Dada and Papias soon reached the church of St. Mark, the oldest Christian basilica in the city.  It consisted of a vestibule—­the narthex—­and the body of the church, a very long hall, with a flat roof ceiled with stained wood and supported on a double row of quite simple columns.  This space was divided into two parts by a screen of pierced work; the innermost portion had a raised floor or podium, on which stood a table with chairs placed round it in a semicircle.  The centre seat was higher and more richly decorated than the others.  These chairs were unoccupied; a few deacons in ‘talares’ of light-colored brocade were busied about the table.

In the middle of the vestibule there was a small tank; here a number of penitents had collected who, with their flayed ribs and abject lamentations, offered a more melancholy spectacle than even the terrified crowd whom Dada had seen the day before, gathered round the temple of Isis.  Indeed, site would have withdrawn at once but that Papias dragged her forward, and when she had passed through the great door into the nave she breathed a sigh of relief.  A soothing sense of respite came over her, such as she had rarely felt; for the lofty building, which was only half full, was deliciously cool and the subdued light was restful to her eyes.  The slight perfume of incense and the sober singing of the assembled worshippers were soothing to her senses, and, as she took a seat on one of the benches, she felt sheltered and safe.

The old church struck her as a home of perfect peace; in all the city, she thought, there could hardly be another spot where she might rest so quietly and contentedly.  So for some little time she gave herself up, body and soul, to the refreshing influences of the coolness, the solemnity, the fragrance and the music; but presently her attention was attracted to two women in the seats just in front of her.

One of them, who had a child on her arm, whispered to her neighbor: 

“You here, Hannah, among the unbaptized?  How are you going on at home?”

“I cannot stay long,” was the answer.  “It is all the same where one sits, and when I leave I shall disturb no one.  But my heart is heavy; the child is very bad.  The doctor says he cannot live through the day, and I felt as if I must come to church.”

Very right, very right.  Do you stay here and I will go to your house at once; my husband will not mind waiting.”

“Thank you very much, but Katharine is staying with the boy and he is quite safe there.”

“Then I will stay and pray with you for the dear little child.”

Dada had not missed a word of this simple dialogue.  The woman whose child was ill at home, and who had come here to pray for strength or mercy, had a remarkably sweet face; as the girl saw the two friends bow their heads and fold their hands with downcast eyes, she thought to herself:  “Now they are praying for the sick child . . .” and involuntarily she, too, bent her curly head, and murmured softly:  “O ye gods, or thou God of the Christians, or whatever thou art called that hast power over life and death, make this poor woman’s little son well again.  When I get home again I will offer up a cake or a fowl—­a lamb is so costly.”