evening garden parties were lighted by the forms of blazing Christians;
of Vespasian, who sewed good men in skins of wild beasts to be worried
to death by dogs. In that day faith and death walked together.

Fulfilling such dangers, the disciples came together secretly at
midnight. But the spy was abroad, and despite all precautions, from
time to time brutal soldiers discovered the place of meeting, and,
bursting in, dragged the worshipers off to prison. Then a cruel
stratagem was adopted that looked to the discovery of those who
secretly cherished faith. A decree went forth forbidding the jailer to
furnish food, making the prisoners 'dependent' upon friends without.

To come forward as a friend of these endungeoned was to incur the risk
of arrest and death, while to remain in hiding was to leave friends to
die of starvation. Then men counted life not dear unto themselves.
Heroism became a contagion. Even children dared death. An old
painting shows the guard awakened at midnight and gazing with wonder
upon a little child thrusting food between the iron bars to its father.
In the darkness the soldiers sleeping in the corridors heard the
rustling garments of some maiden or mother who loved life itself less
than husband or friend. These tides of sympathy made men strong
against torture; old men lifted joyful eyes toward those above them.
Loving and beloved, the disciples shared their burdens, and those in
the prison and those out of it together went to fruitful martyrdom.

When the flames of persecution had swept by and, for a time, good men
had respite, Apollos recalled with joy the heroism of those without the
prison who remembered the bonds of those within. With leaping heart he
called before his mind the vast multitudes in all ages who so fettered
through life--men bound by poverty and hedged in by ignorance; men