“The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen,” replied the soldier, as if humoring his companion’s fanciful question, “was from the top of the Latial mountain,[44] by the temple of Jupiter. The sun rose behind the mountain, and projected its huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain, and far upon the sea; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and withdrew; and every moment some new object caught the light, first the galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its dancing waves; and by degrees one white edifice after the other sparkled in the fresh beams, till at last majestic Rome itself, with its towering pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of day. It was a glorious sight, indeed; such as could not have been witnessed or imagined by those below.” “Just what I should have expected, Sebastian,” observed Pancratius; “and so it will be when that more brilliant sun rises fully upon this benighted country. How beautiful will it then be to behold the shades retiring, and each moment one and another of the charms, as yet concealed, of our holy faith and worship starting into light, till the imperial city itself shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will they who live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value them? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around them, and hold their hands before their eyes, to shade them from the sudden glare? I know not, dear Sebastian, but I hope that you and I will look down upon that grand spectacle, from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from a mountain higher than Jupiter’s, be he Alban or be he Olympian,--dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the Lamb, from whose feet flow the streams of life.”[45] They continued their walk in silence through the brilliantly-lighted streets;[46] and when they had reached Lucina’s house, and had affectionately bid one another good-night, Pancratius seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said: “Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I should much like to have explained.” “What was it?” “When you were contending with Polycarp, about going into Campania, or remaining in Rome, you promised that if you stayed you would be most cautious, and not expose yourself to unnecessary risks; then you added, that there was one purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain you; but that when that was accomplished, you would find it difficult to check your longing ardor to give your life for Christ.” “And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know this foolish thought of mine?” “Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be the object high enough to check in you the aspiration, after what I know you consider to be the very highest of a Christian’s aim.” “I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to tell you now. But you shall know it sometime.” “Do you promise me?” “Yes, most solemnly. God bless you!” [Illustration: A Lamb with a Milk-can, found in the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellin.]