LITMIR.BIZ

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perhaps by a certain air of suffering and melancholy which protected the wealthy merchant against the envy of detractors.

      In the course of her conversation with Karnis the old lady enquired particularly as to the antecedent history of Agne, for if there had been a stain on her character, or if she were by birth a slave, Gorgo could not of course be seen with her in public, and in that case Karnis would have to teach the lament of Isis to some freeborn singer. Karnis in reply could only shrug his shoulders, and beg the ladies and Porphyrius to judge for themselves when he should have related the young girl’s story.

      Three years since, he said, he had been staying at Antioch at the time of a violent outbreak against the levying of certain taxes. There had been much bloodshed, and he and his family had got out of the city as quickly as they could. It was growing dusk when they turned into a wayside inn, where they found Agne and her little brother captives to a soldier. During the night the girl had crept up to the little boy’s bed, and to comfort and lull him had begun to sing him a simple song. The singer’s voice was so pure and pathetic that it had touched both him and his wife and they had at once purchased the girl and her brother for a small sum. He had simply paid what the soldier asked, not regarding the children in the light of slaves; nor had he had any description of them written out, though it was, no doubt, in his power to treat them as slaves and to sell them again, since the sale had taken place before witnesses who might still be found. He had afterwards learnt from the girl that her parents were Christians and had settled in Antioch only a few years previously; but she had no friends nor relatives there. Her father, being a tax-collector in the service of the Emperor, had moved about a great deal, but she remembered his having spoken of Augusta Treviroruin in Belgica prima, as his native place.—(Now Trier or Treves, on the Moselle.)

      Agne had witnessed the attack on her father’s house by the angry mob who had killed her parents, their two slaves, and her elder brother. Her father must certainly have been an official of some rank, and probably, as it would seem, a Roman citizen, in which case—as Porphyrius agreed—both the young girl and her little brother could legally claim their freedom. The insurgents who had dragged the two children out into the street had been driven off by the troops, and it was from them that Karnis had rescued them. “And I have never regretted it,” added the old musician, “for Agne is a sweet, gentle soul. Of her voice I need say nothing, since you yourselves heard it yesterday.”

      “And were quite delighted with it!” cried Gorgo. “If flowers could sing it would be like that!”

      “Well, well,” said Karnis. “She has a lovely voice—but she wants wings. Something—what, I know not, keeps the violet rooted to the soil.”

      “Christian scruples,” said the merchant, and Damia added:

      “Let Eros touch her—that will loosen her tongue.”

      “Eros, always Eros!” repeated Gorgo shrugging her shoulders. “Nay, love means suffering—those who love drag a chain with them. To do the best of which he is capable man needs only to be free, true, and in health.”

      “That is a great deal, fair mistress,” replied Karnis eagerly. “With these three gifts the best work is done. But as to Agne—what can be further from freedom than a girl bound to service? her body, to be sure is healthy, but her spirit suffers; she can get no peace for dread of the Christian’s terrors: Sin, Repentance, and Hell....”

      “Oh, we know how their life is ruined!” interrupted the old lady. “Was it Agne who introduced you to Mary’s Asylum?”

      “No, noble lady.”

      “But how then—that prudent saint generally selects her guests, and those that are not baptized...”

      “She certainly sheltered heathens on this occasion.”

      “I am much surprised. Tell me how it happened.”

      “We were at Rome,” began Karnis, “and my patron there persuaded Marcus, Mary’s son, to take us on board his ship at Ostia. We dropped anchor at Cyrene, where the young master wanted to pick up his brother and bring him also to Alexandria.”

      “Then is Demetrius here?” asked Porphyrius.

      “Yes, sir. He came on board at Cyrene. Hardly had we got fairly to sea again when we saw two pirate ships. Our trireme was at once turned round, but in our hurry to regain the harbor we stuck fast on a sand bank; the boats were at once put out to save the passengers and Cynegius, the consul...”

      “Cynegius—on his way here!” exclaimed Porphyrius, much excited.

      “He landed yesterday with us in the harbor of Eunostus. The secretaries and officers of his suite filled one boat and Marcus and his brother were getting into the other with their men. We, and others of the free passengers, should have been left behind if Dada...”

      “That pretty little blonde?” asked Damia.

      “The very same. Marcus had taken a great fancy to her prattle and her songs during the voyage—no nightingale can sing more clearly—and when she begged and prayed him he gave way at once, and said: he would take her in his boat. But the brave child declared that she would jump into the sea before she would leave without us.”

      “Well done!” cried the old lady, and Porphyrius added:

      “That speaks well for her and for you.”

      “So after all Marcus found room for us in the boat—for all of us, and we got safely to land. A few days after we all came on in a troop-ship: Cynegius, the two brothers and the rest, all safe and sound; and, as we had lost everything we possessed, Marcus gave us a certificate which procured our admission into his mother’s Xenodochium. And then the gods brought me and mine under the notice of your noble daughter.”

      “Then Cynegius is here, positively here?” asked Porphyrius once more. Karnis assured him that he was, and the merchant, turning to his mother, went on:

      “And Olympius has not yet come home. It is always the same thing; he is as rash as a boy. If they should take him! The roads are swarming with monks. There is something astir. Bring out the chariot, Syrus, at once; and tell Atlas to be ready to accompany me. Cynegius here!—Ha, ha! I thank the gods!”

      The last exclamation was addressed to a man who at this instant came into the room, muffled up to the eyes. He threw off the hood of his cloak and the wrapper that went round his throat, concealing his long white beard, and as he did so he exclaimed with a gasp for breath:

      “Here I am once more!—Cynegius is here and matters look serious my friend.”

      “You have been to the Museum?”

      “Without any obstruction. I found them all assembled. Brave lads. They are all for us and the gods. There are plenty of weapons. The Jews—(At that time about two-fifths of the whole population.)—are not stirring, Onias thinks he may vouch for that; and we must surely be a match for the monks and the imperial cohorts.”

      “If the gods only stand by us to-day and tomorrow,” replied Porphyrius doubtfully.

      “For ever, if only the country people do their duty!” cried the other. “But who is this stranger?”

      “The chief of the singers who were here yesterday,” replied Gorgo.

      “Karnis, the son of Hiero of Tauromenium,” said the musician, bowing to the stranger, whose stately figure and handsome, thoughtful head struck him with admiration.

      “Karnis of Tauromenium!” exclaimed the newcomer with glad surprise. “By Hercules! a strange meeting. Your hand, your hand, old man. How many years is it since we last emptied a wine-jar together at the house of old Hippias? Seven lustres have turned our hair grey, but we still can stand upright. Well, Karnis son of Hiero—and who am I?”

      “Olympius—the great Olympius!” cried Karnis, eagerly grasping the offered hand. “May all the gods bless this happy day!”

      “All the gods?” repeated the philosopher. “Is that what you say? Then you have not crawled

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