They piled the cushions up behind her on the couch, and Hermione fanned her with cool palm leaves, and, stooping every now and then, kissed her on the forehead. If Hyacintha had been radiantly beautiful in youth and early womanhood, she was beautiful now with a beauty which is not of this world. Traces of the mental struggle through which she had passed were seen on her face, it is true; the delicate flush of youth and health had vanished, but over that noble countenance there was shed the calm light of the evening--the earnest of a coming rest, the sign of the victory won. Hermione was left alone with her before long, and then Hyacintha spoke. “Dear one,” she said, “I shall watch no more in the temple at night. I shall feed the fire no more. I am, as Cœlia implies, a Christian. Would you like to know how it has come to pass, my sweet one? I am stronger now, and I will tell you all before I die.” “Oh! sweet lady, dearest mistress!” Hermione said, “you must not die, you cannot die, to go down to the darksome Hades, to lose the sunlight!” “Ah, no! ah, no! my child. I go to _life_; death hath no more power to quench that life which Jesus the Lord has given to me.” And as if that life of which she spoke had already begun, Hyacintha raised herself on her cushions and said, with all her old fire and earnestness:-- “In that silver coffer, child, are the precious Books--the Word of Life. The holy father Eusebius has from time to time furnished me with those Books. For many years I _could_ not let the whole beautiful fabric of my earthly life slip from me. The struggle between the old faith and the new--rather between the false and the true--has been a fierce one to me. I have travailed in soul in the temple in the lonely watches of the night. I have vowed again and again to the goddess that I would never forsake her. I have gazed up at her image in the dim light, and besought her, if she knew me, if she accepted my service, to give me a sign. But there she has stood, with her veil flowing behind her, in her long robes, motionless and calm. What were my tears to her? What were my agonies of soul? She had never felt them. She had ears, but she heard not; she had eyes, but she saw not. And yet, oh Hermione, I verily believe no torture of martyrdom could be compared to what I have suffered for the last six years. “While Terentia Rufilla lived, I had not this yearning of soul after better things. I was not the head then, only a member of this community, and if she, noble and gracious as she was, was content, who was I, to doubt?