twinkled drowsily. The great city, still chiefly pagan, lay more
than half asleep. But multitudes of the Christians, dressed in white
and carrying lighted torches in their hands, were hurrying toward
the Basilica of Constantine to keep the latest holy day of the
church, the new festival of the birthday of their Master.

The vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts,
who were not yet permitted to stand among the baptized, found it
difficult to come to their appointed place between the first two
pillars of the house, just within the threshold. There was some
good-humoured pressing and jostling about the door; but the
candidates pushed steadily forward.

"By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let us
pass? Many thanks."

A touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a little
persistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas was
taller than his companions; he could look easily over their heads
and survey the white sea of people stretching away through the
columns, under the shadows of the high roof, as the tide spreads on
a calm day into the pillared cavern of Staffa, quiet as if the ocean
hardly dared to breathe. The light of many flambeaux fell, in
flickering, uncertain rays, over the assembly. At the end of the
vista there was a circle of clearer, steadier radiance. Hermas could
see the bishop in his great chair, surrounded by the presbyters, the
lofty desks on either side for the readers of the Scripture, the
communion-table and the table of offerings in the middle of the
church.