Here he was again interrupted, for the curtain was lifted once more and a man came out of the inner room whom no one could forget after having once met him.  It was the Bishop whom Agne had seen on the balcony; she recognized him at once, and dropped on her knees to kiss the hem of his robe in all humility.  Theophilus accepted the homage as a matter of course, hastily glancing at the child with his large keen eyes; Agne not daring to raise hers, for there was certainly something strangely impressive in his aspect.  Then, with a wave of his long thin hand to indicate Agne, he asked: 

“What does this girl want?”

“A freeborn girl—­parents Christian—­comes from Antioch. . .” replied Irenaeus.  “Sold to a heathen master—­commanded to serve idols—­has run away and now has doubts. . .”

“You have told her to which Lord her service is due?” interrupted the Bishop.  Then, turning to Agne, he said:  “And why did you come here instead of going to the deacon of your own church?”

“We have only been here a few days,” replied the girl timidly, as she ventured to raise her eyes to the handsome face of this princely prelate, whose fine, pale features looked as if they had been carved out of marble.

“Then go to partake of the sacred Eucharist in the basilica of Mary,” replied the Bishop.  “It is just now the hour—­but no, stop.  You are a stranger here you say; you have run away from your master—­and you are young, very young and very. . . .  It is dark too.  Where are you intending to sleep?”

“I do not know,” said Agne, and her eyes filled with tears.

“That is what I call courage!” murmured Theophilus to the priest, and then he added to Agne:  “Well, thanks to the saints, we have asylums for such as you, here in the city.  That scribe will give you a document which will secure your admission to one.  So you come from Antioch?  Then there is the refuge of Seleucus of Antioch.  To what parish—­[Parochia in Latin]—­did your parents belong?”

“To that of John the Baptist?”

“Where Damascius was the preacher?”

“Yes, holy Father.  He was the shepherd of our souls.”

“What!  Damascius the Arian?” cried the Bishop.  He drew his fine and stately figure up to its most commanding height and closed his thin lips in august contempt, while Irenaeus, clasping his hands in horror, asked her: 

“And you—­do you, too, confess the heresy of Arius?”

“My parents were Arians,” replied Agne in much surprise.  “They taught me to worship the godlike Saviour.”

“Enough!” exclaimed the Bishop severely.  “Come Irenaeus.”

He nodded to the priest to follow him, opened the curtain and went in first with supreme dignity.

Agne stood as if a thunderbolt had fallen, pale, trembling and desperate.  Then was she not a Christian?  Was it a sin in a child to accept the creed of her parents?  And were those who, after charitably extending a saving hand, had so promptly withdrawn it—­were they Christians in the full meaning of the All-merciful Redeemer?