in themselves,” so that “when tribulation or persecution ariseth because of the word, by and by they are offended.”  We are inclined to think that Demas belonged to this class.  The apostle was now overwhelmed by calamities.  His career as a messenger of the Cross had been ruthlessly cut short.  There were unmistakable signs of a coming storm, when he, and possibly those around him, would be tortured and slain, to gratify the bloodthirstiness of the Roman emperor.  He seems to be fully cognisant of this, for he says, “I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.”  It is probable, therefore, that Demas feared lest by continuing with the apostle he might share his dreadful fate.  He pictured himself being carried away in chains by the brutal soldiery, as he had seen many others, to the great amphitheatre, to be thrown into the arena, and there to be drawn limb from limb by ferocious beasts, for the amusement of the frivolous thousands who gloated on such scenes.  The bare thought of it made him tremble.  He “loved the present world”; to him life was too precious, too full of delightful possibilities, to be thrown away in the prime of manhood—­to be thrown away especially in this awful fashion.  Visions of former days began to haunt him.  His early home, the comrades of his youth, his loving kindred, all that he had left when he became a convert, completely engrossed his thoughts, and cast over him a fascination that was becoming irresistible.  There was nothing else for it; he must see them once more, even though it should cost him his hope of heaven.  And so he “departed to Thessalonica,” the place where he was bred and born.  Some suppose that he took this step for the sake of gain—­for the sake of engaging in some lucrative trade.  It may be so; but there is no evidence to prove it.

These considerations, though they explain, do not excuse Demas’s conduct.  Far from it.  He richly merits all the censure that has been meted out to him.  He ought to have played the man, and braved any danger for the sake of his principles.  Like the Psalmist, he ought to have said:  “The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?  The Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?” Compared with the kingdom to which he belonged, what was Rome with all its power?  Compared with the King whom he served, what was Nero with all his glory?  Compared with the joys of holy living, what was the world with all its attractions?  But he failed to realise these great facts, and hence he acted the part of a weakling; he bent as a reed, when he ought to have stood firm as an oak.  If all the first disciples had been made of such pliable stuff as himself, what would have been the condition of the world to-day?  How mean and cowardly his action appears when contrasted with the heroic endurance of weak women, who rather than deny their Lord faced the “violence of fire!” Weakness