He pointed to Marcion.  The old man’s lips curled scornfully.  “A word, a name!” he sneered.  “What is that, O most wise and holy Presbyter?  A thing of air, an unreal thing that men make to describe their own dreams and fancies.  Who would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that?  It is a prize that only a fool would think of taking.  Besides, the young man parted with it of his own free will.  He bargained with me cleverly.  I promised him wealth and pleasure and fame.  What did he give in return?  An empty name, which was a burden—­”

“Servant of demons, be still!” The voice of John rang clear, like a trumpet, through the hall.  “There is a name which none shall dare to take in vain.  There is a name which none can lose without being lost.  There is a name at which the devils tremble.  Depart quickly, before I speak it!”

Marcion had shrunk into the shadow of one of the pillars.  A bright lamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash.  In the confusion he vanished, as noiselessly as a shade.

John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said:  “My son, you have sinned deeper than you know.  The word with which you parted so lightly is the key-word of all life and joy and peace.  Without it the world has no meaning, and existence no rest, and death no refuge.  It is the word that purifies love, and comforts grief, and keeps hope alive forever.  It is the most precious thing that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has conceived.  It is the name of Him who has given us life and breath and all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget Him, never forgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your suffering child; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me this night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that is perishing without it.  Listen, my son, listen with all your soul to the blessed name of God our Father.”

The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of ice that melts in the summer sea.  A sense of sweet release spread through him from head to foot.  The lost was found.  The dew of a divine peace fell on his parched soul, and the withering flower of human love lifted its head again.  The light of a new hope shone on his face.  He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.

“Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord!  O my God, be merciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee.  My God, Thou hast given; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God!  Spare the life of this my child, O Thou God, my Father, my Father!”

A deep hush followed the cry.  “Listen!” whispered Athenais, breathlessly.

Was it an echo?  It could not be, for it came again—­the voice of the child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling:  “My father, my father!”