The Bishop of Surrentum, an elderly man and infirm, had for the past
fortnight been unable to leave his house, but day by day he received
news of what passed at the villa of Maximus, and held with the
presbyter, Andreas, many colloquies on that weighty topic, the
senator's testament. As it happened, neither bishop nor presbyter
had much aptitude for worldly affairs; they were honest,
simple-minded clerics, occupied with visions and marvels and the
saving details of dogma; exultant whenever a piece of good fortune
befell their church, but modest in urging a claim at the bedside of
the sick. Being the son of a freedman who had served in the Anician
house, the bishop could not approach Maximus without excessive
reverence; before Petronilla he was even more unduly awed.

On Sunday morning the good prelate lay wakeful at the hour of
matins, and with quavering voice chanted to himself the psalm of the
office from which his weakness held him apart. Presently the door
opened, and in the dim lamp-light appeared the presbyter Andreas,
stepping softly. He made known that an urgent message had just
summoned him to the villa; Maximus was near his end.

'I, too, will come,' exclaimed the bishop, rising in his bed and
ringing loudly a little hand-bell.

'Venerable father! your health--'

'Hasten, hasten, Andreas! I follow.'