The pagan noticed the new fortitude in the face of death.  Tertullian himself was immensely impressed with it.  He had never troubled to look at the Gospels.  Nobody bothered to read them unless they were converted already, he said.  But he seems to have seen these Christian martyrs die.  “Every man,” he said, “who sees it, is moved with some misgiving, and is set on fire to learn the reason; he inquires and he is taught; and when he has learnt the truth, he instantly follows it himself as well.”  “No one would have wished to be killed, unless he was in possession of the truth.”  I think that is autobiography.  The intellectual energy of the man is worth noting—­his insistence on understanding, his instant resolution; such qualities, we saw, had won the admiration of Jesus.  Here is a man who sacrifices a great career—­his genius, his wit, his humour, fire, power, learning, philosophy, everything thrown at Christ’s feet, and Christ uses them all.  Then came a day when persecution was breaking out again.  Some Christians were for “fleeing to the next city”—­it was the one text in their Bible, he said.  He said:  “I stay here.”  Any day the mob might get excited and shout:  “The Christians to the lions.”  They knew the street in which he lived, and they would drag him—­the scholar, the man of letters and of imagination—­naked through the streets; torn and bleeding, they would tie him to the stake in the middle of the amphitheatre and pile faggots round him, and there he would stand waiting to be burnt alive; or, it might be, to be killed by the beasts.  Any hour, any day.  “I stay here,” he said.  What does it cost a man to do that?  People asked what was the magic of it.  The magic of it was just this—­on the other side of the fire was the same Friend; “if he wants me to be burnt alive, I am here.”  Jesus Christ was the secret of it.

The Christians out-thought the pagan world.  How could they fail to?  “We have peace with God,” said Paul.  They moved about in a new world, which was their Father’s world.  They would go to the shrines and ask uncomfortable questions.  Lucian, who was a pagan and a scoffer, said that on one side of the shrines the notice was posted:  “Christians outside.”  The Christians saw too much.  The living god in that shrine was a big snake with a mask tied on—­good enough for the pagan; but the Christian would see the strings.  Even the daemons they dismissed to irrelevance and non-entity.  The essence of magic was to be able to link the name of a daemon with the name of one’s enemy, to set the daemon on the man.  “Very well,” said the Christian, “link my name with your daemons.  Use my name in any magic you like.  There is a name that is above every name; I am not afraid.”  That put the daemons into their right place, and by and by they vanished, dropped out, died of sheer inanition and neglect.  Wherever Jesus Christ has been, the daemons have gone.  “There used to be fairies,” said an old woman in the Highlands of Scotland to a friend of