the road, a man rose and beckoned. It was the messenger of the
morning, disguised, as a beggar.

They went northerly toward the sea. The mother's straining eyes
looked ever forward. How if the Christians had been discovered! How
long the way was!

A faintness seized upon her as they neared the sea. What if her sons
were not there? She hurried forward.

The sea splashed on the rocks at her feet. The salt splay blew in
her face. They were not here! They were not here!

Out of the recesses of the rocks, some forms arose, and Heraklas, as
in a dream, saw his mother, his proud mother--she who had burned
incense to the sun, she who had once held the sacred sistrum in
Amun's temple, she who had taught him to worship Isis, and Osiris,
and Horus, and the River Nile--his mother throw her arms about
Timokles, and kiss his scarred cheek, and sob on the young
Christian's neck, "O my son, I have missed thee so! I have missed
thee so!"

Some ten months later, on the desolate, uninhabited western shore of
what the Hebrews called "Yam Suph, the Sea of Weeds," known now as
the Red Sea, in the country spoken of by the Romans as part of
Ethiopia, now named Nubia, a little company of Christians made ready
their evening meal.

Down on the shore a little girl sang. Her voice rose exultantly in a
hymn of the early Christians: