“Son,” asked the bishop, “what were you about to do?”

“Friend,” answered Marcus, “If you desire to know, I was about to fall upon my sword.  One more minute and I should have been dead.  They brought it me with the cloak and other things.  It was thoughtful of them, and I guessed their meaning.”

Cyril lifted the sword from the table and cast it into a corner of the room.

“God be thanked,” he said, “Who led my feet here in time to save you from this sin.  Why, because it has pleased Him to take her life, should you seek to take your own?”

“Her life?” said Marcus.  “What dreadful words are these.  Her life!  Whose life?”

“The life of Miriam.  I came to tell you.  She is drowned upon the seas with all her company.”

For a moment Marcus stood swaying to and fro like a drunken man.  Then he said: 

“Is it so indeed?  Well, the more reason that I should make haste to follow her.  Begone and leave me to do the deed alone,” and he stepped towards the sword.

Cyril set his foot upon the shining blade.

“What is this madness?” he asked.  “If you did not know of Miriam’s death, why do you desire to kill yourself?”

“Because I have lost more than Miriam.  Man, they have robbed me of my honour.  By the decree of Titus, I, Marcus, am branded as a coward.  Yes, Titus, at whose side I have fought a score of battles—­Titus, from whom I have warded many a blow—­has banished me from Rome.”

“Tell me of this thing,” said Cyril.

So Marcus told him all.  Cyril listened in silence, then said sternly: 

“Is it for this that you would kill yourself?  Is your honour lessened by a decree based upon false evidence, and given for reasons of policy?  Do you cease to be honourable because others are dishonourable, and would you—­a soldier—­fly from the battle?  Now, indeed, Marcus, you show yourself a coward.”

“How can I live on who am so shamed?” he asked passionately.  “My friends knew that I could not live, and that is why they wrapped a sword in yonder cloak and sent it me.  Also Miriam, you say, is dead.”

“Satan sent it to you, Marcus, desiring to fashion of your foolish pride a ladder down which you might climb to hell.  Cast aside this base temptation which wears the mask of false honour; face your trouble like a man, and conquer it by innocence—­and faith.”

“Miriam!  What of Miriam?”

“Yes, what of Miriam?  How would she welcome you yonder, who come to greet her with your blood upon your hands?  Oh! son, do you not understand that this is the trial laid upon you?  You have been brought low that you might rise high.  Once the world gave you all it had to give.  You were rich, you were a captain among captains; you were high-born; men called you ‘The Fortunate.’  Then Christ appealed to you in vain, you put Him by.  What had you to do with the crucified carpenter of Galilee?  Now by the plotting of your foes you