the girl's love. It was not that he bore in his face and form the beauty of that land whose men were heroes-whose heroes were gods, but it was an inexpressible charm in his look-in his tone, so different from all other men. A stranger gazing on Cleomenes, or listening to his words, would have felt that he was in the presence of one who had received that spark of immortal fire-glorious genius!

Domitilla received Cleomenes with a kindly greeting. She had ever loved him; for though he bore his mother's face, he spoke with his father's voice; and woman ever remembers the tones of her first love. Stratonice gave him her white cold hand: her cheek changed not, and her voice was firm, as she said, "Thou art welcome, Cleomenes."

How little he knew that she who looked thus calm would have laid her life down at his feet, that he might say one tender word as of old; how that the lips which uttered that cold greeting, would have cried, "Let me die-let me die content, since thou lovest me, O Cleomenes!"

But Cleomenes knew not this; his glance wandered carelessly over her magnificent beauty, for he saw it not with the eyes of love-love which makes the meanest form divine! He spoke courteously, friendly, to both ladies, and then looked eagerly round for another, who was not there.

"I met not Irenæus as I came, noble lady Domitilla," he said, using the respectful domina, the favourite title of the patrician women of Rome. "And Mæsa is not with thee, I see. Are both well?”

A shade of anxiety passed over the matron's face. "As an old and tried friend thou knowest all the secrets of our household, Cleomenes. Therefore I dare tell thee that my husband and child are gone to their secret worship."

"At this hour an old man and a girl, to be unprotected in the streets of Rome !" cried Cleomenes. "Lady, it was madness! and when the city is full of revelling in honour of the victory of Gallienus, and the very name of Christian is a mock and a byeword. They will be discovered."

"The gods forbid !" shrieked the mother; but Stratonice did not utter a sound.

"And Masa wore the white garments of her vow, while all the Roman women flaunt in crimson and gold! it will betray at once that she is a Christian," and the young man's face grew deadly pale; but he saw the mother's agonized and imploring look, and said no more, except to ask the place where Irenæus and his daughter had gone. "I know not: he would not say!" moaned Domitilla. a fearful thing to be wedded to a Christian!"

"Alas! it is

"Do not say so," Cleomenes answered,—for her words struck like ice into his own conscious heart. "But I cannot stay here: I must go in search of them. Be comforted, lady; I will die rather than any harm should come to Mæsa." And in a moment he was gone.

Stratonice followed him with her eyes, and then turned them on Domitilla, who, amidst all her grief, shuddered at their expression of utter despair.

"Mother," she said, in accents terribly calm," canst thou doubt who Cleomenes loves now ?”

II.

IN one of the most secret windings of the catacombs which extended under the capital,—another city of the dead beneath that of the living, -was gathered a little band of worshippers, the persecuted Christians of Rome. Among them were all ranks, all ages, from the noble patrician lady, who would not so much as have ventured her jewelled sandal across the common street, down to the blind and aged beggar, who existed, rather than could be said to live. Young and old, patrician and plebeian, rich and poor, mingled their voices in the psalm, knelt together, and broke the mystic bread of universal love and brotherly union. Around them lay the bones of the departed,—a mute warning that all must become one day equal in the same poor dust. In the dead of night from that gloomy house of tombs rose up the voice of prayer and of thanksgiving. Many lifted up their voices from beside the very niches that hid their dead kindred from their sight, and knowing not but that ere morning they themselves might find a grave in the same sepulchre. How earnest, how solemn must have been worship such as this!

Among the assemblage were Irenæus and his daughter.

When the service of the sabbath vespers had been concluded, the priest, an aged man, who looked as though he had received the holy message from the very lips of the Apostles, stood forth. His words were few and simple; there was no eloquence on his lips; he spoke like an earnest man to earnest hearers, unto whom every syllable was a message of life and death. Then many of the others addressed their brethren; among the rest Irenæus. Afterward the rites of the church-which could only be thus secretly administered-were performed. Babes, whose fathers had confessed their faith through fire and sword, and the jaws of wild beasts, were brought by their mothers to be sealed in the same holy communion. The aged, the sick, to whom this night might be the last open confession of faith, received the prayers and consolations of religion; and then there came the strangest rite of all in that gloomy temple-a marriage.

The bride was young, and gentle looking; the husband a tall and sturdy Roman, hard-handed, rough-visaged, and yet not devoid of the soft expression given by sincere piety and tender human love. It was strange to hear those professions and affectionate vows given and received at such a time, and in such a place, and see love triumphing over danger, persecution, and death. When the rite was ended, the priest addressed the newly-wedded,

"My children, there are those amongst us who would say I did evil in this holy solemnization,—that at all times, and especially in this season of trouble, ye would serve God best asunder. But I say not so,therefore, be blessed, and keep your holy vow until death,-how far or how near that death may be God knoweth. Rufinus, the father who gained the martyr's crown when thou wert yet a child, lies beneath thy feet; break not the vow made over his sacred dust. And thou, Metella, who art one with him in all things,-above all, in the same holy faith, be thankful that in life and in eternity ye will never be parted. Alas! for those amongst us who are bound to unbelievers by the hallowed tie of marriage, which is yet too sacred to be loosed; but, woe unto them who, knowing the sin, willingly unite themselves to idolaters. Pain, affliction, and remorse, shall be their portion in this life, and eternal wrath hereafter!"

"Amen―amen!" cried the deep voice of Irenæus, breaking the awestruck silence which followed the preacher's vehement words. Mæsa hid her face in her veil, and, as she knelt, her frame bent down almost to the earth: a visible shudder passed over her. But no one heeded: all were too much absorbed in their own feelings. After a solemn blessing the bridegroom took his bride, and all knelt down for the parting prayer.

Suddenly the watchers, who stood at a little distance, guarding the descent to the tomb, saw a shadow gliding along the damp wall. Lower and lower, nearer and nearer came the dreadful spectre, enough to strike superstitious terror in that place of death. But the Christian had no fear, save of the living. One of the watchers, a blind man, remarkable for quickness of hearing, started from his seat on a tomb, and cried,

"My brethren, death is upon us. I hear footsteps, and the clank of

arms."

In another moment the soldiers of Dioclesian had burst on the yetkneeling worshippers, and the still, low murmur of prayer was succeeded by shrieks, and groans, and curses. All was confusion and despair. Some died in the struggle with the soldiers, few by their weapons; for it was the wile of persecutors that death should be given, not in fight, but by slow martyrdom. The torches were nearly all extinguished in the strife; and death seemed to many more fearful, since it came in darkness. Some, seeing in the gloom their only hope of safety, and knowing the windings of the catacombs, stole through the very midst of the assailants towards the entrance. Among these were the bridegroom and the bride.

Irenæus neither strove to fight nor escape; he stood where he had knelt, unattacked by the soldiers, his figure shrouded by the darkness, his daughter, paralysed and insensible with terror, lying like an infant in his powerful arms. At last a touch, too gentle to be that of an enemy, and yet firm, was laid on his shoulder, and a whisper reached his

ear,

"Irenæus, if thou wouldst be saved, come!"

At this instant a Roman soldier advanced to seize him ; but the same voice, in a loud and commanding tone, which roused even Mæsa from her stupor, and caused her to utter a cry, said,

"These are my prisoners-release them!"

The soldier muttered some atonement, and departed.

"Give me thy burden, Irenæus, and come," added the first, and then even Irenæus recognized the voice of Cleomenes the Greek.

He took Mæsa from her father's arms, and led both, as seeming captives, to the foot of the staircase. Hardly had they reached it, when a struggle was heard above, a woman's shriek, and a fall. Immediately at their very feet lay the bruised and mangled forms of the unfortunates who had been cast down the winding staircase. Even in the last struggle and fall their arms had not untwined from round each other. Irenæus looked upon them: they were Rufinus and Metella, the bridegroom and the bride.

Past the struggling, the captives, the dead, Cleomenes and Irenæus went, the Greek still bearing Mæsa, as if she were his prisoner,— through long passages, where they had to grope their uncertain way, sometimes displacing the ghastly inhabitants of that city of the dead; on, through all that was fearful and horrible, to the blessed upper air.

It was just daybreak when they emerged from the catacombs. The city was still in darkness, save that the faint light of dawn rested on the Palatine hill. The cool morning air restored consciousness to Mæsa, and Cleomenes relinquished his burthen, but still supported her feeble steps; the old man following. Thus, almost without a word, they passed through the deserted city, in which the revels of the night had at last ceased; but still had left their traces in the broken boughs and wine-drenched garlands which strewed the streets. Here and there they passed by a few sleeping revellers, who lay in the open air in helpless stupor. Save these, the only occupants of the highway seemed the terminal statues of the Roman divinities, which were placed in the corners of streets, hung with the now withered wreaths with which they had been adorned. Such sights would make the stern zealot, Irenæus, turn away his eyes, and draw his garments closer about him, lest he should be polluted by a passing touch of the hated idol.

They quitted the city, and came through the cool and lovely valley of Egeria, to the Ostian road, until they approached the dwelling of Irenæus. There the old man stood still, took his daughter from her young protector, and said,

"We must now part, Cleomenes. I know not if I ought to thank thee for saving my own poor life,-a life I would gladly exchange for the glory of a martyr's death; but, I am a father, and I do thank thee for preserving this child. Farewell, Cleomenes, thou art not one of us. May the true God one day guide thee to better things."

Irenæus lifted up his eyes in silent devotion; while Masa laid her hand on that of Cleomenes, and said gently,

"My father speaks coldly; but his gratitude is as warm as mine. And I shall ever remember all that Cleomenes risked to save the life of Mæsa."

"Because that life is ten thousand times more precious than his own to Cleomenes," answered the Greek in a low tone, which made the girl shrink from his eye, and take her hand from the warm clasp of his, with a hurried farewell. But after he was gone she looked after him long and fixedly, and a tear gathered in her soft eyes. Her father turned, and saw it.

"Mæsa," he said, and the stern severity of his tone struck her with terror, the daughter of Irenæus must waste no tears upon an idolater. Remember the words which this night followed the union of those who, though now dead, are most happy. Thou heardest the curse,—beware!"

And Irenæus led his daughter onward, and entered into his own house.

III.

AFTER the fatal night which had witnessed the discovery of their secret worship, many of the Christians of Rome sealed their faith with their blood. Such was the thirst for the glory of martyrdom that prevailed among the primitive converts, that some voluntarily devoted themselves to death by an open confession of their faith, or by offering sacrilege to the shrines of the deities. The luxurious inhabitants of Rome cared not whether it was their Christian fellow-citizens, or the barbarian captives of Gallienus, that made sport for them at the arena, so that they had no lack of their brutal amusements. Sometimes the flame of persecution waxed fainter for awhile, and then some new cause lit it up afresh, and thousands perished beneath it.

Amidst all these horrors the house of Irenæus went unscathed. The known piety of his wife Domitilla to the gods of Rome,―her noble birth, and his own good nature, protected him, if not from the taint of suspicion, at least from its fatal consequences. Sometimes, in his fiery zeal, Irenæus would have sought that persecution from which he seemed secure, had not his love for the child, who was one with him in religion; and Mæsa's influence over him prevented the outbreak of such wild enthusiasm.

From the time of that dread night in the catacombs a shadow seemed to come over the young girl's spirit. The presence of Cleomenes always brought to her a strange agitation. At his sight her colour would come and go, her lips tremble, and her eyes fill with tears. Her mother thought and said how that it was no marvel the child should shudder at aught that reminded her of that horrible scene; but Stratonice watched Mæsa's every look with doubt and suspicion. Her father, too, rarely suffered her out of his presence; and, though Cleomenes haunted both openly and secretly the abode which contained her he loved, he found no chance ever to utter more than those few words, which, though a torture, and, as she deemed, a heinous sin, yet rung in Mæsa's ears evermore, and were drunk in by her like sweet but deadly poison.

It was rarely that the daughter of Irenæus quitted her home; and now, in her failing health and harassed mind, she only sought to be alone. At the close of day she sometimes walked with Stratonice among the orange-trees of the garden, until the hour approached when Cleomenes was wont to come. Then the elder sister would depart, to enjoy the happiness of being near him whom she so passionately loved; while Mæsa strove to turn her thoughts from such vain and sinful ideas to the duties and aspirations of her religion. But, even amidst her evening prayer, and her vesper hymn, in the still twilight, often came the vision of Cleomenes, and she would weep that such sweet memories could be sin.

One evening, Stratonice, wearied of waiting for the so-longed-for step, cast aside her embroidery, and again went out into the orangegarden. She did not seek her sister; her own soul was too full of pain and jealousy, and it was torture to be near that fair and innocent girl, to look upon the face that Cleomenes loved, to see that beauty and sweetness which she knew was so precious to him. At times, by a strange revulsion of feeling, Stratonice would feel how impossible to hate aught that he loved, and almost terrify her sister by the wildness of her sudden and passionate caresses. But then, again, came that horrible jealousy, which gnawed into her very heart, and Stratonice would have fled anywhere to avoid the sight of Mæsa.

She hurried into the darkest and gloomiest shades; she would have shut out the very stars from her sight. Thus she came unconsciously to a spot fraught with so many memories that it sent a sharp pain to her heart. It was a little mossy nook, from which welled forth a spring of water no larger than a silver thread, which a naïad's hand had drawn through the green grass. There many a time, in their early youth, had she and Cleomenes sat together, and he had taught the orphan the tongue of her fatherland, and talked to her of their beloved Corinth, of Athens the glorious, the old warriors and sages, and recited the sounding verses of Homer, and the thrilling lyrics of Sappho, until the enthusiastic maiden could have become a heroine to fight by the side of him who spoke, or could have died joyfully, had it been for the love of