Lucia went instantly to her mother’s room. “Mother,” she said, “it is the people we met yesterday, the people who nursed Marius, with a letter from him.” Together they glanced at the few words in the letter from Marius, commending the fugitives to the care of his father and mother. In a few minutes Damaris and Lucia received the strangers in the atrium. Miriam asked to see Damaris apart, and few words of explanation were needed between them. “My husband purchased these captives on the coast of Gaul,” she said. “They are noble. They were taken by pirates. They are Christians. They are good. Lady, save them from becoming slaves in the household of the Emperor. One of his people has seen them, and is coming, I fear, to purchase them to-day.” “It must not be,” said Damaris. “What would you have us do?” “Ransom them, purchase them, lady; make them your own. They belong to your Christ!” “You are not Christian?” Damaris asked courteously. “My family are of the tribe of Judah—of the family of your Christ. Christians robbed us of all, of our only child. But I believe your Christ was good.” Damaris looked into the dark, sad, Oriental eyes and read much there. After a moment’s pause she took Miriam’s hand. “You have pity on these captives,” she said tenderly, “as your great prophets commanded you; you know the heart of a captive. You have pity on this maiden for the sake of your own dead maiden child.” “Our daughter is not dead,” exclaimed Miriam, with a tremulous voice. “But she is a captive, perhaps a slave, we know not where. We search for her year after year. We pray for her night and day. There is One Who lives and hears.” “One Who sees and loves!” responded Damaris; “Who sees thee caring for these His children, and I believe brings them through thee to me. I will do all I can.” She went straight to her husband, who was in consultation with his steward, in his room of business. After dismissing the attendant, she said, “Fabricius, these captives, the friends of Marius, who helped to save his life, are here. We shall have to ransom them at once.” “My lady is imperious,” he replied, smiling, “and must of course be obeyed. But where are the revenues? The taxes and imposts for these wars are ruinous. Only just now the forester from our farms on the Sabine hills has been telling me the slaves will not work. They are probably meditating another flight to the barbarians, as in the days of Alaric, and everything is going to ruin. “We must sell some of our land,” she said. “No one will buy,” he replied. “They say Attila the Hun will soon return to avenge his defeat and ravage the country.” “I will part with my jewels,” she said. He made a deprecatory gesture, and said—