fallen forever; the legions which they led
to conquer have slept the sleep that knows no waking.

But on the memory of the persecuted ones who rest below a world looks
back adoring their sepulcher has become a place of pilgrimage; and the
work in which they took such a noble part has been handed down to us to
be perpetuated for evermore.

Humbled, despised, outcast, afflicted, fame may not have written their
names upon the scroll of history, yet this much we know,

    "These are they which came out of great tribulation
    And have washed their robes
    And made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
    Therefore are they before the throne of God
    And serve him day and night in his temple;
    And He that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.
    They shall hunger no more; neither thirst any more;
    Neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat;
    For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them,
    And shall lead them unto living fountains of waters,
    And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

THE END.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Martyr of the Catacombs, by Anonymous