swirling about in the heavens, black specks against the golden light
of the departing sun.

Virgilia drew a long breath and then another. It had been very hot and
very fatiguing in her mother's room. She had refused to have any sun
or light except that coming out of the large living-room, from which
four sleeping chambers opened.

The girl stretched out her arms, in graceful languor, then, throwing
herself on the couch, she closed her eyes, but she was not sleeping. A
panorama of thoughts and visions passed rapidly through her mind. She
saw herself as she had been, a pagan, a worshipper of the gods, with
no thought above the arranging of her hair or the flowers she would
wear at the banquets. She recalled the visits to Hermione and the
quiet meetings of the Christians in their hiding-places in the
catacombs, surrounded by the graves of many martyrs to the Christian
faith.

One scene she would never forget. It was one afternoon when she and
Hermione accompanied by Marcus leaving Alyrus sleeping in the
antechamber, had slipped out by a side entrance, joining the other
Christians in the shadowy passageways of the underground cemeteries.

An old man, with snowy beard and piercing eyes was reading aloud a
letter, a letter from the Apostle Paul to those who were at Rome. The
light from torches stuck into the rough walls of the cubiculum shone
on an hundred upturned faces of brave followers of Christ who knew not
on what day, or in what hour they would be arrested and thrown into
prison.