“No, no, gentle lady,” exclaimed Sebastian, emphatically. “I mean not so. I care not for glory, which can only be enjoyed by an anticipating fancy. I speak of vulgar death, as it may come to me in common with the poorest slave; consuming me by slow burning fever, wasting me by long lingering consumption, racking me by slowly eating ulcers; nay, if you please, by the still crueller inflictions of men’s wrath. In any form let it come; it comes from a hand that I love.” “And do you really mean that death, so contemplated, would be welcomed by you?” “As joyful as is the epicure, when the doors of the banqueting-hall are thrown wide open, and he sees beyond them the brilliant lamps, the glittering table, and its delicious viands, with its attendant ministers well girt, and crowned with roses; as blithe as is the bride when the bridegroom is announced, coming with rich gifts, to conduct her to her new home, will my exulting heart be, when death, under whatever form, throws back the gates, iron on this side, but golden on the other, which lead to a new and perennial life. And I care not how grim the messenger may be, that proclaims the approach of Him who is celestially beautiful.” “And who is He?” asked Fabiola, eagerly. “Can He not be seen, save through the fleshless ribs of death?” “No,” replied Sebastian; “for it is He who must reward us, not only for our lives, but for our deaths also. Happy they whose inmost hearts, which He has ever read, have been kept pure and innocent, as well as their deeds have been virtuous! For them is this bright vision of Him, whose true rewards only then begin.” How very like Syra’s doctrines! she thought. But before she could speak again, to ask whence they came, a slave entered, stood on the threshold, and respectfully said: “A courier, madam, is just arrived from Baiæ.”[114] “Pardon me, Sebastian!” she exclaimed. “Let him enter immediately.” The messenger came in, covered with dust and jaded, having left his tired horse at the gate; and offered her a sealed packet. Her hand trembled as she took it; and while she was unloosening its bands, she hesitatingly asked: “From my father?” “About him, at least,” was the ominous reply. She opened the sheet, glanced over it, shrieked, and fell. Sebastian caught her before she reached the ground, laid her on a couch, and delicately left her in the hands of her handmaids, who had rushed in at the cry. [Illustration: Monogram of Christ, found in the Catacombs.] One glance had told her all. Her father was dead. CHAPTER VIII. DARKER STILL. When Sebastian came into the court, he found a little crowd of domestics gathered round the courier, listening to the details of their master’s death.