“Hold! Good Claudius, I will utter no lie about this dead child. I am forbidden by my Lord to lie. I may be mute, but I will not speak, if by speaking I am to tell that this corpse is that of Ebba the Saxon slave.” “Oh! I pray you, I beseech you, good sir!” Anna exclaimed, “leave me here. I cannot, cannot, leave Agatha alone with the dead!” “My vow is upon me,” Claudius said, “and you must come, whether you will or no.” “But whither? whither? to die in a forest? to--” “Hush! I pray you, dear Anna,” Agatha said. “This is the hand of God. He may desire thy young and vigorous life for service for Him. The means are in His hands. But I pray you, noble Claudius, assure me that this poor lamb, who lieth here so still and cold, met her death by no evil practice.” “Nay, I know nothing, save that when disturbed in mind as to how I could perform my vow, and escape the anger of the gods, I stumbled on an old whining dog, of the people they call the Jews, crying over his dead child. Here seemed the way for Ebba’s escape, and I took it, and I can sacrifice to the gods to-morrow with a good heart.” “Go then, dear child, my child in the Son of God and faith in Christ, and may the Lord be with thee; one more kiss, and then----” There was not time for another word; Claudius threw the light burden over his shoulder, and departed cautiously, as he had come, drawing the bolts and turning the key, and leaving Agatha, the Christian woman, alone in darkness with the dead. Claudius strode along through brambles and thicket, till he reached the very cave where the Christians had taken refuge after Alban’s martyrdom. While hunting here one day in the late summer, he had come upon this cave, and explored it. The beds of heather were still piled up as Agatha had left them, and on one of these the young man gently laid his burden down. “Where is that old dog of a Jew?” he shouted; “has he played me false!” “Nay, I am here, good sir, kind sir; and a broken-hearted father. Woe is me! that ever I left my own people; but I was tempted to come in the train of a Roman, with wife and daughter and two noble boys. All, all are dead--and I--whither shall I flee?” “Get out of Britain as fast as may be,” said Claudius, “and take this maiden as your daughter. Make for the coast, and board a ship which is to cross to Gaul; here are nine gold pieces for thy pouch.” “But my daughter, my Rachel!” moaned the old man. “Wilt thou give her body burial--burial, not heathenish burning? Vow, young man.” “If possible, I will have her body thrown into a hole, if you deem that to be a higher fate than burning; but I do not promise. And now I must be gone. Take two hours’ rest, and then away before day dawns. You know these parts.” “Ay, but too well,” the old man said. “This hard rugged Britain, and its rough people. I would that I had never been tempted by the thought of goodly merchandise to cross the sea--the angry sea--and suffer thereby the bitter loss of all I count dear!”