“Let the brute be, he is worth more than either of _them_; I sold one such once in Rome for well-nigh his weight in gold.” “What is your gold to me, if the brute gets at my throat?” was the angry answer; “he has bitten my leg to the bone already.” “What matters a scratch in your leg? you are no babe to cry for a little blood-letting. Let the brute be. They are faithful to death. Keep hold of his master, and the beast will follow.” “A bad catch altogether,” muttered the man. “These are two more of these new Christians; I saw the white robes of baptism underneath the plaids, and I heard the Sacred Name on the girl’s lips,” and he crossed himself in fear. “What is that to thee or me?” exclaimed the leader. “What are these Roman Christians to us? Did they not leave us to the heathen Saxons?” All this Ethne and Baithene heard and partly understood, the language being akin to their own, as they were dragged and carried helplessly down together to the little creek below, where the British pirate vessel was drawn up on the shingle. There they were lifted into the flat-bottomed boat, and laid bound and gagged and half-stifled at the bottom. Bran swam after them, jumped into the boat, and lay down at their feet. When they had rowed out of reach and hearing of the shore the ropes were slackened, and the folds of the plaid around their faces were loosened. They could not stir, but they could look at each other; and as the night wore on, and the sails were set, and some of the crew fell asleep, and others were busy with the steering and rigging, Ethne whispered, with the tears she could no longer keep back, nor raise her hands to wipe away, streaming down her cheeks— “Brother, I am coming with thee to the lands beyond. It will all be well; we are not forgotten.” But Baithene could only murmur in his anguish, “It is my fault, all mine—the punishment of my restless discontent.” “It was no restless discontent, it was the instinct in the swallows when they have to fly south,” she said. “We will learn our lessons and come home to rest.” And softly smiling through her tears, she crooned the words of the Irish hymn— “Christ in the chariot; Christ in the ship;” and then in her broken Latin the conclusion— “Domini est salus, Christi est salus, Salus tua, Domine, Sit semper nobiscum.” But Baithene could only heave one long sob. “Darling,” she said, “I think it will be all right for us all. We will learn Latin together, and come back together to the home.” She tried to add, “to our father and mother,” but the dear names seemed to choke her, and were lost in tears. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE ON THE AVENTINE.