By the side of the wounded man stood the household physician, a venerable-looking slave, who had acquired such knowledge of medicine and surgery as sufficed for the treatment of the commoner ailments and accidents. This case was beyond his skill, or indeed the skill of any man. He could do nothing but from time to time put a few drops of cordial between the sufferer’s lips. Next to the physician stood the priest, and his skill, too, seemed to be at fault. A messenger, sent by Carna, had warned him that a dying man required his ministrations, but had added no further particulars, and the worthy man, who was busy at the time in littering down his cattle, had hastily changed his working dress for his priestly habiliments, and had come ready, as he thought, to administer the last consolations of the Church to a dying Christian. The case utterly perplexed him. He had tried the two languages with which he was familiar, and found them useless. No one had been able to understand a single word of the dialogue which had passed between the brothers. The dying stranger was as hopelessly separated from him and the means of grace that he could command as if he had been a thousand miles away. He could not even venture—for his theology was of the narrowest type—to commend to the mercy of God the passing soul of this unbaptized heathen. Carna understood the situation at a glance. She saw death in the Saxon’s face; she saw the hopeless perplexity in the expression of the priest. “Father,” she cried, “can you do nothing, nothing at all for this poor soul?” “My daughter,” said the priest, “I am helpless. He knows nothing; he understands nothing.” “Can you not baptize him?” “Baptize him without a profession of repentance, without a confession of faith! Impossible!” “Will you let him perish before your eyes without an effort to save him?” “Child,” said the priest, with some impatience in his tone, “I have told you that I am helpless. It was not I that brought these things about.”