“She went closer up to him, and said out loud, Grant me my place among the believers, and write down, that Magdalen, the Christian, refuses to sacrifice.’

“My soul was deeply moved, and with joyful eagerness I cried out, ’Put down my name too, and write, that Menander, the son of Herophilus, also refuses.’  The Roman did his duty.

“Time has not blotted out from my memory a single moment of that day.  There stood the altar, and near it the heathen priest on one side, and on the other the emperor’s officer.  We were taken up two by two; Magdalen and I were the last.  One word now—­one little word—­would give us life and freedom, another the rack and death.  Out of thirty of us only four had found courage to refuse to sacrifice, but the feeble hearted broke out into lamentations, and beat their foreheads, and prayed that the Lord might strengthen the courage of the others.  An unutterably pure and lofty joy filled my soul, and I felt, as if we were out of the body floating on ambient clouds.  Softly and calmly we refused to sacrifice, thanked the imperial official, who warned us kindly, and in the same hour and place we fell into the hands of the torturers.  She gazed only up to heaven, and I only at her, but in the midst of the most frightful torments I saw before me the Saviour beckoning to me, surrounded by angels that soared on soft airs, whose presence filled my eyes with the purest light, and my ears with heavenly music.  She bore the utmost torture without flinching, only once she called out the name of her son Hermas; then I turned to look at her, and saw her gazing up to Heaven with wide open eyes and trembling lips-living, but already with the Lord—­on the rack, and yet in bliss.  My stronger body clung to the earth; she found deliverance at the first blow of the torturer.

“I myself closed her eyes, the sweetest eyes in which Heaven was ever mirrored, I drew a ring from her dear, white, blood-stained hand, and here under the rough sheepskin I have it yet; and I pray, I pray, I pray—­oh! my heart!  My God if it might be—­if this is the end—!”

Paulus put his hand to his head, and sank exhausted on the bed, in a deep swoon.  The sick man had followed his story with breathless interest.  Some time since he had risen from his bed, and, unobserved by his companion, had sunk on his knees; he now dragged himself, all hot and trembling, to the side of the senseless man, tore the sheep’s fell from his breast, and with hasty movement sought the ring; he found it, and fixing on it passionate eyes, as though he would melt it with their fire, he pressed it again and again to his lips, to his heart, to his lips again; buried his face in his hands and wept bitterly.

It was not till Hermas returned from the oasis that Stephanus thought of his exhausted and fainting friend, and with his son’s assistance restored him to conscious ness.  Paulus did not refuse to take some food and drink, and in the cool of the evening, when he was refreshed and invigorated, he sat again by the side of Stephanus, and understood from the old man that Magdalen was certainly his wife.