Although born at Verulam, Alban had, in his youth, travelled to Rome, and when he returned had been looked upon with veneration and respect. Although a Pagan, and scrupulous in his attendance on all high ceremonies in the temple of the gods, Alban had always been charitable and compassionate, and the poor found in him a friend. Thus, full of kindness, when the Emperor’s edict published against the Christians at Rome and in all Roman provinces was issued, Alban opened his house to a man who was fleeing from his persecutors, and a minister of the religion of Christ. This was the turning-point of Alban’s life; this was the first step to the martyrdom which he had suffered gladly on this summer day for the faith of Christ crucified. It is hard for us to realise, or grasp as facts, the terrible persecutions of those distant times. Perhaps nothing is a stronger testimony to the Christian faith than that the more it was attacked, and the fiercer the persecution of its disciples, the more it grew and strengthened. It has been so in all times; it will be so in all future ages, “for the Lord remaineth a King for ever.” Hyacintha went to find her brother. The child’s head was filled with a strange yearning curiosity to know all particulars of what had passed. She went up the marble staircase once more, and again looked out from the balcony over the city and the country. The western sky was still aglow, and the outline of the hill was marked against it in purple lines. The river caught a reflection from a crescent moon which hung above it, and rippled in the silvery light. The country beyond the city was asleep, but the city, which had been so quiet in the morning, was now astir. The buzz and murmur of voices rose on the still air, and slaves were seen conducting Roman citizens of note to their homes. Torches were lighted, silver lamps burning in the “Halls,” while strains of music and the voices of singing girls were borne on the breath of the evening air. But Hyacintha did not stay on the balcony long; she turned from it to a room on the opposite side of the square opening, where she knew she should find her brother. She went softly round to the doorway, and gently clapped her hands. “Enter!” was said in a low voice; “is that you, Claudius?” “No, Casca, it is only Hyacintha;” and Hyacintha pushed back the curtain and stood half shyly by her brother’s side. He had thrown himself down on a couch, his hands folded behind his head, and his whole attitude one of extreme weariness. “What do you want, Hyacintha?” “I want news,” she replied; “tell me what you have seen to-day. Do tell me all the truth about the death of the evil man.” Casca sprang up. “Hush! Do not speak of that you know not, child. Evil, forsooth! he was good, not evil.” “That is what I want to be sure of. Be kind, brother, be kind, and tell me the story.” But Casca sank back again upon his cushion, and said--