Here all was, by this time, dark and still; only a few lamps lighted the pillared space and the flare of a torch fell upon the benches placed there for the accommodation of priests, laymen and supplicants generally.

Utterly worn out—­whether by terror or disappointment or by hunger and fatigue she scarcely knew—­she sank on a seat and buried her face in her hands.

During her absence the wounded had been conveyed to the sick-houses; one only was left whom they had not been able to move.  He was lying on a mattress between two of the columns at some little distance from Agne, and the light of a lamp, standing on a medicine-chest, fell on his handsome but bloodless features.  A deaconess was kneeling at his head and gazed in silence in the face of the dead, while old Eusebius crouched prostrate by his side, resting his cheek on the breast of the man whose eyes were sealed in eternal sleep.  Two sounds only broke the profound silence of the deserted hall:  an occasional faint sob from the old man and the steady step of the soldiers on guard in front of the Bishop’s palace.  The widow, kneeling with clasped hands, never took her eyes off the face of the youth, nor moved for fear of disturbing the deacon who, as she knew, was praying—­praying for the salvation of the heathen soul snatched away before it could repent.  Many minutes passed before the old man rose, dried his moist eyes, pressed his lips to the cold hand of the dead and said sadly: 

“So young—­so handsome—­a masterpiece of the Creator’s hand!...  Only to-day as gay as a lark, the pride and joy of his mother-and now!  How many hopes, how much triumph and happiness are extinct with that life.  O Lord my Saviour, Thou hast said that not only those who call Thee Lord, Lord, shall find grace with our Father in Heaven, and that Thou hast shed Thy blood for the salvation even of the heathen—­save, redeem this one!  Thou that are the Good Shepherd, have mercy on this wandering sheep!”

Stirred to the bottom of his soul the old man threw up his arms and gazed upwards rapt in ecstasy.  But presently, with an effort, he said to the deaconess: 

“You know, Sister, that this lad was the only son of Berenice, the widow of Asclepiodorus, the rich shipowner.  Poor, bereaved mother!  Only yesterday he was driving his guadriga out of the gate on the road to Marea, and now—­here!  Go and tell her of this terrible occurrence.  I would go myself but that, as I am a priest, it might he painful to her to learn of his tragic end from one of the very men against whom the poor darkened youth had drawn the sword.  So do you go, Sister, and treat the poor soul very tenderly; and if you find it suitable show her very gently that there is One who has balm for every wound, and that we—­we and all who believe in Him—­lose what is dear to us only to find it again.  Tell her of hope:  Hope is everything.  They say that green is the color of hope, for it is the spring-tide of the heart.  There may be a Spring for her yet.”