“Ah!” I exclaimed, “You should see an Anglican Bishop in full vestments! That is a sight not to be forgotten. I regard the Anglican episcopal costume to be the neatest thing out in ecclesiastical vesture. The view of a Bishop from behind is quite overwhelming. Stay! a bit of chalk, and a stick of charcoal—I will sketch him for you on this wall!” Fired with enthusiasm, I proceeded to delineate to the best of my abilities a member of the episcopal bench as viewed from the rear. Not being a good draughtsman my sketch was not artistically perfect, I was unable to foreshorten the feet, and I made the lawn sleeves look rather like balloons. Suddenly a pair of hands were placed upon my shoulders and I was roughly swung round. I found myself surrounded by a patrol of soldiers. “Carry him off,” said the leader of the guard, “he is a Christian necromancer; we have caught him in the act of drawing a magpie on the wall of Cæsar’s palace—a bird of ill omen—to bring ruin by his magical arts, on the house of the Augustus.” “It is an Anglican prelate,” said I, quaking. “It’s uncommonly like a magpie,” replied the soldier: “march him off to the prefect.” Laurence, as he brushed by me, said aside, “Oh, my father! a bottle of your blood shall be sent to your faithful flock at, What’s the name of the place?” “Bother!” growled I. As we turned a corner of the street, the roaring of the lions in the distant Flavian amphitheatre was borne down on my ear. A passing Christian exclaimed: “The trumpet notes which sound to victory!” Oh, Betsy Jane, Betsy Jane! And the dear children! And the baby! What on earth shall I do? CHAPTER III. HOW I STOOD BEFORE THE PREFECT.