“Hermas—­it is almost over—­the child!  His voice grows weaker hour by hour.  He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he laughs.  It breaks my heart.  He has just fallen asleep.  The moon is rising now.  Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise.  Is there nothing we can do?  Is there no power that can save him?  Is there no one to pity us and spare us?  Let us call, let us beg for compassion and help; let us pray for his life!”

Yes; that was what he wanted—­that was the only thing that could bring relief:  to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a greater strength than his own, and cling to it and plead for mercy and help.  To leave that undone was to be false to his manhood; it was to be no better than the dumb beasts when their young perish.  How could he let his boy suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?

He sank on his knees beside Athenais.

“Out of the depths—­out of the depths we call for pity.  The light of our eyes is fading—­the child is dying.  Oh, the child, the child!  Spare the child’s life, thou merciful—­”

Not a word; only that deathly blank.  The hands of Hermas, stretched out in supplication, touched the marble table.  He felt the cool hardness of the polished stone beneath his fingers.  A book, dislodged by his touch, fell rustling to the floor.  Through the open door, faint and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously.  The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom.  He rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.

“It is in vain,” he said; “there is nothing for us to do.  Long ago I knew something.  I think it would have helped us.  But I have forgotten it.  It is all gone.  But I would give all that I have, if I could bring it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our bitter trouble.”

A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached hesitatingly.

“Master,” he said, “John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit to the house, has come again.  He would take no denial.  Even now he waits in the peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him away.”

“Come,” said Hermas to his wife, “let us go to him; for I think I see the beginning of a way that may lead us out of this dreadful darkness.”

In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, with disdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest to depart; John silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves looked on in dismay.  He lifted his searching gaze to the haggard face of Hermas.

“My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did not send for me.  I have come to you because I have heard that you are in trouble.”

“It is true,” answered Hermas, passionately; “we are in trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed.  Our child is dying.  We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted.  In all this house, in all the world, there is no one that can help us.  I knew something long ago, when I was with you,—­a word, a name,—­in which we might have found hope.  But I have lost it.  I gave it to this man.  He has taken it away from me forever.”