“Very strange!  Well, take care of yourself.  My time is not my own; but by-and-bye, in a very short time, I will speak to the city watchmen; how old is the boy?”

“Nearly six.”

“And with black hair like yours?”

“No, my lord—­fair hair,” and as she spoke the tears started to her eyes.  “He has light curly hair and a sweet, pretty little face.”

The prefect smiled and nodded.  “And if they find him,” he went on, “Papias, you say, is his name where is he to be taken?”

“I do not know, my lord, for—­and yet!  Oh! my head aches, I cannot think—­if only I knew...  If they find him he must come here—­here to my lord the Bishop.”

“To Theophilus?” said Constantine in surprise.  “Yes, yes—­to him,” she said hastily.  “Or—­stay—­to the gate-keeper at the Bishop’s palace.”

“Well, that is less aristocratic, but perhaps it is more to the purpose,” said the officer; and with a sign to his servant, he twisted his hand in his horse’s mane, leaped into the saddle, waved her a farewell, and rejoined his men without paying any heed to her thanks.

CHAPTER XIV.

There was much bustle and stir in the hall of the Episcopal palace.  Priests and monks were crowding in and out; widows, who, as deaconesses, were entrusted with the care of the sick, were waiting, bandages in hand, and discussing their work and cases, while acolytes lifted the wounded on to the litters to carry them to the hospitals.

The deacon Eusebius, whom we have met as the spiritual adviser of Marcus, was superintending the good work, and he took particular care that as much attention should be shown to the wounded heathen as to the Christians.

In front of the building veterans of the twenty-first legion paced up and down in the place of the ordinary gate-keepers, who were sufficient protection in times of peace.

Agne looked in vain for any but soldiers, but at last she slipped in unobserved among the men and women who were tending the wounded.  She was terribly thirsty, and seeing one of the widows mixing some wine and water and offer it to one of the wounded men who pushed it away, she took courage and begged the deaconess to give her a drink.  The woman handed her the cup at once, asking to whom she belonged that she was here.

“I want to see my lord, the Bishop,” replied Agne, but then correcting herself, she added hastily:  “If I could see the Bishop’s gate-keeper, I might speak to him.”

“There he is,” said the deaconess, pointing to an enormously tall man standing in the darkest and remotest corner of the hall.  The darkness reminded her for the first time that it was now evening.  Night was drawing on, and then where could she take refuge and find shelter?  She shuddered and simply saying:  “Thank you,” she went to the man who had been pointed out to her and begged that if her little brother should be found and brought to him, he would take charge of him.