“It lies so heavily on my soul,” replied Agne, raising her eyes and hands in humble supplication.  “I love my Saviour, but I cannot always do exactly as I should wish, and I do not know how I ought to act so as not to fall into sin.”

“Come with me,” said the priest, and leading the way across a small garden, he took her into a wide open court and from thence in at a side door and up a flight of stairs which led to the upper floor.  As she followed him her heart beat high with painful and yet hopeful excitement.  She kept her hands tightly clasped and tried to pray, but she could hardly control her thoughts of her brother and of all she wanted to say to the presbyter.

They presently entered a lofty room where the window-shutters were closed, and where a number of lamps, already lighted, were hanging over the cushioned divans on which sat rows of busy scribes of all ages.

“Here we are,” said the priest kindly, as he seated himself in an easy-chair at some little distance from the writers.  “Now, tell me fully what troubles you; but as briefly as you can, for I am sparing you these minutes from important business.”

“My lord,” she began, “my parents were freeborn, natives of Augusta Trevirorum.  My father was a collector of tribute in the Emperor’s service . . .”

“Very good—­but has this anything to do with the matter?”

“Yes, yes, it has.  My father and mother were good Christians and in the riots at Antioch—­you remember, my lord, three years ago—­they were killed and I and my brother—­Papias is his name . . .”

“Yes, yes—­go on.”

“We were sold.  My master paid for us—­I saw the money; but he did not treat us as slaves.  But now he wants me—­he, Sir, is wholly devoted to the heathen gods-and he wants me . . .”

“To serve his idols?”

“Yes, reverend Father, and so we ran away.”

“Quite right, my child.”

“But the scriptures say that the slave shall obey his master?”

“True; but higher than the master in the flesh is the Father in Heaven, and it is better a thousand times to sin against man than against God.”

This conversation had been carried on in an undertone on account of the scribes occupied at the desks; but the priest raised his voice with his last words, and he must have been heard in the adjoining room, for a heavy curtain of plain cloth was opened, and an unusually deep and powerful voice exclaimed: 

“Back again already, Irenaeus!  That is well; I want to speak with you.”

“Immediately, my lord—­I am at your service in a moment.—­Now, my child,” he added, rising, “you know what your duty is.  And if your master looks you up and insists on your assisting at the sacrifice or what ever it may be, you will find shelter with us.  My name is Irenaeus.”