“Lame Martha; I know her well,” interrupted the beggar.  “She goes into all the plague-stricken houses and poisons the people.  She stayed three days and three nights at my brother’s turning the children’s pillows till they were carried out.  Wherever she goes death follows.”

Selene, now known as Martha, paid no heed to the crowd, but with her blind brother Helios, now called John, went calmly on her way which led from the raised bank down to the landing-quay.  There she wished to hire a boat to take her across the stream, for in a village on the island over against the town dwelt some sick Christians to whom she was carrying medicines and whom she was intending to watch.  For months past her whole life had been devoted to the suffering.  She had carried help even into heathen homes, and shrunk from neither fever nor plague.  Her cheeks had gained no color, but her eyes shone with a gentler and purer light which glorified the severe beauty of her features.  As the girl approached the captain he fixed his eyes on her, and called out: 

“Hey! pale-face—­are you a Christian?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied Selene, and she went on quietly and indifferently with her brother.

The Roman looked after her, and as she passed by Hadrian’s statue, and, as she did so, dropped her head rather lower than before, he roughly ordered her to stop and to tell him why she had averted her face from the statue of Caesar.

“Hadrian is our ruler as well as yours,” answered the young girl.  “I am in haste for there are sick people on the island.”

“You will bring them no good!” cried the beggar.  “Who knows what is hidden there in the basket?”

“Silence!” interrupted the tribune.  “They say, girl that your fellow-believers overthrew the statue of Caesar in the night.”

“How should that be?  We honor Caesar no less than you do.”

“I will believe you, and you shall prove it.  There stands the statue of the divine Caesar.  Come with me and worship it.”  Selene looked with horror in the face of the stern man, and could not find a word of reply.

“Well!” asked the captain, “will you come?  Yes or no?”

Selene struggled for self-possession, and when the soldier held out his hand to her she said with a trembling voice: 

“We honor the Emperor but we pray to no statue—­only to our Father in Heaven.”

“There you have it!” laughed the beggar.

“Once more I ask you,” cried the tribune.  “Will you worship this statue, or do you refuse to do so?”

A fearful struggle possessed Selene’s soul.  If she resisted the Roman her life was in danger, and the fury of the populace would be aroused against her fellow-believers—­if, on the other hand, she obeyed him, she would be blaspheming God, breaking her faith to the Saviour who loved her, sinning against the truth and her own conscience.  A fearful dread fell upon her, and deprived her of the power to lift her soul in prayer.  She could not, she dared not, do what was required of her, and yet the overweening love of life which exists in every mortal led her feet to the base of the idol and there stayed her steps.