All this was absolutely horrible to Martianus. He did not believe indeed in Christianity, but it had influenced him as it had influenced all the world. Whether he was at heart much the better may be doubted. But he was softer, more refined; he shrank from visible horrors, from open cruelty—though he could be cruelly selfish on occasion—and from bloodshed, though he would not stretch out a finger to save a neighbour’s life. And what the priest said was as new and unexpected to him as it was hideous. He had no idea that this savage faith had survived in Britain. “Father,” he said, “such a thing would ruin us. Such a deed would raise the whole country against us. A human sacrifice! It is monstrous!” “You are right so far,” returned the priest, “the country must not know it. Britain is utterly corrupted by this new faith, a superstition fit only for women, and children, and slaves; and I don’t doubt but that it would lift up its hands in horror at this holy solemnity. But there is no need that it should know it. It must be done secretly—so much I concede.” “And the victim?” “Well, the days are passed when a Druid could lay his command on Britain’s noblest, and be obeyed without a murmur. The victim must be taken by force, and secretly.” “And have you any such victim in your thoughts?” The priest hesitated for a moment; but it was only for a moment. He resumed in a low voice, which it evidently cost him an effort to keep steady— “I have not forgotten the necessity of a choice; indeed for months past it has been without ceasing in my mind, and now the choice is made. The victim whom the gods should have is a maiden, beautiful and pure. She is of noble descent, though her father was compelled, by poverty and the oppression of the Roman tyrants, to follow a humble occupation. Thus she is worthy to be offered. And yet no true Briton will regret her fate, for she has deserted the faith of her ancestors for the base superstition of the Cross.” “And her name, father?” said both of the conspirators together. Again the priest hesitated; a close observer might even have seen a trace of agitation in that stern countenance. “It is Carna,” he said, after a pause, which raised the suspense of his hearers almost to agony. “It is Carna, adopted daughter of Count Ælius.” And he looked steadfastly at his companions’ faces, as if he would have said, “I dare you to challenge my decision.”