“That I would,” again broke in Pancratius, “and, as soon as God pleases! I dare not think that I could stand what he did; for he was indeed a noble and heroic Levite, while I am only a weak imperfect boy. But do you not think, dear Quadratus, that strength is given in that hour, proportionate to our trials, whatever they may be? You, I know, would stand any thing; for you are a fine stout soldier, accustomed to toil and wounds. But as for me, I have only a willing heart to give. Is that enough, think you?” “Quite, quite, my dear boy,” exclaimed the centurion, full of emotion, and looking tenderly on the youth, who with glistening eyes, having risen from his seat, had placed his hands upon the officer’s shoulders. “God will give you strength, as He has already given you courage. But we must not forget our night’s work. Wrap yourself well up in your cloak, and bring your toga quite over your head; so! It is a wet and bitter night. Now, good Diogenes, put more wood on the fire, and let us find supper ready on our return. We shall not be long absent; and just leave the door ajar.” “Go, go, my sons,” said the old man, “and God speed you! whatever you are about, I am sure it is something praiseworthy.” Quadratus sturdily drew his chlamys, or military cloak, around him, and the two youths plunged into the dark lanes of the Suburra, and took the direction of the Forum. While they were absent, the door was opened, with the well-known salutation of “thanks to God;” and Sebastian entered, and inquired anxiously if Diogenes had seen any thing of the two young men; for he had got a hint of what they were going to do. He was told they were expected in a few moments. A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed, when hasty steps were heard approaching; the door was pushed open, and was as quickly shut, and then fast barred, behind Quadratus and Pancratius. “Here it is,” said the latter, producing, with a hearty laugh, a bundle of crumpled parchment. “What?” asked all eagerly. “Why, the grand decree, of course,” answered Pancratius, with boyish glee; “look here, ‘DOMINI NOSTRI DIOCLETIANUS ET MAXIMIANUS, INVICTI, SENIORES AUGUSTI, PATRES IMPERATORUM ET CÆSARUM,’[142] and so forth. Here it goes!” And he thrust it into the blazing fire, while the stalwart sons of Diogenes threw [Illustration: “Here it goes!” And he thrust it into the blazing fire.] a faggot over it to keep it down, and drown its crackling. There it frizzled, and writhed, and cracked, and shrunk, first one letter or word coming up, then another; first an emperor’s praise, and then an anti-Christian blasphemy; till all had subsided into a black ashy mass.